Odes 1.35 (Gladstone): O Diva, Gratum

Goddess, whose love is Antium's crown,
So apt in lifting up to bliss
From low degree, or shattering down
Triumphal pomp to death's abyss;

The pauper hind with ceaseless zeal
Implores thee: and, since floods obey,
Whoever with Bithynian keel
Carpathian billows cuts away.

Thee vagrant Scyth, and Dacian rude
Dread, as they dread high Rome's behest;
Thee outland dames of royal blood,
Thee tyrants clad in purple vest.

Our pillar stands. By no ill stroke
O'erthrow it: lest the people's rush
Should rouse to arms, and so the folk
In passion should the Empire crush.

Necessity before thee stalks,
And holds within her iron grip
Hot lead and wedges, nails like baulks,
And clamps no human hand can rip.

Hope, and white-vested Faith, ah rare!
Would court thee, nor their zeal abate
If, altering garb, and shifting care,
Thou quit the mansions of the great.

The fickle herd, the perjured punk,
Fall off. Such friends dissolve in air,
When wine-casks to the dregs are drunk:
Too false an equal yoke to bear.

To farthest Britain guard the way
Of Caesar: smite the East with dread,
Before our young and fresh array,
E'en to the ruby ocean's bed.

Woe for our scars; our brethren slain!
We, stubborn crew, no law revere;
All shapes of crime our record stain.
When did our youth through holy fear

Withhold its hand? What ill eschew,
What altar spare? O would that we
Could flesh good swords from anvil new
On Arabs and Massagetae.