Odes 1.35 (Martin): O Diva, Gratum

O PLEASANT Antium's goddess queen,
Whose presence hath avail
Mortals to lift from mean estate,
Or change triumphal hymns elate
To notes of funeral wail;

Thee with heart-anxious prayer invokes
The rustic at the plough,
Thee, mistress of the ocean-wave,
Whoe'er Carpathia's surges brave
With frail Bithynian prow;

Thee Scythia's ever roving hordes,
And Dacians rude revere,
Cities, and tribes, Rome's dauntless band,
Barbaric monarchs' mothers, and
Empurpled tyrants fear;

Lest thou shouldst crush their pillar'd state
Beneath thy whelming foot,
Lest madding crowds with shrill alarms
Pealing the cry, "To arms! To arms!"
Should seated thrones uproot.

Before thee evermore doth Fate
Stalk phantom-like, and bear
In brazen hand huge nails dispread;
And wedges grim, and molten lead,
And iron clamps are there.

Thee Hope attend, and Truth rare-seen,
In vestments snowy-dyed,
Nor quit thee, though in changed array
Thou turn with angry frown away
From halls of stately pride.

But the unfaithful harlot herd
Slink back. Howe'er they cling,
Once to the lees the wine-vat drain,
And shrinking from the yoke of pain.
These summer friends take wing!

Our Caesar's way to Britain guard
Earth's farthest boundary,
And make our youthful hosts thy care,
Who terror to the East shall bear,
And the far Indian sea!

By brothers' blows, by brothers' blood.
Our souls are gash'd and stain'd.
Alas! what horror have we fled?
What crime not wrought? When hath the dread
Of heav'n our youth restrain'd?

Where is the altar unprofaned
By them? O may we see
Thy hand new-whet their blunted swords,
To smite Arabia's tented hordes,
And the Massagetae!