Odes 3.2 (Martin): Angustam Amice

In war's stern school our youth should be
Steel'd stoutly to endure
The ills which sharp necessity
Inflicts upon the poor;
To make the Parthians fly in fear
Before the terrors of their spear;

To live alert at danger's call
Encamp'd on heath or down;
Then as they view him from the wall
Of their beleaguer'd town,
With sighs the warring monarch's dame
And virgin daughter shall exclaim:

"O grant, ye gods, our royal lord,
Unskill'd in war's array,
Provoke not, by his bootless sword,
Yon lion to the fray,
Who rushes with infuriate roar
Through carnage, dropping gouts of gore!

For our dear native land to die
Is glorious and sweet;
And death the coward slaves that fly
Pursues with steps as fleet,
Nor spares the loins and backs of those
Unwarlike youths, who shun their foes.

"Worth, all-indifferent to the spurns
Of vulgar souls profane,
The honours wears, it proudly earns,
Unclouded by a stain:
Nor grasps, nor lays the fasces down,
As fickle mobs may smile or frown.

Worth, which heaven's gate to those unbars,
Who never should have died,
A pathway cleaves among the stars,
To meaner souls denied,
Soaring in scorn far, far away
From vulgar crowds and sordid clay.

For faithful silence too there is
A guerdon sure: whoe'er
Has once divulged the mysteries
Of Ceres' shrine, shall ne'er
Partake my roof, nor yet shall he
In the same vessel sail with me.

For oft has Jove, when slighted, swept
Away with sons of shame
The souls which have their whiteness kept,
And punishment, though lame
Of foot, has rarely fail'd to smite
The knave, how swift soe'er his flight.