Odes 4.2 (Martin): Pindarum Quisquis

Iulus, he, who'd rival Pindar's fame,
On waxen wings doth sweep
The Empyrean steep,
To fall like Icarus, and with his name
Endue the glassy deep.

Like to a mountain stream, that roars
From bank to bank along,
When autumn rains are strong,
So deep-mouth'd Pindar lifts his voice, and pours
His fierce tumultuous song.

Worthy Apollo's laurel wreath,
Whether he strike the lute
To love and young desire,
While bold and lawless numbers grow beneath
His mastering touch of fire;

Or sings of gods, and monarchs sprung
Of gods, that overthrew,
The Centaurs, hideous crew,
And, fearless of the monster's fiery tongue.
The dread Chimaera slew.

Or those the Elean palm doth lift
To heaven, for winged steed,
Or sturdy arm decreed.
Giving, than hundred statues nobler gift,
The poet's deathless meed;

Or mourns the youth snatch'd fi'om his bride,
Extols his manhood clear,
And to the starry sphere
Exalts his golden virtues, scattering wide
The gloom of Orcus drear.

When the Dircean Swan doth climb
Into the azure sky,
There poised in ether high.
He courts each gale, and floats on wing sublime,
Soaring with steadfast eye.

I, like the tiny bee, that sips
The fragrant thyme, and strays
Humming through leafy ways.
By Tibur's sedgy banks, with trembling lips
Fashion my toilsome lays.

But thou, when up the sacred steep
Caesar, with garlands crown'd.
Leads the Sicambrians bound,
With bolder hand the echoing strings shalt sweep,
And bolder measures sound.

Caesar, than whom a nobler son
The Fates and Heaven's kind powers
Ne'er gave this earth of ours,
Nor e'er will give, though backward time should run
To its first golden hours.

Thou, too, shalt sing the joyful days,
The city's festive throng,
When Caesar, absent long,
At length returns, — the Forum's silent ways,
Serene from strife and wrong.

Then, though in statelier power it lack,
My voice shall swell the lay,
And sing, "O, glorious day,
O day thrice blest, that gives great Caesar back
To Rome, from hostile fray!"

"To Triumphe! "thrice the cry;
"lo Triumphe! "loud
Shall shout the echoing crowd
The city through, and to the gods on high
Raise incense like a cloud.

Ten bulls shall pay thy sacrifice,
With whom ten kine shall bleed,
I to the fane will lead
A yearling of the herd,.of modest size.
From the luxuriant mead,

Horn'd like the moon, when her pale light,
Which three brief days have fed,
She trimmeth, and, dispread
On his broad brows a spot of snowy white,
All else a tawny red.