Odes From Horace. - [1]To Titus Valgius. Book The Second, Ode The Ninth.

Not ceaseless falls the heavy shower That drenches deep the furrow'd lea; Nor do continual tempests pour On the vex'd Caspian's billowy sea; Nor yet the ice, in silent horror, stands Thro' all the passing months on pale Armenia's Lands. Fierce storms do not for ever bend The Mountain's vast and labouring oak, Nor from the ash its foliage rend, With ruthless whirl, and widowing stroke; But, Valgius, thou, with grief's eternal lays Mournest thy vanish'd joys in MYSTES' shorten'd days. When Vesper trembles in the west, Or flies before the orient sun, Rise the lone sorrows of thy breast.— Not thus did aged Nestor shun Consoling strains, nor always sought the tomb, Where sunk his filial Hopes, in life and glory's bloom. Not thus, the lovely Troilus slain, His Parents wept the Princely Boy; Nor thus his Sisters mourn'd, in vain, The blasted Flower of sinking Troy; Cease, then, thy fond complaints!—Augustus' fame, The new Cesarian wreaths, let thy lov'd voice proclaim! So shall the listening World be told Medus, and cold Niphates guide, With all their mighty Realms controul'd, Their late proud waves in narrower tide; That in scant space their steeds the Scythians rein, Nor dare transgress the bounds our Victor Arms ordain.