The Twenty-First ODE of the Third Book of HORACE, translated

O HAPPY cask, coaeval with thy Lord, One year to both did equal life afford; What tho' your hidden pow'r alike can move To quarrel furious, or more furious love; Can call brisk puns, bid quaint conundrums rise, Or cast a heavy slumber o'er the eyes? O now descend, Corvinus bids, descend, For him your best, your choicest liquor lend. Let him with rules of Socrates be wise; Fear not, he'll ne'er your gen'rous juice despise; For well he knows, that Cato's self with wine Oft made his rigid virtues brighter shine. You, with soft violence or mirth, can wrest The deepest secrets from the closest breast: By you inspir'd, the anxious mind's reliev'd, Thinks but of mirth, and wonders why it griev'd. By thee, the poor, in all their rags grown bold, Unaw'd the pomp of majesty behold; Hear unconcern'd shrill trumpets from afar, Nor dread the thunder of approaching war. Bacchus (to whom bright liquor owes its birth) If Venus smiles propitious on our mirth, For you, Corvinus, will prolong our joy: (For how can Bacchus join'd with Venus cloy?) Till yon bright tapers cast a fainter light, Till Phoebus rising o'er the mountains bright, Chases the friendly darkness of the night.