Horace. a. U. C. 689—746

Persuasive Horace! how his varying lay Can dash bold vice, or with light foibles play! The task of reformation he beguiles, Alike instructing, if he frowns or smiles; Till by his easy precepts wiser grown, Men pardon others' faults, and mend their own: They find fierce passions by calm sense withstood, And small the labour to be just and good. No frowning virtue in his strain appears, To wring the heart, or stain the cheek with tears; But gently soothing, of benign address, And still more bless'd, as most employ'd to bless. Bold daring crimes avenging law pursues, Leaving man's foibles to the sportive muse; And deep they feel, who sin 'gainst reason's rule, The pains and penalties of ridicule: But injudicious satire in a storm, Drives to despair the wretch it should reform; With brazen front he stalks, abash'd no more, And braves the shame he tried to shun before. The black misdeeds of execrable men, Let cords or axes punish, not the pen: When fetters clank, and dungeons yawn in vain, Adieu the physick of the iambick strain! What novice now would waste his muse and time, To tame a modern Frenchman by a rhyme? Can the soft lute, or silver-sounding lyre, Arrest the roaring of the tiger's ire? Ev'n full-tongu'd Juvenal's imperial rage Would fly the nation, and abjure the age. Be true to virtue, bards, in all you write, But never strive, to wash an Ethiop white; Observe the buds of folly as they grow, And sage, like Horace, nip them ere they blow. When crown'd with roses in Anacreon's bower, The Paphian queen and Bacchus own the hour. What surly cynick can the feast reprove, Or dare profane the joys of wine and love? But if in Pindar's tone he pours along, The flood he paints rolls thund'ring through his song; The Theban's genius all his soul inspires, And lifts above the example he admires. Let youthful poets own the critick's skill, And climb with him the steep Parnassian hill, Where crags, and thorns, and bitter springs abound, With scarce one flowery spot of pregnant ground; So worn and harrow'd by the ancients' toil, The tardy modern hardly gleans the soil; But finds, too late, the imagin'd fragrant store Borne off by bees, who suck'd its sweets before: Yet guiding Flaccus still his hope may raise; The path he knows, and points it to true praise. Pleas'd with what heaven will grant or disallow, Eternal sunshine gilds his cheerful brow; In idle murmurs no vain hour he'll waste, But clasps the present joy, nor mourns the past. Bless'd moralist! whose winning manners gain'd The ease of freedom, where a despot reign'd; Wise sensualist! who scorn'd superfluous wealth, And found true luxury in peace and health.