"Iulus, he who'd rival Pindar's fame, On waxen wings doth sweep The Empyréan 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-mouthed Pindar lifts his voice, and pours His fierce tumultuous song. "Worthy Apollo's laurel wreath, Whether he strike the lyre 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 Eléan palm doth lift To heaven, for wingèd steed, Or sturdy arm decreed, Giving, than hundred statues nobler gift, The poet's deathless meed; "Or mourns the youth snatched from his bride, Extols his manhood clear, And to the starry sphere Exalts his golden virtues, scattering wide The gloom of Orcus drear. "When the Dircéan 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 crowned, 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, 'Oh, glorious day, Oh, day thrice blest, that gives great Caesar back To Rome, from hostile fray!' "'Io Triumphe!' thrice the cry; 'Io 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, "Horned 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." Augustus did not return from Gaul, as was expected when this Ode was written, but remained there for about two years. That this protracted absence caused no little disquietude in Rome is apparent from the following Ode (IV. 5):-- "From gods benign descended, thou Best guardian of the fates of Rome, Too long already from thy home Hast thou, dear chief, been absent now;