Horace began writing his odes at the age of thirty-five, and was seven years in completing the first three books; they were issued 23 B.C. That he designed them to include all his lyric productions is evident from the following ode, with which the third book closes:— “And now ’tis done: more durable than brass My monument shall be, and raise its head O’er royal pyramids: it shall not dread Corroding rain or angry Boreas, Nor the long lapse of immemorial time. I shall not wholly die: large residue Shall ’scape the queen of funerals. Ever new My after-fame shall grow, while pontiffs climb With silent maids the Capitolian height. ‘Born,’ men will say,‘where Aufidus is loud, Where Daunus, scant of streams, beneath him bowed The rustic tribes, from dimness he waxed bright, First of his race to wed the Æolian lay To notes of Italy.’ Put glory on, My own Melpomene, by genius won, And crown me of thy grace with Delphic bay.” CONINGTON. The odes of the fourth book were written at the request of Augustus, who commissioned the favorite poet to celebrate the victories of his step-sons over a German tribe. After publishing the original three books, Horace wrote his Epistles, the most finished of all his works. They bear the ripe fruits of his experience, and are full of wise reflections which do credit to his knowledge of men and manners. Sprightliness and wit constitute their charm. Their subjects are various, several of them being literary criticisms; the longest, called “the Art of Poetry,” possesses the greatest value. The works of Horace have maintained their popularity in all ages; his sententious sayings have become aphorisms; and to-day he is a greater favorite with scholars than ever. Few classical poets have been so fortunate in their translators. ODE TO MÆCENAS. “Strong doors, wakeful watch-dogs, securely had barred Danaë in her tower of brass, If Venus and Jove had not laughed at such guard And the shower of gold caused to pass. Through an army of guards will bright gold make its way; It will pierce through the thickest of walls; More power it has and may strike more dismay Than the lightning from heaven that falls. Through lucre the house of the Argive seer[46] fell: Philip forced cities’ gates with his gold; The power of rivals with bribes he could quell: We know, too, how fleets have been sold. The increase of wealth ever brings with it care And hungry ambition for more; Thus, Mæcenas, O knight with whom none can compare! Great fortune I ever forswore. The more that a man to himself shall deny, The more he shall have from the gods; Poor, I seek for the home of contentment, and fly With joy from the wealthy abodes.