6: This surely must be the Poet's meaning in mentioning his _own_ villa, when he is endeavouring to awaken in Munatius a taste for the surrounding beauties of his more magnificent seat. Commentators rationally conclude that some _connecting_ lines have been lost from the latin of this Ode. It appears to me, that the idea which those dismembered lines conveyed, must necessarily have been the comparison _added_ in the four ensuing lines, which makes the transition easy. TO LYDIA. BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE EIGHTH. O, Lydia! I conjure thee tell Why, with persisting zeal, thou dost employ The strongest power of amorous spell On Sybaris, belov'd too well, Wounding his fame amid voluptuous joy? Why shuns he now the noon-tide glare, Inur'd to whirling dust, and scorching heat? Ceases the Warrior-vest to wear In which he us'd, with graceful air, Aspiring Youths, all emulous, to meet? Why is it now no more his pride To rein the ardent horse with agile arm? With new-strung sinews to divide The yellow Tyber's angry tide, When the tempestuous showers its rage alarm? Why hates he, as the viper's gore, The Wrestler's oil, that supples every vein? Why do we see his arms no more With livid bruises spotted o'er, Of manly sports the honorable stain? 'T was his to whirl, with matchless skill, The glancing quoit, the certain javelin throw, While Crowds, with acclamations shrill, The lofty Circus joy'd to fill, And all the honors of the Day bestow. Such fond seclusion why desire?-- Thus Thetis' care her blooming Son conceal'd, Ere yet commenc'd that Contest dire, When mournful gleam'd the funeral pyre, Thro' ten long years, on Ilium's purpled field. In vain the female vest he wore, That Love maternal might avert his fate; Lest his spear drink the Lycian gore, Lest sinking Troy his force deplore, And DEATH with GLORY meet him at her gate. TO [1]THALIARCHUS. BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE NINTH. In dazzling whiteness, lo! Soracte towers, As all the mountain were one heap of snow! Rush from the loaded woods the glittering showers; The frost-bound waters can no longer flow. Let plenteous billets, on the glowing hearth, Dissolve the ice-dart ere it reach thy veins; Bring mellow wines to prompt convivial mirth, Nor heed th' arrested streams, or slippery plains. High Heaven, resistless in his varied sway, Speaks!--The wild elements contend no more; Nor then, from raging seas, the foamy spray Climbs the dark rocks, or curls upon the shore. And peaceful then yon aged ash shall stand; In breathless calm the dusky cypress rise; To-morrow's destiny the Gods command, To-day is thine;--enjoy it, and be wise! Youth's radiant tide too swiftly rolls away; Now, in its flow, let pleasures round thee bloom; Join the gay dance, awake the melting lay, Ere hoary tresses blossom for the tomb!