BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE TWELFTH. Mæcenas, I conjure thee cease To wake my harp's enamour'd strings To tones, that fright recumbent Peace, That Pleasure flies on rapid wings! Slow conquest on Numantia's plain, Or Hannibal, that dauntless stood, Tho' thrice he saw Ausonia's main Redden with Carthaginian blood; The Lapithæ's remorseless pride, Hylæus' wild inebriate hours; The Giants, who the Gods defied, And shook old Saturn's splendid towers; These, dear Mæcenas, _thou_ should'st paint, Each glory of thy Cæsar's reign, In eloquence, that scorns restraint, And sweeter than the Poet's strain; Show captive Kings, who from the fight Drag at his wheels their galling chain, And the pale lip indignant bite With mutter'd vengeance, wild and vain. Enraptur'd by Licinia's grace, My Muse would these high themes decline, Charm'd that the heart, the form, the face Of matchless Excellence is thine. Ah, happy Friend! for whom an eye, Of splendid, and resistless fire, Lays all its pointed arrows by, For the mild gleams of soft desire! With what gay spirit does she foil The Pedant's meditated hit! What happy archness in her smile! What pointed meaning in her wit! Her cheek how pure a crimson warms, When with the Nymphs, in circling line, Bending she twines her snowy arms, And dances round Diana's shrine[2]! Mæcenas, would'st not thou exchange The treasures gorgeous Persia pours, The wealth of Phrygia's fertile range, Or warm Arabia's spicy shores, For one light ringlet of the hair, Which shades thy sweet Licinia's face, In that dear moment when the Fair, In flying from thy fond embrace, Relenting turns her snowy neck, To meet thy kisses half their way, Or when her feign'd resentments check The ardors thy warm lips convey? While in her eyes the languid light Betrays a yielding wish to prove, Amid her coy, yet playful flight, The pleasing force of fervent Love; Or when, in gaily-frolic guise, She snatches her fair self the kiss, E'en at the instant she denies Her Lover the requested bliss. 1: Of that artful caution, which marks the character of Horace, this Ode forms a striking instance. He declines the task appointed by his Patron, that of describing the Italian Wars, because he foresees that in its execution he must either disoblige the Emperor, and his Minister, by speaking too favorably of their Enemies, or offend some Friends, whom he yet retained amongst those, who had exerted themselves against the Cæsars. Horace endeavours to soften the effect of this non-compliance by a warm panegyric upon Licinia, the betrothed bride of Mæcenas. She is in other places called Terentia. Both these names have affinity to those of her Brothers, Licinius, afterwards Augur, and her adopted Brother, Terentius.