The rosemary and myrtle's simple crown Thou on our household Gods, with decent care Art gently placing; and they will not frown; No _stern_ demand is theirs, that we prepare Rich Flocks, and Herds, at Duty's solemn call, And, in the pomp of slaughter, bid them fall. O! if an _innocent_ hand approach the shrine, The little votive cake it humbly lays, The crackling salt, that makes the altar shine, Flung on the cheerful sacrificial blaze, To the mild LARES shall be grateful found As the proud Steer, with all his garlands crown'd. TO MELPOMENE. BOOK THE FOURTH, ODE THE THIRD. Not he, O MUSE! whom thy auspicious eyes In his primeval hour beheld, Shall victor in the Isthmian Contest rise; Nor o'er the long-resounding field Impetuous steeds his kindling wheels shall roll, Gay in th' Olympic Race, and foremost at the goal. Nor in the Capitol, triumphant shown, The victor-laurel on his brow, For Cities storm'd, and vaunting Kings o'erthrown;-- But Tibur's streams, that warbling flow, And groves of fragrant gloom, resound his strains, Whose sweet Æolian grace high celebration gains. Now that his name, her noblest Bards among, Th' imperial City loudly hails, That proud distinction guards his rising song, When Envy's carping tongue assails; In sullen silence now she hears his praise, Nor sheds her canker'd spots upon his springing bays. O MUSE! who rulest each melodious lay That floats along the gilded shell, Who the mute tenant of the watry way Canst teach, at pleasure, to excel The softest note harmonious Sorrow brings, When the expiring Swan her own sad requiem sings. Thine be the praise, that pointing Romans guide The Stranger's eye, with proud desire That well he note the Man, whom Crowds decide Should boldly string the Latian lyre.-- Ah! when I charm, if still to charm be mine, Nymph of the warbling shell, be all the glory THINE! TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esq. BOOK THE FOURTH, ODE THE SEVENTH, IMITATED. The snows dissolve, the rains no more pollute, Green are the sloping fields, and uplands wide, And green the trees luxuriant tresses shoot, And, in their daisied banks, the shrinking rivers glide. Beauty, and Love, the blissful change have hail'd, While, in smooth mazes, o'er the painted mead, [1]Aglaia ventures, with her limbs unveil'd, Light thro' the dance each Sister-Grace to lead. But O! reflect, that Sport, and Beauty, wing Th' unpausing Hour!--if Winter, cold and pale, Flies from the soft, and violet-mantled Spring, Summer, with sultry breath, absorbs the vernal gale. Reflect, that Summer-glories pass away When mellow Autumn shakes her golden sheaves; While she, as Winter reassumes his sway, Speeds, with disorder'd vest, thro' rustling leaves.