To hell Alcides forced his way, Plunged through the lake, and snatched the prey. Nay, scarce the gods, or heavenly climes, Are safe from our audacious crimes; We reach at Jove's imperial crown, And pull the unwilling thunder down. FOOTNOTES: [63] Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon, an elegant poet and accomplished nobleman, was created captain of the band of pensioners after the Restoration, and made a considerable figure at the court of Charles II. But, having injured his fortune by gaming, and being engaged in a lawsuit with the Lord Privy Seal concerning a considerable part of his estate, he found himself obliged to retire to Ireland, and resigned his post at the English court. After having resided some years in that kingdom, where he enjoyed the post of captain of the guards to the Duke of Ormond, he returned to England, where he died in 1684. Besides the ode which follows, there are several traces through Dryden's works of his intimacy with Roscommon. THE NINTH ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE. I. Behold yon mountain's hoary height, Made higher with new mounts of snow; Again behold the winter's weight Oppress the labouring woods below; And streams, with icy fetters bound, Benumbed and crampt to solid ground. II. With well-heaped logs dissolve the cold, And feed the genial hearth with fires; Produce the wine, that makes us bold, And sprightly wit and love inspires: For what hereafter shall betide, God, if 'tis worth his care, provide. III. Let him alone, with what he made, To toss and turn the world below; At his command the storms invade, The winds by his commission blow; Till with a nod he bids them cease, And then the calm returns, and all is peace. IV. To-morrow and her works defy, Lay hold upon the present hour, And snatch the pleasures passing by, To put them out of fortune's power: Nor love, nor love's delights, disdain; Whate'er thou get'st to-day, is gain. V. Secure those golden early joys, That youth unsoured with sorrow bears, Ere withering time the taste destroys, With sickness and unwieldy years. For active sports, for pleasing rest, } This is the time to be possest; } The best is but in season best. } VI. The appointed hour of promised bliss, The pleasing whisper in the dark, The half unwilling willing kiss, The laugh that guides thee to the mark; When the kind nymph would coyness feign, } And hides but to be found again; } These, these are joys the gods for youth ordain. } THE TWENTY-NINTH ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE. PARAPHRASED IN PINDARIC VERSE, AND INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. LAURENCE, EARL OF ROCHESTER. I.