ODE VII.

TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE.


Whither, whither, impious men are you rushing? Or why are the swords
drawn, that were [so lately] sheathed? Is there too little of Roman
blood spilled upon land and sea? [And this,] not that the Romans might
burn the proud towers of envious Carthage, or that the Britons, hitherto
unassailed, might go down the sacred way bound in chains: but that,
agreeably to the wishes of the Parthians, this city may fall by its own
might. This custom [of warfare] never obtained even among either wolves
or savage lions, unless against a different species. Does blind phrenzy,
or your superior valor, or some crime, hurry you on at this rate? Give
answer. They are silent: and wan paleness infects their countenances,
and their stricken souls are stupefied. This is the case: a cruel
fatality and the crime of fratricide have disquieted the Romans, from
that time when the blood of the innocent Remus, to be expiated by his
descendants, was spilled upon the earth.

* * * * *



ODE VIII.

UPON A WANTON OLD WOMAN.