THE HARDY YOUTH. III-2
The hardy youth, my friends, in bitter warfare
To narrow poverty must learn to bend,
And, for his spear a horseman to be dreaded,
Courageous Parthians into flight must send.
And he must try all dangerous adventures,
His life out in the open he must pass;
The warring tyrant's wife and growing daughter
Him spying from their hostile walls, "Alas,"
They sigh—for fear the royal husband,
Unskilled in warlike arts, should dare attack
This lion, fierce to touch, whom bloody anger
Into the midst of slaughter has dragged back.
'Tis sweet and fit to perish for one's country,
Death follows fast upon the man who flees,
Nor spares the coward backs of youth retreating,
Nor saves them trembling on their timid knees,
Valor, of shabby failure all unconscious,
Gleams with untarnished honor where she stands,
Assuming not, nor laying down her emblems,
As now the gaping populace demands.
Valor, when opening Heaven to those, who dying
Deserve not death, by paths no other knows
Points out the way, and still while she is soaring,
Her scorn for crowds and humid earth she shows.
And there's a sure reward for loyal silence.
Him I'll forbid under my roof to sit
Who has divulged the Elusinian mysteries,
Nor in my fragile shallop shall he flit
Often great Jupiter, when once neglected,
The wicked near the innocent has put,
But punishment to overtake the guilty
Has rarely failed, though she is lame of foot
TO THE STATE. I-14
Oh! Ship of State! fresh billows to sea will bear thee back,
Then turn about and bravely toward the harbor tack,
Thou see'st that thy naked sides defending oarsmen lack.
Behold! thy mast lies shattered before the swift south wind,
Listen! the yards are creaking, the ropes no longer bind,
Strength to endure the boisterous waves thy keel can hardly find.
Now all thy sails are ragged; the gods are swept away
To whom, borne down by peril, thy quaking soul would pray.
Though lofty be thy lineage, its pride is vain today.
The power and name thou boastest are now of no avail,
Thy stern is gayly painted, and still thy seamen quail,
Beware lest thou art made the sport of every idle gale.
Ah! dearly loved, my country; my fond yet heavy care!
Thy discords lately wearied me, but now I breathe a prayer
That thee the tides of faction, the glittering rocks may spare.