Odes From Horace. - [1]To Titus Valgius. Book The Second, Ode The Ninth.

Not ceaseless falls the heavy shower         That drenches deep the furrow'd lea;      Nor do continual tempests pour         On the vex'd [2]Caspian's billowy sea;      Nor yet the ice, in silent horror, stands      Thro' all the passing months on pale [3]Armenia's Lands.      Fierce storms do not for ever bend         The Mountain's vast and labouring oak,      Nor from the ash its foliage rend,         With ruthless whirl, and widowing stroke;      But, Valgius, thou, with grief's eternal lays      Mournest thy vanish'd joys in MYSTES' shorten'd days.      When [4]Vesper trembles in the west,         Or flies before the orient sun,      Rise the lone sorrows of thy breast. -         Not thus did aged Nestor shun      Consoling strains, nor always sought the tomb,      Where sunk his [5]filial Hopes, in life and glory's bloom.      Not thus, the lovely Troilus slain,         His Parents wept the Princely Boy;      Nor thus his Sisters mourn'd, in vain,         The blasted Flower of sinking Troy;      Cease, then, thy fond complaints! - Augustus' fame,      The new Cesarian wreaths, let thy lov'd voice proclaim!      So shall the listening World be told         [6]Medus, and cold Niphates guide,      With all their mighty Realms controul'd,         Their late proud waves in narrower tide;      That in scant space their steeds the [7]Scythians rein,      Nor dare transgress the bounds our Victor Arms ordain.