Odes From Horace. - To The Hon. Thomas Erskine. Horace, Book The Second, Ode The Third, Imitated.

OCTOBER 1796.      Conscious the mortal stamp is on thy breast,      O, ERSKINE! still an equal mind maintain,      That wild Ambition ne'er may goad thy rest,      Nor Fortune's smile awake thy triumph vain,      Whether thro' toilsome tho' renowned years      'T is thine to trace the Law's perplexing maze,      Or win the SACRED SEALS, whose awful cares      To high decrees devote thy honor'd days.      Where silver'd Poplars with the stately Pines      Mix their thick branches in the summer sky,      And the cool stream, whose trembling surface shines,      Laboriously oblique, is hurrying by;      There let thy duteous Train the banquet bring,      In whose bright cups the liquid ruby flows,      As Life's warm season, on expanded wing,      Presents her too, too transitory rose;      While every Muse and Grace auspicious wait,      As erst thy Handmaids, when, with brow serene,      Gay thou didst rove where Buxton views elate      A golden Palace deck her savage scene[1].      At frequent periods woo th' inspiring Band      Before thy days their summer-course have run,      While, with clos'd shears, the fatal Sisters stand,      Nor aim to cut the brilliant thread they spun.      Precarious Tenant of that gay Retreat,      Fann'd by pure gales on Hampstead's airy downs,      Where filial troops for thee delighted wait,      And their fair Mother's smile thy banquet crowns!      Precarious Tenant! - shortly thou may'st leave      These, and propitious Fortune's golden hoard;      Then spare not thou the stores, that shall receive,      When set thy orb, a less illustrious Lord.      What can it then avail thee that thy pleas      Charm'd every ear with TULLY's periods bland?      Or that the subject Passions they could seize,      And with the thunder of the GREEK command?      What can it then avail thee that thy fame      Threw tenfold lustre on thy noble Line?      Since neither birth, nor self-won glory, claim      One hour's exemption from the sable shrine.      E'en now thy lot shakes in the Urn, whence Fate      Throws her pale edicts in reverseless doom!      Each issues in its turn, or soon, or late,      And lo! the great Man's prize! - a SILENT TOMB!