POETRY.
TO LICINIUS.
ODE3 OF HORACE, Book IL, Ode X.
Limnos, wonld'st thou wisely steer The pinnace of thy soul, Not always trust her without fear Where deep-sea billows roll ; Nor, to the sheltered beach too near, Risk shipwreck on the shoal.
Who sees in fortune's golden mean All his desires comprised, Midway the cot and court between, Hath well his life devised ; For riches, hath not envied been, Nor, for their lack, despised.
Most rooks the pine that soars afar, When leaves are tempest-whirled. Direst the crash when turrets are In dusty ruin hurled.
The thunder loveth best to scar The bright brows of the world.
The steadfast mind, that to the end Is fortune's victor still, Hath yet a fear, though Fate befriend, A hope, though all seem ill. Jove can at will the winter send, Or call the spring at will.
Full oft the darkest day may be Of morrows bright the sire. His bow not everlastingly Apollo bends in ire.
At times the silent Muses he Wakes with his dulcet lyre.
When life's straits roar and hem thee sore, Be bold : naught else avails.
But when thy canvas swells before Too proudly prospering gales, For once be wise with coward's lore, And timely reef thy sails.
WILLIAM WATSON.
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