ODE XI.

No, foolish youth — to virtuous fame

If now thy early hopes be vow'd,

If true ambition's nobler flame

Command thy footsteps from the crowd,

Lean not to Love's enchanting snare;

His songs, his words, his looks beware,

Nor join his votaries, the young and fair.

By thought, by dangers, and by toils,

The wreath of just renown is worn;

Nor will ambition's awful spoils

The flowery pomp of ease adorn;

But Love unbends the force of thought;

By Love unmanly fears are taught;

And Love's reward with gaudy sloth is bought.

Yet thou hast read in tuneful lays,

And heard from many a zealous breast,

The pleasing tale of beauty's praise

In wisdom's lofty language dress'd;

Of beauty powerful to impart

Each finer sense, each comelier art,

And soothe and polish man's ungentle heart.

If then, from Love's deceit secure,

Thus far alone thy wishes tend,

Go; see the white-wing'd evening hour

On Delia's vernal walk descend:

Go, while the golden light serene,

The grove, the lawn, the soften'd scene

Becomes the presence of the rural queen.

Attend, while that harmonious tongue

Each bosom, each desire commands:

Apollo's lute by Hermes strung,

And touch'd by chaste Minerva's hands,

Attend. I feel a force divine,

O Delia, win my thoughts to thine;

That half the colour of thy life is mine.

Yet conscious of the dangerous charm,

Soon would I turn my steps away;

Nor oft provoke the lovely harm,

Nor lull my reason's watchful sway.

But thou, my friend — I hear thy sighs:

Alas, I read thy downcast eyes;

And thy tongue falters, and thy colour flies.

So soon again to meet the fair?

So pensive all this absent hour?—

O yet, unlucky youth, beware,

While yet to think is in thy power.

In vain with friendship's flattering name

Thy passion veils its inward shame;

Friendship, the treacherous fuel of thy flame!

Once, I remember, new to Love,

And dreading his tyrannic chain,

I sought a gentle maid to prove

What peaceful joys in friendship reign:

Whence we forsooth might safely stand,

And pitying view the love-sick band,

And mock the wingèd boy's malicious hand.

Thus frequent pass'd the cloudless day,

To smiles and sweet discourse resign'd;

While I exulted to survey

One generous woman's real mind:

Till friendship soon my languid breast

Each night with unknown cares possess'd,

Dash'd my coy slumbers, or my dreams distress'd.

Fool that I was — And now, even now

While thus I preach the Stoic strain,

Unless I shun Olympia's view,

An hour unsays it all again.

O friend!— when Love directs her eyes

To pierce where every passion lies,

Where is the firm, the cautious, or the wise?