Odes From Horace. - To The Roman People, On Their Renewing The Civil Wars. Book The Fifth, Ode The Seventh.

Where do ye rush, ye impious Trains,
    Why gleams afar the late-sheath'd sword?
Is it believ'd that Roman veins
    Their crimson tides have sparely pour'd?
Is not our scorn of safety, health, and ease,
Shewn by devasted climes, and blood-stain'd seas?

Those scowling brows, those lifted spears,
    Bend they against the threat'ning towers
Proud Carthage emulously rears?
    Or Britain's still unconquer'd shores?
That her fierce Sons, yet free from hostile sway,
May pass in chains along our SACRED WAY?

No! - but that warring Parthia's curse
    May quickly blast these far-famed Walls;
Accomplish'd when, with direful force,
    By her own strength the City falls;
When Foes no more her might resistless feel,
But Roman bosoms bleed by Roman steel.

O! worse than Wolves, or Lions fierce,
    Who ne'er, like you, assault their kind!
By what wild phrenzy would ye pierce
    Each other's breast in fury blind? -
Silent, and pale ye stand, with conscious sighs,
Your struck soul louring in your down-cast eyes!

The blood our rising walls that stain'd,
    Shed by the [1]ruthless Fratricide,
High Heaven's avenging power ordain'd
    Should spread the rage of discord wide,
Bid kindred Blood in dread profusion flow
Thro' darken'd years of expiatory woe.

Anna Seward

Anna Seward was an English Romantic poet often called the 'Swan of Lichfield'. She was known for both her poetry and her extensive letter writing, which provided insight into 18th-century literary life. Seward was a steadfast critic of the neoclassicism that dominated much of the contemporary poetry scene, favoring a Romantic approach that sought to capture emotion and natural beauty. Her works often revolved around themes of love, loss, and nature. She was also a close friend of writers such as Erasmus Darwin and Samuel Johnson.

Anna Seward

Odes From Horace. - To Licinius Murena[1]. Book The Second, Ode The Tenth.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

Sonnet L.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

Sonnet XLVII. On Mr. Sargent's Dramatic Poem, The Mine[1].

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

Sonnet XXXIX. Winter Evening.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

English

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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 l...

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Odes From Horace. - To Lydia. Book The First, Ode The Eighth.

    O, Lydia! I conjure thee tell
Why, with persisting zeal, thou dost employ
    The strongest power of amorous spell
    On Sybaris, belov'd too well,
Wounding his fame amid voluptuous joy?

    Why shuns he now the noon-tide glare,
Inur'd to whirling dust, and scorching heat?
    Ceases the Warrior-vest to wear
    In which he us'd, with graceful air,
Aspiring Youths, all emulous, to meet?

    Why is it now no more his pride
To rein the ardent horse with agile arm?
    With new-strung sinews to divide
    The yellow Tyber's angry tide,
When the tempestuous showers its rage alarm?

    Why hates he, as the viper's gore,
The Wrestler's oil, that supples every vein?
    Why do we see his arms no more
    With livid bruises spotted o'e...

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Boadicea. An Ode.

When the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her countrys gods,


Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage, and full of grief.


Princess! if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
Tis because resentment ties
All the terrors of our tongues.


Rome shall perishwrite that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorrd,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.


Rome, for empire far renownd,
Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!


Other Romans shall arise,
Heedless of a soldiers name;
Sou...

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Odes From Horace. - To Nea[=E]ra. Book The Fifth, Epode The Fifteenth.

'T was night - the moon, upon her sapphire throne,
High o'er the waning stars serenely shone,
When thou, false Nymph, determin'd to prophane
Them, and each Power that rules the earth, and main,
As thy soft, snowy arms about me twin'd,
Close as round oaks the clasping ivies wind,
Swore, while the gaunt wolf shall infest the lea,
And red Orion vex the wintry sea,
While gales shall fan Apollo's floating locks,
That shed their golden light o'er hills and rocks,
So long thy breast should burn with purest fires,
With mutual hopes, and with unchang'd desires.

    Perjur'd Nea[=e]ra! thou shalt one day prove
The worth, the vengeance of my slighted love;
For O! if Manhood steels, if Honor warms,
Horace shall fly, shall scorn thy faithless charms;
Seek some bright...

Anna Seward

Odes From Horace. - To Licinius Murena[1]. Book The Second, Ode The Tenth.

Not always, dear Licinius, is it wise
On the main Sea to ply the daring Oar;
Nor is it safe, from dread of angry Skies,
Closely to press on the insidious Shore.
To no excess discerning Spirits lean,
They feel the blessings of the golden mean;
They will not grovel in the squalid cell,
Nor seek in princely domes, with envied pomp, to dwell.

The pine, that lifts so high her stately boughs,
Writhes in the storms, and bends beneath their might,
Innoxious while the loudest tempest blows
O'er trees, that boast a less-aspiring height.
As the wild fury of the whirlwind pours,
With direst ruin fall the loftiest towers;
And 't is the mountain's summit that, oblique,
From the dense, lurid clouds, the baleful lightnings strike.

A mind well disciplin'd, w...

Anna Seward

Odes From Horace. - To Lyce, On Her Refusing To Admit His Visits. Book The Third, Ode The Tenth.

Now had you drank cold Tanais' wave,
Whose streams the drear vale slowly lave,
    A barbarous Scythian's Bride,
Yet, Lyce, might you grieve to hear
Your Lover braves the winds severe,
    That pierce his aching side.

O listen to the howling groves,
That labour o'er your proud alcoves,
    And hear the jarring door!
Mark how the star, at eve that rose,
Has brightly glaz'd the settled snows,
    While every leaf is hoar!

Gay Venus hates this cold disdain; -
Cease then its rigors to maintain,
    That sprightly joys impede,
Lest the strain'd cord, with which you bind
The freedom of my amorous mind,
    In rapid whirl recede!

Born of a jocund Tuscan Sire,
Did he transmit his ardent fire
    That, like Ulysses' Queen,
His...

Anna Seward