The Secular Ode

Phoebus and Dian, queen of bow'rs,
Bright grace of heav'n, the things we pray,
O most adorable of pow'rs,
And still by adoration ours,
Grant us this sacred day,

At which the Sybils in their song,
Ingenuous youths and virgins warn,
Selected from the vulgar throng,
The gods, to whom sev'n hills belong,
With verses to adorn.

O fost'ring god, whose fall or flame,
Can hide the day or re-illume;
Which com'st another and the same,
May'st thou see nothing like the fame,
And magnitude of Rome!

And thou, to whom the pray'r's preferr'd,
The matrons in their throes to ease;
O let our vows in time be heard,
Whether Lucina be the word,
Or " genial goddess" please.

Make fruitful ev'ry nuptial bed,
And bless the conscript fathers scheme,
Enjoining bloomy maids to wed,
And let the marriage-bill be sped,
With a new race to teem.

That years elev'n times ten come round,
These sports and songs of grave delight
Thrice by bright day-light may resound,
And where the thickest crouds abound,
Thrice in the welcome night.

And you, ye destinies, sincere
To sing what good our realm awaits;
Let peace establish'd persevere,
And add to them, which now appear,
Still hope of better fates.

Let fertile earth, for flocks and fruit,
Greet Ceres with a wheaten crown;
And ev'ry youngling, sprout, and shoot,
Let Jove with air attemper'd suit,
While wholesome rains come down.

Serene, as when your darts you sheathe,
Phoebus, the suppliant youths befriend;
And all the vows the virgins breathe,
Up to thy crescent from beneath,
Thou, queen of stars, attend.

If Rome be yours, and if a band
Of Trojans safely came by sea
To coast upon th'Etrurian strand,
And change their city and their land,
By your supreme decree:

For whom, unhurt, thro' burning Troy
The chaste Aeneas way cou'd find;
He whom the foes could not destroy,
But liv'd to make his friends enjoy,
More than they left behind:

— Ye gods, our youth in morals train,
With sweet repose old age solace;
On Rome, in general, O rain
All circumstance, increase, and gain,
Each glory and each grace.

And he whose beeves were milky white,
When to your shrine his pray'rs appeal'd,
Of Venus and Anchises hight,
O let him reign supreme in fight,
But mild to them that yield.

By sea and land, the Parthians now
Our arms and ax with dread review;
For terms of peace the Scythians bow,
And, lately arrogant of brow,
To us the Indians sue.

Now public faith and honour dare,
With ancient modesty and peace,
To shew their heads, and virtue rare,
And she that's wont her horn to bear,
With plentiful increase.

The archer with his shining bow,
The seer that wins each muse's heart;
Phoebus, who respite can bestow,
To limbs in weakness and in woe,
By his salubrious art:

If, built on Palatine, the height
Of his own tow'rs his eyes engage;
The Roman and the Latian state,
Extend he to a later date,
And still a better age!

And may Diana, who controuls
Mount Algidus and Aventine,
To those great men that keep the rolls,
And to the youths that lift their souls,
A gracious ear incline!

That Jove, and all the gods, will bless
Our pray'rs, good hope my thoughts forebode;
THE CHORUS , who such skill possess,
Phoebus and Dian to address,
In this thanksgiving ode.
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