ODE XXXIV.— THE POET'S CONVERSION .

I, whom the Gods had found a client,
Rarely with pious rites compliant,
At Unbelief disposed to nibble,
And pleased with every sophist quibble—
I, who had deemed great Jove a phantom,
Now own my errors, and RECANT 'em!

Have I not lived of late to witness,
Athwart a sky of passing brightness,
The God, upon his car of thunder,
Cleave the calm elements asunder?
And, through the firmament careering,
Level his bolts with aim unerring?

Then trembled Earth with sudden shiver;
Then quaked with fear each mount and river;
Stunned at the blow, Hell reeled a minute,
With all the darksome caves within it;
And Atlas seemed as he would totter
Beneath his load of land and water!

Yes! of a God I hail the guidance;
The proud are humbled at his biddance;
Fortune, his handmaid, now uplifting
Monarchs, and now the sceptre shifting,
With equal proof HIS power evinces,
Whether she raise or ruin Princes.