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Samuel Johnson - Horace: Book 1, Ode 22
Work rating: Low

The man, my friend, whose conscious heart
With virtue`s sacred ardour glows,
Nor taints with death the envenom`d dart,
Nor needs the guard of Moorish bows:

Though Scythia`s icy cliffs he treads,
Or horrid Afric`s faithless sands;
Or where the fam`d Hydaspes spreads
His liquid wealth o`er barbarous lands.

For while by Chloe`s image charm`d,
Too far in Sabine woods I stray`d;
Me singing, careless and unarm`d,
A grisly wolf surprised, and fled.

No savage more portentous stain`d
Apulia`s spacious wilds with gore;
None fiercer Juba`s thirsty land,
Dire nurse of raging lions, bore.

Place me where no soft summer gale
Among the quivering branches sighs;
Where clouds condensed for ever veil
With horrid gloom the frowning skies;

Place me beneath the burning line,
A clime denied to human race;
I`ll sing of Cloe`s charms divine,
Her heavenly voice, and beauteous face.
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