Here you will find the Poem Horace: Book 1, Ode 22 of poet Samuel Johnson
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.