University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
The works of Horace, translated into verse

With a prose interpretation, for the help of students. And occasional notes. By Christopher Smart ... In four volumes

collapse sectionI. 
  
collapse section1. 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 XVII. 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
 XX. 
 XXI. 
 XXII. 
 XXIII. 
 XXIV. 
 XXV. 
 XXVI. 
 XXVII. 
 XXVIII. 
 XXIX. 
 XXX. 
 XXXI. 
 XXXII. 
 XXXIII. 
 XXXIV. 
 XXXV. 
 XXXVI. 
 XXXVII. 
 XXXVIII. 
collapse section2. 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 XVII. 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
 XX. 
collapse section3. 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
collapse sectionII. 
collapse section3. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 XVII. 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
 XX. 
 XXI. 
 XXII. 
 XXIII. 
 XXIV. 
 XXV. 
 XXVI. 
 XXVII. 
 XXVIII. 
 XXIX. 
 XXX. 
collapse section4. 
 I. 
 II. 
ODE II. TO ANTONIUS JULUS, THE SON OF MARK ANTONY, OF THE TRIUMVIRATE.
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
  
collapse section 
  
collapse sectionIII. 
collapse section1. 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
collapse section2. 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
collapse sectionIV. 
collapse section1. 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 XVII. 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
 XX. 
collapse section2. 
 I. 
 II. 
  


75

ODE II. TO ANTONIUS JULUS, THE SON OF MARK ANTONY, OF THE TRIUMVIRATE.

It is hazardous to imitate the ancient poets.

Whoever vies with Pindar's strain,
With waxen wings, my friend, would fly,
Like him who nam'd the glassy main,
But could not reach the sky.
Cascading from the mountain's height,
As falls the river swoln with show'rs,
Deep, fierce, and out of measure great
His verses Pindar pours.
Worthy to claim Apollo's bays,
Whether his dithyrambics roll,
Daring their new-invented phrase
And words, that scorn controul.
Or gods he chants, or kings, the seed
Of gods, who rose to virtuous fame,
And justly Centaurs doom'd to bleed,
Or quench'd Chimera's flame.

77

Or champions of th'Elean justs,
The wrestler, charioteer records,
And, better than a hundred busts,
He gives divine rewards.
Snatch'd from his weeping bride, the youth
His verse deplores, and will display
Strength, courage, and his golden truth,
And grudges death his prey.
The Theban swan ascends with haste,
Of heav'n's superior regions free;
But I, exactly in the taste
Of some Matinian bee,
That hardly gets the thymy spoil
About moist Tibur's flow'ry ways,
Of small account, with tedious toil,
Compose my labour'd lays.
You, bard indeed! with more applause
Shall Cæsar sing, so justly crown'd,
As up the sacred hill he draws
The fierce Sicambrians bound.
A greater and a better gift
Than him, from heav'n we do not hold,
Nor shall—although the times should shift
Into their pristine gold.

79

The festal days and public sports
For our brave chief's returning here,
You shall recite, and all the courts
Of law contentions clear.
Then would I speak to ears like thine,
With no small portion of my voice,
O glorious day! O most divine!
Which Cæsar bids rejoice.
And while you in procession hie,
Hail triumph! triumph! will we shout
All Rome—and our good gods supply
With frankincense devout!
Thee bulls and heifers ten suffice—
Me a calf weaned from the cow,
At large who many a gambol tries,
Though doom'd to pay my vow.
Like the new moon, upon his crest
He wears a semicircle bright,
His body yellow all the rest,
Except this spot of white.