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 |
 | I. |
 | II. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. | ODE V. TO AUGUSTUS. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
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| III. |
| IV. |
 | The works of Horace, translated into verse |  |
93
ODE V. TO AUGUSTUS.
That he would at length return to Rome.
Of Roman greatness! you retard
Now far too long your stay:
That promise of a quick return
You made the House, no more adjourn,
But keep a shorter day.
Restore to this thy native place
The light, good chief, for when thy face,
Like spring, its lustre throws,
The day goes off with more content,
And in a better firmament
A brighter sunshine glows.
As for her son a mother's pain'd,
Above the destin'd year detain'd,
By southern blasts malign,
Beyond Carpathian waves profound,
Where he continues weather-bound,
For his sweet home to pine.
With calculations, tears, and sighs,
And vows, she calls, nor turns her eyes
From off the winding shore;
Ev'n with that fondness these desires
Cæsar his native land requires,
Still wanted more and more.
95
Roams o'er the meadows, free from fear,
Ceres yields ampler fruit;
The sailors plow the peaceful main,
And honour, cautious of a stain,
Keeps accusation mute.
Each house is clear of guilt impure,
Example and the laws secure
The heart from filthy sin;
For penalty sticks close to blame;
Our ladies are of peerless fame
For children like their kin.
The Parthian, or with ice congeal'd
Who fears the Scythian in the field,
Or who the monstrous host
That Germany brings forth and sends,
Or who the threats from Spain attends,
While Cæsar keeps his post?
Each Roman sends the sun to bed
On his own hill, and loves to wed
To widow'd elms the vine,
Thence home at night he goes alert,
And thee, as god of his desert,
Invites to grace his wine.
Thee their incessant pray'rs adore,
And large libations on the floor,
Are offer'd to thy state;
Thou with the houshold-gods art join'd,
As Greece her Castor bore in mind,
And Hercules the great.
97
To Rome this leisure and relief,
So constant patriots pray;
Thus sober in the morn we cry,
Thus in the night with bumpers high,
When ocean hides the day.
| The works of Horace, translated into verse | |