 | The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison |  |
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To a Lady.
A Paraphrastical Translation of the third Ode of the second Book of Horace.
Æquam memento rebus in arduis, &c.
I.
Let not the Turns of Fate molestThe sacred Quiet of your Breast;
Tho' the black Storm hang hov'ring o'er your Head;
Your Soul serene its Fury need not dread;
Let Fortune guide your destin'd State,
Yielding to Fortune, we subdue our Fate:
But when the fickle Siren smiles,
Trust not too far her treach'rous Wiles;
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As it repays your Ill, your Calm annoy:
Catch not with greedy Hopes the fleeting Shade;
Black Storms will soon the visionary Scene invade;
Like the alternate Shades of Day and Night,
The particolour'd Thread of Life is black and white.
II.
Be our Lot good, or be it ill,It makes no Measure for the fatal Wheel,
Should we spin out a wretched Life
In Cares and melancholy Grief,
'Twere but in vain to beg of Fate,
One fleeting Hour, to recompence our wretched State:
Or should we in some pleasant Grove refine
Our fading Life with sparkling Wine,
'Tis Fate's to measure Time, 'tis ours to live,
Nor can e'en Fate and Jove the past retrieve.
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III.
Since Fate is still the same,Then let us in some pleasant Grove,
Lull'd with the Murmurs of the purling Stream,
Banish all Cares and doubtful Life improve;
We'll quaff the sprightly Wine,
While Beauty fires the Eyes, and Fancy fills the Vein;
With Sweets anoint your flowing Hair,
And let it float and wanton in the Air,
Loose, and neglected as your Care.
Let the sweetest Flowers be brought,
Let the Rosy Wreath be wrought;
Let the short-liv'd Chaplet be
A Type of frail Mortality,
T' admonish us to catch the Golden Now;
While Youth and blooming Beauty bless at once the Brow.
Thus will we live and flourish while we may,
Thus will we live and say;
“To-morrow Life is Fate's, 'tis ours to-day.
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IV.
Be quick, be quick, we cannot live too fast,This pleasing Rapture cannot last,
An Age already's idly past!
Lo! rapid Hours roll round apace,
Now, now, unseen they swiftly steal the race:
'Tis past, 'tis past,—and now I see
The ghastly Head of bald Eternity!
Grim Death brings up the Rear,
In all the frightful Forms that Mortals fear:
Now must we leave this transitory Stage,
And mourn in vain an ill-spent Age!
Our sweet Delights, our smiling Hours,
Mossy Mountains,
Murmuring Fountains,
Shady Grottoes, rosy Bowers,
Alas no more are ours!
Of all our large Possessions Fate will but allow,
At most a mournful Cypress Bough.
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Will shed a counterfeiting Tear,
A Tear but for the sake of your Estate,
Which he must, with himself, too soon resign to Fate.
V.
Our Fates are mingled in one common Urn,Which soon or late must take their turn:
The Great, the Poor, the Low, the High,
Confus'dly blended lie;
The Weak, the Strong, the Base, the Brave,
Which here so different seem, are equal in the Grave;
Nor can we in the Dust distinction see:
And such as Hellen is, Belinda must thou be.
VI.
In vain the Hero toils, to shew his Worth,And from a Stem of Gods derives his Birth;
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While Tyrants bow, and Kings around him wait;
Yet at pale Death's approach, this godlike Brave
Trembles amidst his Pomp, and shudders like his meanest Slave!
Ah whither is his Strength and Courage flown,
That made the subject World his own!
How Tyrants trembled at his Nod,
Alas where is the God!
Where is his Pride, his Pomp, his Pageantry,
Which brib'd and conquer'd all—except the Destiny,
That whirls them in the Gulf of black Eternity.
Now in some gloomy Abbey is he laid,
Dismal and silent as the mould'ring Dead,
Who could the World with one small Nod command,
Has nothing but a scanty Spot of Land.
Perhaps a Monument they raise,
Which for a-while records his Praise:
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And all the fleeting Charities of Fame.
But then some Briar, or destroying Root,
Will eat its way, and thro' the Marble shoot—
The Tomb defac'd! this great, this god-like King,
Is a Romantic Tale, and a forgotten Thing.
1722. Æt. 15.
| The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison | |