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 |
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| XI. | EPISTLE XI. To Bullatius returned from Asia. |
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 | The works of Horace, translated into verse |  |
85
EPISTLE XI. To Bullatius returned from Asia.
He asserts that it is of no consequence to the happiness of life, in what place any man dwells, since this depends upon peace of mind.
And Lesbos of such high esteem?
How Samos, that is built so neat,
And Sardis, Crœsus' royal seat:
Is Colophon, or Smyrna's fort,
Nobler or meaner than report?
Or are they each a paltry scene
To Tibur, and his meadows green?
Wou'd it your utmost wishes crown,
To have some rich Attalic town,
Or do you Lebedus admire,
While land and sea the trav'ler tire,
Tho' Lebedus be more obscure
Than Gabii, or Fidenæ, sure;
Yet cou'd I live in such a spot,
Forgetting all, of all forgot,
Rather than not command the sea
To bluster far enough from me—
But they, that come from Capua here,
Whom rain, and muck, and dirt besmear,
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Nor when a man contracts a cold,
The stoves and bagnios will he praise,
So as to love them all his days.
Nor tho' the Southern tempests reign,
Wou'd that the merchant-man constrain
To sell his ship, across the main.
With one that's well, and wise to boot,
Rhodes and fair Mitylene will suit,
As a thick cloak, when summer glows,
Or linnen draw'rs in piercing snows,
Or Tiber, when the winter roars,
Or in Mid-August grates and blow'rs.
While yet you may, and fortune's smile
Attends you, in th'applauding stile
The praise of absent Rhodes resume,
Of Samos, Chios, here at Rome.
Whatever pros'prous hour below,
The hands of providence bestow,
Let gratitude confirm your own,
Nor for the livelong year postpone,
To use such things as best can please,
That you may say, I've liv'd at ease,
Whatever region you possess:
For if right reason and address,
And not a place that over-bears
Wide ocean, can remove our cares,
They change their climate, not their soul,
Who go in ships from pole to pole.
89
We launch our ships, and chariots drive
In order for a happy lot;
But that you seek is on the spot,
And ev'n at Ulubræ might be,
For men of equanimity.
| The works of Horace, translated into verse | |