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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| IV. |
 | The works of Horace, translated into verse |  |
101
EPISTLE XIV. To his Steward in the Country.
He reprehends his Steward's desire to live in the city, and in the mean time capriciously despising the country, which aforetime he secretly longed for.
O steward! of my small estate,
Whose woods and fields new life create
In me, tho' scorn'd by you thro' pride,
Where five good families reside;
And which in days of old sent down
Five Senators to Baria's town:
Let's try, if I the best succeed,
In plucking up each thorn and weed,
That in the inward man is found,
Or you in clearing of the ground;
And which the least offence has got,
Or Horace, or his Sabine spot?
Whose woods and fields new life create
In me, tho' scorn'd by you thro' pride,
Where five good families reside;
And which in days of old sent down
Five Senators to Baria's town:
Let's try, if I the best succeed,
In plucking up each thorn and weed,
That in the inward man is found,
Or you in clearing of the ground;
And which the least offence has got,
Or Horace, or his Sabine spot?
Albeit the piety and woe
Of Lamia, which no bounds will know,
For his lost brother still severe,
Detain me for a season here;
Yet all my heart, and all my mind,
Are solely thither-wards inclin'd,
And fondly longs to break abrupt,
On all barriers that interrupt.
I say the country-life is best;
You for the citizen contest;
They with their own are in disgust,
Who for another's portion lust,
And each of us all sense disclaims,
Who either place unjustly blames;
The mind's in fault, which cannot shape
It's flight from it's own self to 'scape.
When you was drudge, for country air
You sigh'd with many a secret pray'r;
But now you're to a steward rais'd,
The town, the stews, and baths, are prais'd:
I have a more consistent heart,
And always pensively depart,
Whenever back to Rome my fate
Drags me to business that I hate.
From different bents we disagree,
For what appears to such as thee,
All horrid scenes, and desart waste,
Are pleasant to a man of taste,
Who thinks with me, and must despise
Things that are charming in your eyes.
The greasy taverns, and the stews,
I know, make you the city chuse.
Besides, I rear within my fence,
The pepper, and the frankinsence;
Nor yield my rocks the grape so quick,
Nor have you there a tavern tick,
Nor minstrel harlot, to whose sound
You gambol cumb'rous to the ground.
And yet you plough with might and main
The fallows, that too long have lain,
And finely tend the unyok'd beeves
And fill them with fresh gather'd leaves;
Besides the brook, in case of wet,
Adds to an idle fellow's sweat,
Best taught by embankations there,
The sunny meadow land to spare.
Of Lamia, which no bounds will know,
For his lost brother still severe,
Detain me for a season here;
Yet all my heart, and all my mind,
Are solely thither-wards inclin'd,
And fondly longs to break abrupt,
On all barriers that interrupt.
I say the country-life is best;
You for the citizen contest;
103
Who for another's portion lust,
And each of us all sense disclaims,
Who either place unjustly blames;
The mind's in fault, which cannot shape
It's flight from it's own self to 'scape.
When you was drudge, for country air
You sigh'd with many a secret pray'r;
But now you're to a steward rais'd,
The town, the stews, and baths, are prais'd:
I have a more consistent heart,
And always pensively depart,
Whenever back to Rome my fate
Drags me to business that I hate.
From different bents we disagree,
For what appears to such as thee,
All horrid scenes, and desart waste,
Are pleasant to a man of taste,
Who thinks with me, and must despise
Things that are charming in your eyes.
The greasy taverns, and the stews,
I know, make you the city chuse.
Besides, I rear within my fence,
The pepper, and the frankinsence;
Nor yield my rocks the grape so quick,
Nor have you there a tavern tick,
Nor minstrel harlot, to whose sound
You gambol cumb'rous to the ground.
And yet you plough with might and main
The fallows, that too long have lain,
105
And fill them with fresh gather'd leaves;
Besides the brook, in case of wet,
Adds to an idle fellow's sweat,
Best taught by embankations there,
The sunny meadow land to spare.
Come now attend, and you shall know
The reason why we differ so;
He who well-dress'd in essenc'd hair,
Cou'd scot-free please the venal fair,
He who from jovial noon to night,
Cou'd quaff Falernian with delight,
Now loves short meals, and sweet repose,
Where springs green grass, and riv'let flows;
Nor is it at one time of day,
So much a shame to have been gay,
As not to know one's hand to stay.
There's no one with an evil glance,
On my possessions looks askance,
Nor poisons there with secret spite,
Or slander's more audacious bite.
The neighbours smile to see me toil,
Clearing the clods and stone the soil—
You'd rather munch upon the fare,
Your fellow-slaves each day prepare,
There are your wishes and your joy—
Mean time the cunning errant-boy
Grudges the fewel and the flocks,
And what the kitchen-garden stocks.
The ox wants trappings on his back,
The plough wou'd suit the lazy hack;
But I determine in that case,
That each shall keep his proper place.
The reason why we differ so;
He who well-dress'd in essenc'd hair,
Cou'd scot-free please the venal fair,
He who from jovial noon to night,
Cou'd quaff Falernian with delight,
Now loves short meals, and sweet repose,
Where springs green grass, and riv'let flows;
Nor is it at one time of day,
So much a shame to have been gay,
As not to know one's hand to stay.
There's no one with an evil glance,
On my possessions looks askance,
Nor poisons there with secret spite,
Or slander's more audacious bite.
The neighbours smile to see me toil,
Clearing the clods and stone the soil—
You'd rather munch upon the fare,
Your fellow-slaves each day prepare,
There are your wishes and your joy—
Mean time the cunning errant-boy
Grudges the fewel and the flocks,
And what the kitchen-garden stocks.
107
The plough wou'd suit the lazy hack;
But I determine in that case,
That each shall keep his proper place.
| The works of Horace, translated into verse | |