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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 | The works of Horace, translated into verse |  |
109
EPISTLE XV. To Vala.
Upon an engagement with himself to go to Velia and Salernum, he makes enquiry how it is to winter with them, and into the temperature of the air.
At Velia—how's the winter there,
And what's Salernum for its air?
What set of men are there bestow'd?
Is there a tolerable road?
For Musa warrants on his fee,
That Baiæ is no place for me,
Yet makes me odious at the wells,
While his prescription me compels
To use cold water every day,
Before the ice is gone away.
In truth, the village justly sighs,
To see us myrtle groves despise,
And likewise that chalybeate stream,
Held in such eminent esteem,
As men of chronic ills it rids;
And grudges at those invalids,
Who dare their breast and head commit
To Clusian waters, and think fit
To go to Gabii, and those parts,
Where with the cold a traveller smarts.
The wonted place I now must change,
And Inns accustom'd for the strange.
The horses must be driven by—
Hollo! quoth Bald-Face, where do you hie?
Why not to Cumæ, nor to stay
At Baiæ, will the rider say,
And pull in wrath the left-hand rein;
But angry speeches are in vain,
For horses are not apt to fear
Rough words, but in the bit they hear.
And what's Salernum for its air?
What set of men are there bestow'd?
Is there a tolerable road?
For Musa warrants on his fee,
That Baiæ is no place for me,
Yet makes me odious at the wells,
While his prescription me compels
To use cold water every day,
Before the ice is gone away.
In truth, the village justly sighs,
To see us myrtle groves despise,
And likewise that chalybeate stream,
Held in such eminent esteem,
As men of chronic ills it rids;
And grudges at those invalids,
Who dare their breast and head commit
To Clusian waters, and think fit
111
Where with the cold a traveller smarts.
The wonted place I now must change,
And Inns accustom'd for the strange.
The horses must be driven by—
Hollo! quoth Bald-Face, where do you hie?
Why not to Cumæ, nor to stay
At Baiæ, will the rider say,
And pull in wrath the left-hand rein;
But angry speeches are in vain,
For horses are not apt to fear
Rough words, but in the bit they hear.
Your letter too must let me know,
At which place rankest harvests grow;
Whether rain-water there they save,
Or in perennial fountains lave.
For how they there are serv'd with wine,
At present, is no care of mine.
When at my seat the bowl I crown,
I can make any thing go down;
But when I came upon the coast,
The rich and mellow suit me most,
Which may all anxious thoughts subdue,
And raising up each pleasing view,
Flow in my veins and spirit too.
Which may a choice of words suggest,
In which my youth may be exprest,
And urg'd to the Lucanian Fair.—
Next mention if the country there
Abound with hares, or nurture boars,
And write what shallows near the shores
Most fishes, and sea-urchins breed,
That I with you so well may feed,
As to do credit to the place,
And part with a Phæacian face.
To all these queries you, my friend,
Must speak, and Horace shall attend.
Mænius, who manfully had spent
His father's, and his mother's rent,
Begun upon the comic plan,
And vague from post to pillar ran.
He with a citizen wou'd deal
As with a foe, denied a meal:
Made up of most inveterate lies,
Who ought on any wou'd devise;
The dearth, and hurricane, and draught
Of markets, whatsoe'er he caught
He greedily bestow'd within,
And when with winkers at his sin,
And those poor souls he fill'd with dread,
He little, or ev'n nothing sped,
Whole harslets at a time he'd cram,
With all th'intestines of a lamb,
Devouring as his proper share,
What wou'd have sated many a bear,
Now being frugal, as it were:
So as to urge; that men shou'd brand
The guts of Epicurus' band.
Yet this same Mænius, when he turn'd
Some special booty that he earn'd,
All into ashes, and to smoke,
Then wou'd he Hercules invoke,
And swear he cou'd not think it strange,
That men shou'd eat both house and grange,
While they fat thrushes cou'd prepare,
And feast upon a banging bear.
At which place rankest harvests grow;
Whether rain-water there they save,
Or in perennial fountains lave.
For how they there are serv'd with wine,
At present, is no care of mine.
When at my seat the bowl I crown,
I can make any thing go down;
But when I came upon the coast,
The rich and mellow suit me most,
Which may all anxious thoughts subdue,
And raising up each pleasing view,
Flow in my veins and spirit too.
Which may a choice of words suggest,
In which my youth may be exprest,
And urg'd to the Lucanian Fair.—
Next mention if the country there
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And write what shallows near the shores
Most fishes, and sea-urchins breed,
That I with you so well may feed,
As to do credit to the place,
And part with a Phæacian face.
To all these queries you, my friend,
Must speak, and Horace shall attend.
Mænius, who manfully had spent
His father's, and his mother's rent,
Begun upon the comic plan,
And vague from post to pillar ran.
He with a citizen wou'd deal
As with a foe, denied a meal:
Made up of most inveterate lies,
Who ought on any wou'd devise;
The dearth, and hurricane, and draught
Of markets, whatsoe'er he caught
He greedily bestow'd within,
And when with winkers at his sin,
And those poor souls he fill'd with dread,
He little, or ev'n nothing sped,
Whole harslets at a time he'd cram,
With all th'intestines of a lamb,
Devouring as his proper share,
What wou'd have sated many a bear,
Now being frugal, as it were:
115
The guts of Epicurus' band.
Yet this same Mænius, when he turn'd
Some special booty that he earn'd,
All into ashes, and to smoke,
Then wou'd he Hercules invoke,
And swear he cou'd not think it strange,
That men shou'd eat both house and grange,
While they fat thrushes cou'd prepare,
And feast upon a banging bear.
In fact, ev'n such a one am I,
And when I cannot beg, or buy,
Am very stout 'mongst sorry fare,
But midst the viands nice and rare:
I have another thing to say,
That happiest of all men are they,
Who by neat villas make it clear,
They're worth some thousand pounds a year.
And when I cannot beg, or buy,
Am very stout 'mongst sorry fare,
But midst the viands nice and rare:
I have another thing to say,
That happiest of all men are they,
Who by neat villas make it clear,
They're worth some thousand pounds a year.
Antonius Musa, a physician, celebrated at Rome, and all over Italy, for his curing Augustus, in the year of Rome 731, of a grievous disease, by making him bath and drink the waters; for which event, he received a large sum of money both from Cæsar and the Senate, with the privilege of the gold ring, which he had not before on account of his being only a free'd-man.
| The works of Horace, translated into verse | |