Juvenilia or, A collection of poems. Written between the ages of twelve and seventeen, by J. H. L. Hunt ... Fourth Edition |
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 | Juvenilia |  |
37
TRANSLATIONS.
39
ANACREON. OD. XIX.
The tippling earth drinks up the dew,The trees, O tippling earth, drink you;
Neptune drinks air at ev'ry motion,
And Sol drinks Neptune like a potion;
Till madam Luna, for a light,
Drinks up old Sol himself at night!
Why then d'ye hinder me from drinking,
When Heav'n itself's my way of thinking?
40
TRANSLATION OF THE FIRST ODE OF ANACREON.
Fain would I wake to life a nobler string,
And Cadmus bold, and each Atrides sing;
But as my fingers sweep the sounding lyre,
The Loves alone the alter'd chords inspire!
And Cadmus bold, and each Atrides sing;
But as my fingers sweep the sounding lyre,
The Loves alone the alter'd chords inspire!
I chang'd the stubborn harp; and to rehearse
Alcides' toils, essay'd the Epic verse:
Still, as my fingers sweep the sounding lyre,
The laughing Loves the alter'd chords inspire!
Alcides' toils, essay'd the Epic verse:
Still, as my fingers sweep the sounding lyre,
The laughing Loves the alter'd chords inspire!
Ah then adieu, ye heroes! to our song,
No themes so lofty, and so loud belong;
For, as my fingers sweep the warbling lyre,
The Loves alone the tender chords inspire!
No themes so lofty, and so loud belong;
For, as my fingers sweep the warbling lyre,
The Loves alone the tender chords inspire!
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TRANSLATION OF HORACE'S ODE, “SEPTIMI GADES,” &c. Lib. ii. Od. vi.
TO SEPTIMIUS.
Ah lov'd companion of my future way,
To Cadiz rich, or Biscay's free-born shore,
Or the dread Syrtes, where with turbid play,
The waters wild in boiling volumes roar;
To Cadiz rich, or Biscay's free-born shore,
Or the dread Syrtes, where with turbid play,
The waters wild in boiling volumes roar;
O may fair Tivoli, whose peaceful breast
Blest Argos lov'd, the labour of its years,
Give to my silver age its promis'd rest,
Soothe all its toils, and wipe away its tears!
Blest Argos lov'd, the labour of its years,
Give to my silver age its promis'd rest,
Soothe all its toils, and wipe away its tears!
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If fate, unjust, my eager steps withold,
Quick let me turn where, thro' the flow'ry plain,
Galesus, lov'd by all the wool-clad fold,
Guides his mild wave; Phalantus' rural reign!
Quick let me turn where, thro' the flow'ry plain,
Galesus, lov'd by all the wool-clad fold,
Guides his mild wave; Phalantus' rural reign!
To me far lovelier than each circling shore,
That smiling spot salutes my ravish'd eyes!
There sweet Hymettus brings her honied store,
And rich Venafrum sees her olive rise!
That smiling spot salutes my ravish'd eyes!
There sweet Hymettus brings her honied store,
And rich Venafrum sees her olive rise!
There verdant Spring sits smiling on the year,
And soften'd Winter smooths his icy frown;
Nor envies Aulon, with his vineyards fair,
The purple groves that gay Falernum crown!
And soften'd Winter smooths his icy frown;
Nor envies Aulon, with his vineyards fair,
The purple groves that gay Falernum crown!
These happy fields, these happy hills, once more
Call us away, and catch the raptur'd eye!
Here on your poet's ashes shall you pour
Friendship's warm tear, and Pity's plaintive sigh!
Call us away, and catch the raptur'd eye!
Here on your poet's ashes shall you pour
Friendship's warm tear, and Pity's plaintive sigh!
44
PARAPHRASE OF HORACE'S ODE, “INTEGER VITÆ,” &c.
The man, my friend, that in his breast
With ev'ry purer virtue's blest,
Safe in his own approving heart
Needs not the Moor's protecting dart,
Or seeks to bend against the foe
With nervous arm the pliant bow,
Nor o'er his neck throws, proudly great,
The quiver big with pois'nous fate.
With ev'ry purer virtue's blest,
Safe in his own approving heart
Needs not the Moor's protecting dart,
Or seeks to bend against the foe
With nervous arm the pliant bow,
Nor o'er his neck throws, proudly great,
The quiver big with pois'nous fate.
Whether on Afric's desert coast,
Mid burning sands his steps are lost;
Or where Caucasian rocks on high
Lift their proud summits to the sky,
Heap'd with inhospitable snow
Pale gleaming o'er the plains below,
Or where the streams romantic glide
Of soft Hydaspe's silver tide.
Mid burning sands his steps are lost;
Or where Caucasian rocks on high
Lift their proud summits to the sky,
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Pale gleaming o'er the plains below,
Or where the streams romantic glide
Of soft Hydaspe's silver tide.
For, as along the Sabine grove
I sung the beauties of my love,
And, free from care, too distant stray'd
Within its dark embow'ring shade;
The prowling wolf, with blood-shot eye,
Unarm'd, beheld me wand'ring nigh;
And, while I shook in silent dread,
With howls the rav'ning monster fled!
I sung the beauties of my love,
And, free from care, too distant stray'd
Within its dark embow'ring shade;
The prowling wolf, with blood-shot eye,
Unarm'd, beheld me wand'ring nigh;
And, while I shook in silent dread,
With howls the rav'ning monster fled!
Such, the grim terror of the wood,
Ne'er learnt to lap the trav'ller's blood,
Or from the panting victim tore
The quiv'ring limbs with stifled roar,
Where Daunia's spreading oaks arise
In rugged grandeur to the skies;
Or where the Moorish lion stalks
With monarch pride his arid walks.
Ne'er learnt to lap the trav'ller's blood,
Or from the panting victim tore
The quiv'ring limbs with stifled roar,
Where Daunia's spreading oaks arise
In rugged grandeur to the skies;
Or where the Moorish lion stalks
With monarch pride his arid walks.
O lay me where Sol's gayest child,
Refulgent Summer, never smil'd;
Nor Zephyr's mild refreshing breeze
Fann'd the rich foliage of the trees;
Where ev'ry black portentous cloud
And all the foggy vapours croud,
When angry Jove in noxious air
Extends his arm for vengeance bare;
Refulgent Summer, never smil'd;
Nor Zephyr's mild refreshing breeze
Fann'd the rich foliage of the trees;
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And all the foggy vapours croud,
When angry Jove in noxious air
Extends his arm for vengeance bare;
O lay me where Sol, driving high,
Flames wide along the sultry sky,
No roof, beneath his parching ray,
To soothe the pilgrim's weary way;
Yet, yet will I, nor ask for more,
My lovely Lalage adore;
Her, who each love-wing'd hour beguiles,
As soft she speaks, and sweet she smiles!
Flames wide along the sultry sky,
No roof, beneath his parching ray,
To soothe the pilgrim's weary way;
Yet, yet will I, nor ask for more,
My lovely Lalage adore;
Her, who each love-wing'd hour beguiles,
As soft she speaks, and sweet she smiles!
| Juvenilia | |