A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace With the Original Text, and Critical Notes collected from his best Latin and French Commentators. By the Revd Mr. Philip Francis...The third edition |
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Epist. I. To Augustus.
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 | A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace |  |
Epist. I. To Augustus.
While You alone sustain th' important Weight
Of Rome's Affairs, so various and so great:
While You the public Weal with Arms defend,
Adorn with Morals, and with Laws amend:
Shall not the tedious Letter prove a Crime,
That steals one Moment of our Cæsar's Time?
Of Rome's Affairs, so various and so great:
While You the public Weal with Arms defend,
Adorn with Morals, and with Laws amend:
Shall not the tedious Letter prove a Crime,
That steals one Moment of our Cæsar's Time?
Rome's Founder, Leda's Twins, the God of Wine,
By human Virtues rais'd to Power divine,
While they with pious Cares improv'd Mankind,
To various States their proper Bounds assign'd,
Commanded War's destroying Rage to cease,
And bless'd their Cities with the Arts of Peace,
Complain'd their Virtues and their Toils could raise
But slight Returns of Gratitude and Praise.
By human Virtues rais'd to Power divine,
While they with pious Cares improv'd Mankind,
To various States their proper Bounds assign'd,
Commanded War's destroying Rage to cease,
And bless'd their Cities with the Arts of Peace,
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But slight Returns of Gratitude and Praise.
Who crush'd the Hydra, when to Life renew'd,
And Monsters dire with fated Toil subdu'd,
Found that the Monster Envy never dies,
'Till low in equal Death her Conqueror lies;
For he, who soars to an unusual Height,
Oppressive dazles, with Excess of Light,
The Arts beneath him: yet, when dead, shall prove
An Object worthy of Esteem and Love.
And Monsters dire with fated Toil subdu'd,
Found that the Monster Envy never dies,
'Till low in equal Death her Conqueror lies;
For he, who soars to an unusual Height,
Oppressive dazles, with Excess of Light,
The Arts beneath him: yet, when dead, shall prove
An Object worthy of Esteem and Love.
Yet Rome to Thee her living Honours pays,
By Thee we swear, to Thee our Altars raise,
While we confess no Prince so great, so wise,
Hath ever risen, or shall ever rise.
By Thee we swear, to Thee our Altars raise,
While we confess no Prince so great, so wise,
Hath ever risen, or shall ever rise.
But that your People raise their Cæsar's Name
Above the Greek and Roman Chiefs in Fame,
Proves them, in this, indeed, most just and wise,
Yet other Things they view with other Eyes;
With cold Contempt they treat the living Bard;
The Dead alone can merit their Regard.
Above the Greek and Roman Chiefs in Fame,
Proves them, in this, indeed, most just and wise,
Yet other Things they view with other Eyes;
With cold Contempt they treat the living Bard;
The Dead alone can merit their Regard.
To elder Bards so lavish of Applause,
They love the Language of our ancient Laws:
On Numa's Hymns with holy Rapture pore,
And turn our mouldy Records o'er and o'er,
Then swear transported, that the sacred Nine
Pronounc'd, on Alba's Top, each hallow'd Line.
They love the Language of our ancient Laws:
On Numa's Hymns with holy Rapture pore,
And turn our mouldy Records o'er and o'er,
Then swear transported, that the sacred Nine
Pronounc'd, on Alba's Top, each hallow'd Line.
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But if, because the World with Justice pays
To the first Bards of Greece its grateful Praise,
In the same Scale our Poets must be weigh'd,
To such Disputes what Answer can be made?
Since we have gain'd the Height of martial Fame,
Let us in peaceful Arts assert our Claim;
The Sons of Greece no longer shall excel:
They neither wrestle, sing, or paint so well.
To the first Bards of Greece its grateful Praise,
In the same Scale our Poets must be weigh'd,
To such Disputes what Answer can be made?
Since we have gain'd the Height of martial Fame,
Let us in peaceful Arts assert our Claim;
The Sons of Greece no longer shall excel:
They neither wrestle, sing, or paint so well.
But let me ask, since Poetry, like Wine,
Is taught by Time to mellow and refine,
When shall th' immortal Bard begin to live?
Say, shall a hundred Years completely give
Among your Ancients a full Right of Claim,
Or with the wretched Moderns fix his Name?
Some certain Point should finish the Debate.
“Then let him live an hundred Years complete.”
Is taught by Time to mellow and refine,
When shall th' immortal Bard begin to live?
Say, shall a hundred Years completely give
Among your Ancients a full Right of Claim,
Or with the wretched Moderns fix his Name?
Some certain Point should finish the Debate.
“Then let him live an hundred Years complete.”
What if we take a Year, a Month, a Day,
From this judicious Sum of Fame away,
Shall he among the Ancients rise to Fame,
Or sink with Moderns to Contempt and Shame?
“Among the Ancients let the Bard appear,
“Though younger by a Month, or even a Year.”
I take the Grant, and by Degrees prevail
(For Hair by Hair I pull the Horse's Tail)
And while I take them Year by Year away,
Their subtle Heaps of Arguments decay,
Who judge by Annals, nor approve a Line,
'Till Death has made the Poetry divine.
From this judicious Sum of Fame away,
Shall he among the Ancients rise to Fame,
Or sink with Moderns to Contempt and Shame?
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“Though younger by a Month, or even a Year.”
I take the Grant, and by Degrees prevail
(For Hair by Hair I pull the Horse's Tail)
And while I take them Year by Year away,
Their subtle Heaps of Arguments decay,
Who judge by Annals, nor approve a Line,
'Till Death has made the Poetry divine.
“Ennius, the brave, the lofty, and the wise,
“Another Homer in the Critic's Eyes,
“Forgets his Promise, now secure of Fame,
“And heeds no more his Pythagoric Dream.
“No longer Nævius, or his Plays remain,
“Yet we remember every pleasing Scene;
“So much can Time its awful Sanction give
“In sacred Fame to bid a Poem live.
“Another Homer in the Critic's Eyes,
“Forgets his Promise, now secure of Fame,
“And heeds no more his Pythagoric Dream.
“No longer Nævius, or his Plays remain,
“Yet we remember every pleasing Scene;
“So much can Time its awful Sanction give
“In sacred Fame to bid a Poem live.
“Whate'er Disputes of ancient Poets rise,
“In some one Excellence their Merit lies:
“What Depth of Learning old Pacuvius shows!
“With strong Sublime the Page of Accius glows;
“Menander's comic Robe Afranius wears;
“Plautus as rapid in his Plots appears,
“As Epicharmus; Terence charms with Art,
“And grave Cæcilius sinks into the Heart.
“These are the Plays to which our People croud,
“Till the throng'd Play-house crack with the dull Load.
“These are esteem'd the Glories of the Stage,
“From the first Drama to the present Age.”
“In some one Excellence their Merit lies:
“What Depth of Learning old Pacuvius shows!
“With strong Sublime the Page of Accius glows;
“Menander's comic Robe Afranius wears;
“Plautus as rapid in his Plots appears,
“As Epicharmus; Terence charms with Art,
“And grave Cæcilius sinks into the Heart.
“These are the Plays to which our People croud,
“Till the throng'd Play-house crack with the dull Load.
“These are esteem'd the Glories of the Stage,
“From the first Drama to the present Age.”
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Sometimes the Croud a proper Judgement makes,
But oft they labour under gross Mistakes,
As when their Ancients lavishly they raise
Above all modern Rivalship of Praise.
But that sometimes their Style uncouth appears,
Or their harsh Numbers rudely hurt our Ears,
Or that full flatly flows the languid Line—
He, who owns this, hath Jove's Assent and mine.
But oft they labour under gross Mistakes,
As when their Ancients lavishly they raise
Above all modern Rivalship of Praise.
But that sometimes their Style uncouth appears,
Or their harsh Numbers rudely hurt our Ears,
Or that full flatly flows the languid Line—
He, who owns this, hath Jove's Assent and mine.
Think not I mean, in Vengeance, to destroy
The Works for which I smarted when a Boy.
But when as perfect Models they are prais'd,
Correct and chaste, I own I stand amaz'd.
And if some better Phrase or happier Line,
With sudden Lustre, unexpected shine,
However harsh the rugged Numbers roll,
It stamps a Price, and Merit on the whole.
The Works for which I smarted when a Boy.
But when as perfect Models they are prais'd,
Correct and chaste, I own I stand amaz'd.
And if some better Phrase or happier Line,
With sudden Lustre, unexpected shine,
However harsh the rugged Numbers roll,
It stamps a Price, and Merit on the whole.
I feel my honest Indignation rise,
When, with affected Air, a Coxcomb cries,
The Work, I own, has Elegance and Ease,
But sure no Modern should presume to please:
Then for his favourite Ancients dares to claim
Not Pardon only, but Rewards and Fame.
When, with affected Air, a Coxcomb cries,
The Work, I own, has Elegance and Ease,
But sure no Modern should presume to please:
Then for his favourite Ancients dares to claim
Not Pardon only, but Rewards and Fame.
When Flowers o'erspread the Stage and Sweets perfume
The crouded Theatre, should I presume
The just Success of Atta's Plays to blame,
The Senate would pronounce me lost to Shame.
What! criticise the Scenes, that charm'd the Age
When Æsop, and when Roscius trod the Stage!
The crouded Theatre, should I presume
The just Success of Atta's Plays to blame,
The Senate would pronounce me lost to Shame.
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When Æsop, and when Roscius trod the Stage!
Whether too fond of their peculiar Taste,
Or that they think their Age may be disgrac'd,
Should they, with aukward Modesty, submit
To younger Judges in the Cause of Wit,
Or own that it were best, provoking Truth!
In Age to unlearn the Learning of their Youth.
He, to whom Numa's Hymns appear divine,
Although his Ignorance be great as mine,
Not to th' illustrious Dead his Homage pays,
But envious robs the Living of their Praise.
Did Greece, like us, her Moderns disregard,
How had we now possest one ancient Bard?
Or that they think their Age may be disgrac'd,
Should they, with aukward Modesty, submit
To younger Judges in the Cause of Wit,
Or own that it were best, provoking Truth!
In Age to unlearn the Learning of their Youth.
He, to whom Numa's Hymns appear divine,
Although his Ignorance be great as mine,
Not to th' illustrious Dead his Homage pays,
But envious robs the Living of their Praise.
Did Greece, like us, her Moderns disregard,
How had we now possest one ancient Bard?
When Greece beheld her Wars in Triumph cease,
She soon grew wanton in the Arms of Peace,
Now she with Rapture views th' Olympic Games,
And now the Sculptor's Power her Breast enflames;
Sometimes, with ravish'd Soul and ardent Gaze,
The Painter's Art intensely she surveys;
Now hears, transported, Music's pleasing Charms,
And now the tragic Muse her Passions warms.
She soon grew wanton in the Arms of Peace,
Now she with Rapture views th' Olympic Games,
And now the Sculptor's Power her Breast enflames;
Sometimes, with ravish'd Soul and ardent Gaze,
The Painter's Art intensely she surveys;
Now hears, transported, Music's pleasing Charms,
And now the tragic Muse her Passions warms.
Thus a fond Girl, the Nurse's darling Joy,
Now seeks impatient, and now spurns her Toy.
For what can long our Pain, or Pleasure raise?
Such are th' Effects of Happiness and Ease.
Now seeks impatient, and now spurns her Toy.
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Such are th' Effects of Happiness and Ease.
For many an Age our Fathers entertain'd
Their early Clients, and the Laws explain'd:
Wisely they knew their cautious Wealth to lend,
While Youth was taught with Reverence to attend,
And hear the Old point out the prudent Ways
To calm their Passions, and their Fortunes raise.
Their early Clients, and the Laws explain'd:
Wisely they knew their cautious Wealth to lend,
While Youth was taught with Reverence to attend,
And hear the Old point out the prudent Ways
To calm their Passions, and their Fortunes raise.
Now the light People bend to other Aims;
A Lust of scribling every Breast enflames;
Our Youth, our Senators, with Bays are crown'd,
And at our Feasts eternal Rhimes go round.
Even I, who Verse, and all its Works deny,
Can faithless Parthia's lying Sons out-lye,
And, ere the rising Sun displays his Light,
I call for Tablets, Paper, Pens, and write.
A Lust of scribling every Breast enflames;
Our Youth, our Senators, with Bays are crown'd,
And at our Feasts eternal Rhimes go round.
Even I, who Verse, and all its Works deny,
Can faithless Parthia's lying Sons out-lye,
And, ere the rising Sun displays his Light,
I call for Tablets, Paper, Pens, and write.
A Pilot only dares a Vessel steer;
A doubtful Drug unlicens'd Doctors fear;
Musicians are to Sounds alone confin'd,
And every Artist hath his Trade assign'd;
But every desperate Blockhead dares to write:
Verse is the Trade of every living Wight.
A doubtful Drug unlicens'd Doctors fear;
Musicians are to Sounds alone confin'd,
And every Artist hath his Trade assign'd;
But every desperate Blockhead dares to write:
Verse is the Trade of every living Wight.
And yet, this wandering Levity of Brain
Hath many a gentle Virtue in its Train.
No Cares of Wealth a Poet's Heart controul;
Verse is the only Passion of his Soul.
He laughs at Losses, Flight of Slaves, or Fires;
No wicked Scheme his honest Breast inspires
To hurt his Pupil, or his Friend betray;
Brown Bread and Roots his Appetite allay;
And though unfit for War's tumultuous Trade,
In Peace his gentle Talents are display'd,
If you allow, that Things of trivial Weight
May yet support the Grandeur of a State.
Hath many a gentle Virtue in its Train.
No Cares of Wealth a Poet's Heart controul;
Verse is the only Passion of his Soul.
391
No wicked Scheme his honest Breast inspires
To hurt his Pupil, or his Friend betray;
Brown Bread and Roots his Appetite allay;
And though unfit for War's tumultuous Trade,
In Peace his gentle Talents are display'd,
If you allow, that Things of trivial Weight
May yet support the Grandeur of a State.
He forms the Infant's Tongue to firmer Sound,
Nor suffers vile Obscenity to wound
His tender Ears, but with the Words of Truth
Corrects the Passions, and the Pride of Youth.
Th' illustrious Dead, who fill his sacred Page,
Shine forth Examples to each rising Age;
The languid Hour of Poverty he chears,
And the sick Wretch his Voice of Comfort hears.
Nor suffers vile Obscenity to wound
His tender Ears, but with the Words of Truth
Corrects the Passions, and the Pride of Youth.
Th' illustrious Dead, who fill his sacred Page,
Shine forth Examples to each rising Age;
The languid Hour of Poverty he chears,
And the sick Wretch his Voice of Comfort hears.
Did not the Muse inspire the Poet's Lays,
How could the youthful Choir their Voices raise
In Prayer harmonious, while the Gods attend,
And gracious bid the fruitful Shower descend;
Avert their Plagues, dispel each hostile Fear,
And with glad Harvests crown the wealthy Year?
Thus can the Sound of all-melodious Lays
Th' offended Powers of Heaven and Hell appease.
How could the youthful Choir their Voices raise
In Prayer harmonious, while the Gods attend,
And gracious bid the fruitful Shower descend;
Avert their Plagues, dispel each hostile Fear,
And with glad Harvests crown the wealthy Year?
Thus can the Sound of all-melodious Lays
Th' offended Powers of Heaven and Hell appease.
393
Our ancient Swains, of hardy, vigorous Kind,
At Harvest-home us'd to unbend the Mind
With festal Sports; those Sports, that bad them bear,
With chearful Hopes, the Labours of the Year.
Their Wives and Children shar'd their Hours of Mirth,
Who shar'd their Toils; when to the Goddess Earth
Grateful they sacrific'd a teeming Swine,
And pour'd the milky Bowl at Sylvan's Shrine.
Then to the Genius of their fleeting Hours,
Mindful of Life's short Date, they offer'd Wine and Flowers.
At Harvest-home us'd to unbend the Mind
With festal Sports; those Sports, that bad them bear,
With chearful Hopes, the Labours of the Year.
Their Wives and Children shar'd their Hours of Mirth,
Who shar'd their Toils; when to the Goddess Earth
Grateful they sacrific'd a teeming Swine,
And pour'd the milky Bowl at Sylvan's Shrine.
Then to the Genius of their fleeting Hours,
Mindful of Life's short Date, they offer'd Wine and Flowers.
Here, in alternate Verse, with rustic Jest
The Clowns their aukward Raillery exprest,
And as the Year brought back the jovial Day,
Freely they sported, innocently gay,
Till cruel Wit was turn'd to open Rage,
And dar'd the noblest Families engage.
When some, who, by its Tooth envenom'd, bled,
Complain'd aloud; others were struck with Dread,
Though yet untouch'd, and, in the public Cause,
Implor'd the just Protection of the Laws,
Which from injurious Libels wisely guard
Our Neighbour's Fame; and now the prudent Bard,
Whom the just Terrours of the Lash restrain,
To Pleasure and Instruction turns his Vein.
The Clowns their aukward Raillery exprest,
And as the Year brought back the jovial Day,
Freely they sported, innocently gay,
Till cruel Wit was turn'd to open Rage,
And dar'd the noblest Families engage.
When some, who, by its Tooth envenom'd, bled,
Complain'd aloud; others were struck with Dread,
Though yet untouch'd, and, in the public Cause,
Implor'd the just Protection of the Laws,
395
Our Neighbour's Fame; and now the prudent Bard,
Whom the just Terrours of the Lash restrain,
To Pleasure and Instruction turns his Vein.
When conquer'd Greece brought in her captive Arts,
She triumph'd o'er her savage Conquerors' Hearts;
Taught our rough Verse its Numbers to refine,
And our rude Style with Elegance to shine.
And yet some Marks of our first, rustic Strain
Continued long, and even 'till now remain.
For it was late before our Bards inquir'd
How the Dramatic Muse her Greeks inspir'd;
How Æschylus and Thespis form'd the Stage,
And what improv'd the Sophoclean Page.
Then to their favourite Pieces we applied,
Proud to translate, nor unsuccessful tried,
For high and ardent is our native Vein,
It breathes the Spirit of the tragic Scene,
And dares successful; but the Roman Muse
Disdains, or fears the painful File to use.
She triumph'd o'er her savage Conquerors' Hearts;
Taught our rough Verse its Numbers to refine,
And our rude Style with Elegance to shine.
And yet some Marks of our first, rustic Strain
Continued long, and even 'till now remain.
For it was late before our Bards inquir'd
How the Dramatic Muse her Greeks inspir'd;
How Æschylus and Thespis form'd the Stage,
And what improv'd the Sophoclean Page.
Then to their favourite Pieces we applied,
Proud to translate, nor unsuccessful tried,
For high and ardent is our native Vein,
It breathes the Spirit of the tragic Scene,
And dares successful; but the Roman Muse
Disdains, or fears the painful File to use.
Because the comic Poet forms his Plays
On common Life, they seem a Work of Ease;
But, since we less Indulgence must expect,
Sure we should labour to be more correct.
Even Plautus ill sustains a Lover's Part,
A frugal Sire's or wily Pander's Art.
Dossennus slip-shod shambles o'er the Scene,
Buffoons, with hungry Jests, his constant Train;
For Gold was all their Aim, and then the Play
Might stand or fall—indifferent were they.
On common Life, they seem a Work of Ease;
But, since we less Indulgence must expect,
Sure we should labour to be more correct.
Even Plautus ill sustains a Lover's Part,
A frugal Sire's or wily Pander's Art.
397
Buffoons, with hungry Jests, his constant Train;
For Gold was all their Aim, and then the Play
Might stand or fall—indifferent were they.
He, who on Glory's airy Chariot tries
To mount the Stage, full often lives and dies.
A cold Spectator chills the Bard to Death,
But one warm Look recalls his fleeting Breath.
Such light, such trivial Things depress or raise
A Soul impassion'd with a Lust of Praise.
To mount the Stage, full often lives and dies.
A cold Spectator chills the Bard to Death,
But one warm Look recalls his fleeting Breath.
Such light, such trivial Things depress or raise
A Soul impassion'd with a Lust of Praise.
Farewel the Stage; for humbly I disclaim
Such fond Pursuits of Pleasure, or of Fame,
If I must sink in Shame, or swell with Pride,
As the gay Palm is granted or denied.
For sure the Bard, though resolutely bold,
Must quit the Stage, or tremble to behold
The little Vulgar of the clamorous Pit,
Though void of Honour, Virtue, Sense or Wit,
When his most interesting Scenes appear,
Call for a Prize-fight, or a baited Bear;
And should the Knights forbid their dear Delight,
They rise tumultuous, and prepare for Fight.
Such fond Pursuits of Pleasure, or of Fame,
If I must sink in Shame, or swell with Pride,
As the gay Palm is granted or denied.
For sure the Bard, though resolutely bold,
Must quit the Stage, or tremble to behold
The little Vulgar of the clamorous Pit,
Though void of Honour, Virtue, Sense or Wit,
When his most interesting Scenes appear,
Call for a Prize-fight, or a baited Bear;
And should the Knights forbid their dear Delight,
They rise tumultuous, and prepare for Fight.
But even our Knights from Wit and Genius fly
To pageant Shows, that charm the wandering Eye.
Clos'd are the Scenes, and lo! for many an Hour
Wide o'er the Stage the flying Squadrons pour.
Then Kings in Chains confess the Fate of War,
And weeping Queens attend the Victor's Car.
Chairs, Coaches, Carts, in ratling Rout are roll'd,
And Ships of mighty Bulk their Sails unfold.
At last the Model of some captive Towns,
In Ivory built, the splendid Triumph crowns.
To pageant Shows, that charm the wandering Eye.
Clos'd are the Scenes, and lo! for many an Hour
Wide o'er the Stage the flying Squadrons pour.
Then Kings in Chains confess the Fate of War,
And weeping Queens attend the Victor's Car.
399
And Ships of mighty Bulk their Sails unfold.
At last the Model of some captive Towns,
In Ivory built, the splendid Triumph crowns.
Sure, if Democritus were yet on Earth,
Whether a Beast of mix'd and monstrous Birth
Bid them with gaping Admiration gaze,
Or a white Elephant their Wonder raise,
The Croud would more delight the laughing Sage,
Than all the Farce, and Follies of the Stage;
To think that Asses should in Judgement sit,
In solid Deafness, on the Works of Wit.
For where's the Voice so strong as to confound
The Shouts, with which our Theatres resound?
Loud as when Surges lash the Tuscan Shore,
Or Mountain-Forests with a Tempest roar,
So loud the People's Cries, when they behold
The foreign Arts of Luxury and Gold;
And if an Actor be but richly drest,
Their Joy is in repeated Claps exprest.
But has he spoken? No. Then whence arose
That loud Applause? His Robe with Purple glows.
Whether a Beast of mix'd and monstrous Birth
Bid them with gaping Admiration gaze,
Or a white Elephant their Wonder raise,
The Croud would more delight the laughing Sage,
Than all the Farce, and Follies of the Stage;
To think that Asses should in Judgement sit,
In solid Deafness, on the Works of Wit.
For where's the Voice so strong as to confound
The Shouts, with which our Theatres resound?
Loud as when Surges lash the Tuscan Shore,
Or Mountain-Forests with a Tempest roar,
So loud the People's Cries, when they behold
The foreign Arts of Luxury and Gold;
And if an Actor be but richly drest,
Their Joy is in repeated Claps exprest.
But has he spoken? No. Then whence arose
That loud Applause? His Robe with Purple glows.
Though I attempt not the dramatic Muse,
Let me not seem in Envy to refuse
The Praises due to those, who with Success
Have try'd this Way to Fame, for I confess,
He gives a desperate Trial of his Art,
With Passions, not my own, who warms my Heart;
Who with unreal Terrours fills my Breast,
As with a magic Influence possest.
Let me not seem in Envy to refuse
The Praises due to those, who with Success
Have try'd this Way to Fame, for I confess,
He gives a desperate Trial of his Art,
With Passions, not my own, who warms my Heart;
401
As with a magic Influence possest.
But let the Bards some little Care engage,
Who dare not trust the rough, contemptuous Stage,
Yet to the Reader's Judgement would submit,
If You would offer to the God of Wit,
Such Volumes, as his best Protection claim;
Or would You warm them in Pursuit of Fame,
Bid them the Hills of Helicon ascend,
Where ever-green the flowery Lawns extend.
Who dare not trust the rough, contemptuous Stage,
Yet to the Reader's Judgement would submit,
If You would offer to the God of Wit,
Such Volumes, as his best Protection claim;
Or would You warm them in Pursuit of Fame,
Bid them the Hills of Helicon ascend,
Where ever-green the flowery Lawns extend.
Yet into sad Mishaps we Poets fall
(I own the Folly's common to us all)
When, to present the Labours of our Muse,
Your Hours of Business, or Repose we chuse;
When even the manly Freedom of our Friends,
Who blame one Verse, our Tenderness offends;
When we, unask'd, some favourite Lines repeat,
Complaining that our Toils, how wonderous great!
Are unobserv'd—that Subtlety of Thought,
That fine-spun Thread, with which our Poem's wrought:
Or when we hope, that soon as Cæsar knows,
That we can Rhimes abundantly compose,
Our Fortune's made; He shall to Court invite
Our bashful Muse, compelling us to write.
(I own the Folly's common to us all)
When, to present the Labours of our Muse,
Your Hours of Business, or Repose we chuse;
When even the manly Freedom of our Friends,
Who blame one Verse, our Tenderness offends;
When we, unask'd, some favourite Lines repeat,
Complaining that our Toils, how wonderous great!
Are unobserv'd—that Subtlety of Thought,
That fine-spun Thread, with which our Poem's wrought:
Or when we hope, that soon as Cæsar knows,
That we can Rhimes abundantly compose,
Our Fortune's made; He shall to Court invite
Our bashful Muse, compelling us to write.
Yet is it thine, O Cæsar, to enquire
How far thy Virtue can her Priests inspire,
In Peace or War, to sing her Hero's Fame,
Nor trust to worthless Bards the sacred Theme.
How far thy Virtue can her Priests inspire,
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Nor trust to worthless Bards the sacred Theme.
Dan Chœrilus was Poet-Laureat made
By Philip's conquering Son, who bounteous paid
The Gold, on which his Father's Image shines,
For misbegotten and unshapen Lines;
And yet as Ink the spotless Hand defiles,
So our fair Fame a wretched Scribler soils.
By Philip's conquering Son, who bounteous paid
The Gold, on which his Father's Image shines,
For misbegotten and unshapen Lines;
And yet as Ink the spotless Hand defiles,
So our fair Fame a wretched Scribler soils.
Yet the same Monarch, who thus lavish paid
For worthless Rhimes, a solemn Edict made,
That none but fam'd Apelles dare to trace,
In desperate Colours, his imperial Face;
And that Lysippus should presume alone
To mould great Ammon's Son in Brass or Stone.
Yet take this Critic in the Arts, that lie
Beneath the Power and Judgement of the Eye,
Take him to Books, and Poetry, you'll swear,
This King was born in thick Bœotian Air.
For worthless Rhimes, a solemn Edict made,
That none but fam'd Apelles dare to trace,
In desperate Colours, his imperial Face;
And that Lysippus should presume alone
To mould great Ammon's Son in Brass or Stone.
Yet take this Critic in the Arts, that lie
Beneath the Power and Judgement of the Eye,
Take him to Books, and Poetry, you'll swear,
This King was born in thick Bœotian Air.
But never, Sir, shall your judicious Taste
By Virgil, or by Varius be disgrac'd,
For to your Bounty they shall grateful raise
A deathless Monument of Fame and Praise.
Nor form'd in Brass, with more Expression shines
The Hero's Face, than in the Poet's Lines
His Life and Manners; nor would Horace chuse
These low and groveling Numbers, could his Muse
The rapid Progress of your Arms pursue:
Paint distant Lands, and Rivers to the View:
Up the steep Mountain with thy War ascend,
Storm the proud Fort, and bid the Nations bend;
Or bid sell War's destructive Horrours cease,
And shut up Janus in eternal Peace,
While Parthia bows beneath the Roman Name,
And yields her Glories to our Prince's Fame.
By Virgil, or by Varius be disgrac'd,
For to your Bounty they shall grateful raise
A deathless Monument of Fame and Praise.
405
The Hero's Face, than in the Poet's Lines
His Life and Manners; nor would Horace chuse
These low and groveling Numbers, could his Muse
The rapid Progress of your Arms pursue:
Paint distant Lands, and Rivers to the View:
Up the steep Mountain with thy War ascend,
Storm the proud Fort, and bid the Nations bend;
Or bid sell War's destructive Horrours cease,
And shut up Janus in eternal Peace,
While Parthia bows beneath the Roman Name,
And yields her Glories to our Prince's Fame.
But Cæsar's Majesty would sure refuse
The feeble Praises of an humble Muse,
Nor I, with conscious Modesty, should dare
Attempt a Subject, I want Strength to bear;
For sure a foolish Fondness of the Heart,
At least, in rhiming and the Muse's Art,
Hurts whom it loves; for quickly we discern,
With Ease remember, and with Pleasure learn,
Whate'er may Ridicule and Laughter move,
Not what deserves our best Esteem and Love.
The feeble Praises of an humble Muse,
Nor I, with conscious Modesty, should dare
Attempt a Subject, I want Strength to bear;
For sure a foolish Fondness of the Heart,
At least, in rhiming and the Muse's Art,
Hurts whom it loves; for quickly we discern,
With Ease remember, and with Pleasure learn,
Whate'er may Ridicule and Laughter move,
Not what deserves our best Esteem and Love.
All such provoking Fondness I disclaim,
Nor would I stand expos'd to public Shame
In Wax-work form'd, with horrible Grimace,
Or in vile Panegyric shew my Face;
Blushing the fulsome Present to receive,
And with my Author be condemn'd to live;
Perhaps, in the same open Basket laid,
Down to the Street together be convey'd,
Where Pepper, Odours, Frankincense are sold,
And all small Wares in wretched Rhimes enroll'd.
Nor would I stand expos'd to public Shame
In Wax-work form'd, with horrible Grimace,
Or in vile Panegyric shew my Face;
407
And with my Author be condemn'd to live;
Perhaps, in the same open Basket laid,
Down to the Street together be convey'd,
Where Pepper, Odours, Frankincense are sold,
And all small Wares in wretched Rhimes enroll'd.
| A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | |