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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 | A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace |  |
463
Rome to her Poets too much Licence gives,
Nor the rough Cadence of their Verse perceives;
But shall I then with careless Spirit write?
No—let me think my Faults shall rise to Light,
And then a kind Indulgence will excuse
The less important Errours of the Muse.
Thus, though perhaps I may not merit Fame,
I stand secure from Censure and from Shame.
Nor the rough Cadence of their Verse perceives;
But shall I then with careless Spirit write?
No—let me think my Faults shall rise to Light,
And then a kind Indulgence will excuse
The less important Errours of the Muse.
Thus, though perhaps I may not merit Fame,
I stand secure from Censure and from Shame.
Make the Greek Authors your supreme Delight;
Read them by Day, and study them by Night.—
“And yet our Sires with Joy could Plautus hear,
“Gay were his Jests, his Numbers charm'd their Ear.”
Let me not say too lavishly they prais'd,
But sure their Judgement was full cheaply pleas'd:
If You, or I, with Taste are haply blest,
To know a clownish from a courtly Jest;
If skillful to discern when form'd with Ease
Each modulated Line is taught to please.
Read them by Day, and study them by Night.—
“And yet our Sires with Joy could Plautus hear,
“Gay were his Jests, his Numbers charm'd their Ear.”
Let me not say too lavishly they prais'd,
But sure their Judgement was full cheaply pleas'd:
465
To know a clownish from a courtly Jest;
If skillful to discern when form'd with Ease
Each modulated Line is taught to please.
Thespis, Inventor of the tragic Art,
Carried his vagrant Players in a Cart:
High o'er the Croud the mimic Tribe appear'd,
And play'd and sung with Lees of Wine besmear'd.
Carried his vagrant Players in a Cart:
High o'er the Croud the mimic Tribe appear'd,
And play'd and sung with Lees of Wine besmear'd.
Then Æschylus a decent Vizard us'd,
Built a low Stage; the flowing Robe diffus'd:
In Language more sublime his Actors rage,
And in the graceful Buskin tread the Stage.
Built a low Stage; the flowing Robe diffus'd:
In Language more sublime his Actors rage,
And in the graceful Buskin tread the Stage.
And now the comic Muse again appear'd,
Nor without Pleasure and Applause was heard;
But soon, her Freedom rising to Excess,
The Laws were forc'd her Boldness to suppress,
And, when no longer licens'd to defame,
She sunk to Silence with Contempt and Shame.
Nor without Pleasure and Applause was heard;
But soon, her Freedom rising to Excess,
The Laws were forc'd her Boldness to suppress,
And, when no longer licens'd to defame,
She sunk to Silence with Contempt and Shame.
No Path to Fame our Poets left untry'd;
Nor small their Merit, when with conscious Pride
They scorn'd to take from Greece the storied Theme,
And dar'd to sing their own domestic Fame,
With Roman Heroes fill the tragic Scene,
Or sport with Humour in the comic Vein.
Nor had the Mistress of the World appear'd
More fam'd for Conquest, than for Wit rever'd,
But that we hate the necessary Toil
Of slow Correction, and the painful File.
Nor small their Merit, when with conscious Pride
They scorn'd to take from Greece the storied Theme,
And dar'd to sing their own domestic Fame,
With Roman Heroes fill the tragic Scene,
Or sport with Humour in the comic Vein.
467
More fam'd for Conquest, than for Wit rever'd,
But that we hate the necessary Toil
Of slow Correction, and the painful File.
Illustrious Youth, with just Contempt receive,
Nor let the hardy Poem hope to live,
Where Time and full Correction don't refine
The finish'd Work, and polish every Line.
Nor let the hardy Poem hope to live,
Where Time and full Correction don't refine
The finish'd Work, and polish every Line.
Because Democritus in Rapture cries—
Poems of Genius always bear the Prize
From wretched Works of Art, and thinks that none
But brain-sick Bards can taste of Helicon;
So far his Doctrine o'er the Tribe prevails,
They dare not shave their Heads, or pare their Nails;
To dark Retreats and Solitude they run,
The Baths avoid, and public Converse shun:
A Poet's Fame and Fortune sure to gain,
If long their Beards, incurable their Brain.
Poems of Genius always bear the Prize
From wretched Works of Art, and thinks that none
But brain-sick Bards can taste of Helicon;
So far his Doctrine o'er the Tribe prevails,
They dare not shave their Heads, or pare their Nails;
To dark Retreats and Solitude they run,
The Baths avoid, and public Converse shun:
A Poet's Fame and Fortune sure to gain,
If long their Beards, incurable their Brain.
Ah! luckless I! who purge in Spring my Spleen—
Else sure the first of Bards had Horace been.
But shall I then, in mad Pursuit of Fame,
Resign my Reason for a Poet's Name?
No; let me sharpen others, as the Hone
Gives Edge to Razors, though itself has none.
Let me the Poet's Worth and Office show,
And whence his true poetic Riches flow;
What forms his Genius, and improves his Vein;
What well or ill becomes each different Scene;
How high the Knowledge of his Art ascends,
And to what Faults his Ignorance extends.
Else sure the first of Bards had Horace been.
But shall I then, in mad Pursuit of Fame,
Resign my Reason for a Poet's Name?
No; let me sharpen others, as the Hone
Gives Edge to Razors, though itself has none.
Let me the Poet's Worth and Office show,
And whence his true poetic Riches flow;
What forms his Genius, and improves his Vein;
What well or ill becomes each different Scene;
How high the Knowledge of his Art ascends,
And to what Faults his Ignorance extends.
469
Good Sense, the Fountain of the Muse's Art,
Let the strong Page of Socrates impart,
For if the Mind with clear Conceptions glow,
The willing Words in just Expressions flow.
Let the strong Page of Socrates impart,
For if the Mind with clear Conceptions glow,
The willing Words in just Expressions flow.
The Poet, who with nice Discernment knows
What to his Country and his Friends he owes;
How various Nature warms the human Breast,
To love the Parent, Brother, Friend or Guest;
What the great Office of our Judges are,
Of Senators, of Generals sent to War;
He surely knows, with nice, well-judging Art,
The Strokes, peculiar to each different Part.
What to his Country and his Friends he owes;
How various Nature warms the human Breast,
To love the Parent, Brother, Friend or Guest;
What the great Office of our Judges are,
Of Senators, of Generals sent to War;
He surely knows, with nice, well-judging Art,
The Strokes, peculiar to each different Part.
Keep Nature's great Original in View,
And thence the living Images pursue;
For when the Sentiments and Manners please,
And all the Characters are wrought with Ease,
Your Play, though void of Beauty, Force and Art,
More strongly shall delight, and warm the Heart,
Than where a lifeless Pomp of Verse appears,
And with sonorous Trifles charms our Ears.
And thence the living Images pursue;
For when the Sentiments and Manners please,
And all the Characters are wrought with Ease,
Your Play, though void of Beauty, Force and Art,
More strongly shall delight, and warm the Heart,
Than where a lifeless Pomp of Verse appears,
And with sonorous Trifles charms our Ears.
To her lov'd Greeks the Muse indulgent gave,
To her lov'd Greeks, with Greatness to conceive,
And in sublimer Tone their Language raise;
Her Greeks were only covetous of Praise.
Our Youth, Proficients in a nobler Art,
Divide a Farthing to the hundredth Part;
Well done, my Boy, the joyful Father cries,
Addition and Subtraction make us wise.
To her lov'd Greeks, with Greatness to conceive,
And in sublimer Tone their Language raise;
Her Greeks were only covetous of Praise.
Our Youth, Proficients in a nobler Art,
Divide a Farthing to the hundredth Part;
471
Addition and Subtraction make us wise.
But when the Rust of Wealth pollutes the Soul,
And money'd Cares the Genius thus controul,
How shall we dare to hope, that distant Times
With Honour should preserve the lifeless Rhimes?
And money'd Cares the Genius thus controul,
How shall we dare to hope, that distant Times
With Honour should preserve the lifeless Rhimes?
Poets would profit or delight Mankind,
And with the Pleasing have th' Instructive join'd.
Short be the Precept, which with Ease is gain'd
By docile Minds, and faithfully retain'd.
If in dull Length your Moral is exprest,
The tedious Wisdom overflows the Breast.
Would you divert? the Probable maintain,
Nor force us to believe the monstrous Scene,
Which shews a Child, by a fell Witch devour'd,
Drag'd from her Entrails, and to Life restor'd.
And with the Pleasing have th' Instructive join'd.
Short be the Precept, which with Ease is gain'd
By docile Minds, and faithfully retain'd.
If in dull Length your Moral is exprest,
The tedious Wisdom overflows the Breast.
Would you divert? the Probable maintain,
Nor force us to believe the monstrous Scene,
Which shews a Child, by a fell Witch devour'd,
Drag'd from her Entrails, and to Life restor'd.
Grave Age approves the Solid and the Wise;
Gay Youth from too austere a Drama flies;
Profit and Pleasure, then, to mix with Art,
T'inform the Judgement, nor offend the Heart,
Shall gain all Votes; to Booksellers shall raise
No trivial Fortune, and across the Seas
To distant Nations spread the Writer's Fame,
And with immortal Honours crown his Name.
Gay Youth from too austere a Drama flies;
Profit and Pleasure, then, to mix with Art,
T'inform the Judgement, nor offend the Heart,
Shall gain all Votes; to Booksellers shall raise
No trivial Fortune, and across the Seas
To distant Nations spread the Writer's Fame,
And with immortal Honours crown his Name.
473
Yet there are Faults, that we may well excuse,
For oft the Strings th' intended Sound refuse;
In vain his tuneful Hand the Master tries,
He asks a Flat, and hears a Sharp arise;
Nor always will the Bow, though fam'd for Art,
With Speed unerring wing the threatening Dart.
For oft the Strings th' intended Sound refuse;
In vain his tuneful Hand the Master tries,
He asks a Flat, and hears a Sharp arise;
Nor always will the Bow, though fam'd for Art,
With Speed unerring wing the threatening Dart.
But where the Beauties more in Number shine,
I am not angry, when a casual Line
(That with some trivial Faults unequal flows)
A careless Hand, or human Frailty shows.
But as we ne'er those Scribes with Mercy treat,
Who, though advis'd, the same Mistakes repeat;
Or as we laugh at him, who constant brings
The same rude Discord from the jarring Strings;
So, if strange Chance a Chœrilus inspire
With some good Lines, with Laughter I admire;
Yet hold it for a Fault I can't excuse,
If honest Homer slumber o'er his Muse;
And yet, perhaps, a kind indulgent Sleep
O'er Works of Length allowably may creep.
I am not angry, when a casual Line
(That with some trivial Faults unequal flows)
A careless Hand, or human Frailty shows.
But as we ne'er those Scribes with Mercy treat,
Who, though advis'd, the same Mistakes repeat;
Or as we laugh at him, who constant brings
The same rude Discord from the jarring Strings;
So, if strange Chance a Chœrilus inspire
With some good Lines, with Laughter I admire;
Yet hold it for a Fault I can't excuse,
If honest Homer slumber o'er his Muse;
And yet, perhaps, a kind indulgent Sleep
O'er Works of Length allowably may creep.
Poems like Pictures are; some charm when nigh,
Others at Distance more delight your Eye;
That loves the Shade, this tempts a stronger Light,
And challenges the Critic's piercing Sight:
That gives us Pleasure for a single View;
And this, ten times repeated, still is new.
Others at Distance more delight your Eye;
That loves the Shade, this tempts a stronger Light,
And challenges the Critic's piercing Sight:
That gives us Pleasure for a single View;
And this, ten times repeated, still is new.
475
Although your Father's Precepts form your Youth,
And add Experience to your Taste of Truth,
Of this one Maxim, Piso, be assur'd,
In many Things a Medium is endur'd:
Who tries Messala's Eloquence in vain,
Nor can a knotty Point of Law explain
Like learn'd Cascellius, yet may justly claim,
For Pleading or Advice, some Right to Fame;
But God, and Man, and letter'd Post denies,
That Poets ever are of middling Size.
And add Experience to your Taste of Truth,
Of this one Maxim, Piso, be assur'd,
In many Things a Medium is endur'd:
Who tries Messala's Eloquence in vain,
Nor can a knotty Point of Law explain
Like learn'd Cascellius, yet may justly claim,
For Pleading or Advice, some Right to Fame;
But God, and Man, and letter'd Post denies,
That Poets ever are of middling Size.
As jarring Music at a jovial Feast,
Or muddy Essence, or th' ungrateful Taste
Of bitter Honey, shall the Guests displease,
Because they want not Luxuries like these;
So Poems, form'd alone to give Delight,
Are deep Disgust, or Pleasure to the Height.
Or muddy Essence, or th' ungrateful Taste
Of bitter Honey, shall the Guests displease,
Because they want not Luxuries like these;
So Poems, form'd alone to give Delight,
Are deep Disgust, or Pleasure to the Height.
The Man, who knows not how with Art to wield
The sportive Weapons of the martial Field,
The bounding Ball, round Quoit, or whirling Troque;
Will not the Laughter of the Croud provoke:
But every desperate Blockhead dares to write—
Why not? His Fortune's large to make a Knight;
The Man's free-born; perhaps, of gentle Strain;
His Character and Manners pure from Stain.
The sportive Weapons of the martial Field,
The bounding Ball, round Quoit, or whirling Troque;
Will not the Laughter of the Croud provoke:
But every desperate Blockhead dares to write—
Why not? His Fortune's large to make a Knight;
The Man's free-born; perhaps, of gentle Strain;
His Character and Manners pure from Stain.
But Thou, dear Piso, never tempt the Muse,
If Wisdom's Goddess shall her Aid refuse;
And when you write, let candid Metius hear,
Or try your Labours on your Father's Ear,
Or even on mine; but let them not come forth,
'Till the ninth ripening Year mature their Worth.
You may correct what in your Closet lies:
The Word, once spoke, irrevocably flies.
If Wisdom's Goddess shall her Aid refuse;
477
Or try your Labours on your Father's Ear,
Or even on mine; but let them not come forth,
'Till the ninth ripening Year mature their Worth.
You may correct what in your Closet lies:
The Word, once spoke, irrevocably flies.
The wood-born Race of Men when Orpheus tam'd,
From Acorns and from mutual Blood reclaim'd,
This Priest divine was fabled to assuage
The Tiger's Fierceness, and the Lion's Rage.
Thus rose the Theban Wall; Amphion's Lyre,
And soothing Voice the listening Stones inspire.
Poetic Wisdom mark'd, with happy Mean,
Public and private; sacred and profane;
Of lawless Love the wandering Guilt supprest;
With equal Rites the wedded Couple blest;
Plan'd future Towns, and instituted Laws:
Verse grew divine, and Poets gain'd Applause.
From Acorns and from mutual Blood reclaim'd,
This Priest divine was fabled to assuage
The Tiger's Fierceness, and the Lion's Rage.
Thus rose the Theban Wall; Amphion's Lyre,
And soothing Voice the listening Stones inspire.
Poetic Wisdom mark'd, with happy Mean,
Public and private; sacred and profane;
Of lawless Love the wandering Guilt supprest;
With equal Rites the wedded Couple blest;
Plan'd future Towns, and instituted Laws:
Verse grew divine, and Poets gain'd Applause.
Homer, Tyrtæus, by the Muse inspir'd,
To Deeds of Arms the martial Spirit fir'd.
In Verse the Oracles divine were heard,
And Nature's secret Laws in Verse declar'd;
Monarchs were courted in Pierian Strain,
And comic Sports reliev'd the wearied Swain;
Apollo sings, the Muses tune the Lyre,
Then blush not for an Art, which they inspire.
To Deeds of Arms the martial Spirit fir'd.
In Verse the Oracles divine were heard,
And Nature's secret Laws in Verse declar'd;
Monarchs were courted in Pierian Strain,
And comic Sports reliev'd the wearied Swain;
Apollo sings, the Muses tune the Lyre,
Then blush not for an Art, which they inspire.
479
'Tis long disputed, whether Poets claim
From Art or Nature their best Right to Fame;
But Art, if not enrich'd by Nature's Vein,
And a rude Genius, of uncultur'd Strain,
Are useless both; but when in Friendship join'd,
A mutual Succour in each other find.
From Art or Nature their best Right to Fame;
But Art, if not enrich'd by Nature's Vein,
And a rude Genius, of uncultur'd Strain,
Are useless both; but when in Friendship join'd,
A mutual Succour in each other find.
A Youth, who hopes th' Olympic Prize to gain,
All Arts must try, and every Toil sustain;
Th' Extremes of Heat and Cold must often prove,
And shun the weakening Joys of Wine and Love.
Who sings the Pythic Song, first learn'd to raise
Each Note distinct, and a stern Master please;
But now—Since I can write the true Sublime,
Curse catch the hindmost, cries the Man of Rhime.
What! in the Science own myself a Fool,
Because, forsooth, I learn'd it not by Rule.
All Arts must try, and every Toil sustain;
Th' Extremes of Heat and Cold must often prove,
And shun the weakening Joys of Wine and Love.
Who sings the Pythic Song, first learn'd to raise
Each Note distinct, and a stern Master please;
But now—Since I can write the true Sublime,
Curse catch the hindmost, cries the Man of Rhime.
What! in the Science own myself a Fool,
Because, forsooth, I learn'd it not by Rule.
As artful Criers, at a public Fair,
Gather the passing Croud to buy their Ware,
So wealthy Poets, when they deign to write,
To all clear Gains the Flatterer invite.
But if the Feast of Luxury they give,
Bail a poor Wretch, or from Distress relieve,
When the black Fangs of Law around him bend,
How shall they know a Flatterer from a Friend?
Gather the passing Croud to buy their Ware,
So wealthy Poets, when they deign to write,
To all clear Gains the Flatterer invite.
But if the Feast of Luxury they give,
Bail a poor Wretch, or from Distress relieve,
When the black Fangs of Law around him bend,
How shall they know a Flatterer from a Friend?
If e'er you make a Present, or propose
To grant a Favour; while his Bosom glows
With grateful Sentiments of Joy and Praise,
Never, ah! never let him hear your Lays;
Loud shall he cry, How elegant! how fine!
Turn pale with Wonder at some happier Line;
Distil the civil Dew from either Eye,
And leap and beat the Ground in Extacy.
To grant a Favour; while his Bosom glows
With grateful Sentiments of Joy and Praise,
Never, ah! never let him hear your Lays;
Loud shall he cry, How elegant! how fine!
Turn pale with Wonder at some happier Line;
481
And leap and beat the Ground in Extacy.
As Hirelings, paid for their funereal Tear,
Outweep the Sorrows of a Friend sincere;
So the false Raptures of a Flatterer's Art
Exceed the Praises of an honest Heart.
Outweep the Sorrows of a Friend sincere;
So the false Raptures of a Flatterer's Art
Exceed the Praises of an honest Heart.
Monarchs, 'tis said, with many a flowing Bowl
Search through the deep Recesses of his Soul
Whom for their future Friendship they design,
And put him to the Torture in his Wine;
So try, when-e'er you write, the deep Disguise,
Beneath whose flattering Smiles a Renard lies.
Search through the deep Recesses of his Soul
Whom for their future Friendship they design,
And put him to the Torture in his Wine;
So try, when-e'er you write, the deep Disguise,
Beneath whose flattering Smiles a Renard lies.
Read to Quinctilius, and at every Line—
“Correct this Passage, Friend, and that refine.”
Tell him, you tried it twice or thrice in vain—
“Haste to an Anvil with your ill-form'd Strain,
“Or blot it out.” But if you will defend
The favourite Folly, rather than amend,
He'll say no more, no idle Toil employ—
“Yourself unrival'd, and your Works enjoy”
“Correct this Passage, Friend, and that refine.”
Tell him, you tried it twice or thrice in vain—
“Haste to an Anvil with your ill-form'd Strain,
“Or blot it out.” But if you will defend
The favourite Folly, rather than amend,
He'll say no more, no idle Toil employ—
“Yourself unrival'd, and your Works enjoy”
A friendly Critic, when dull Lines move slow,
Or harshly rude, will his Resentment show:
Will mark the blotted Pages, and efface
What is not polish'd to its highest Grace:
Will prune th' ambitious Ornaments away,
And teach you on th' Obscure to pour the Day:
Will mark the doubtful Phrase with Hand severe,
Like Aristarchus candid and sincere:
Nor say, for Trifles why should I displease
The Man I love? for, Trifles such as these
To serious Mischiefs lead the Man I love,
If once the Flatterer's Ridicule he prove.
Or harshly rude, will his Resentment show:
Will mark the blotted Pages, and efface
What is not polish'd to its highest Grace:
Will prune th' ambitious Ornaments away,
And teach you on th' Obscure to pour the Day:
Will mark the doubtful Phrase with Hand severe,
Like Aristarchus candid and sincere:
Nor say, for Trifles why should I displease
The Man I love? for, Trifles such as these
483
If once the Flatterer's Ridicule he prove.
From a mad Poet, whosoe'er is wise
As from a Leprosy or Jaundice flies;
Religious Madness in its zealous Strain,
Nor the wild Frenzy of a moon-struck Brain,
Are half so dreadful; yet the Boys pursue him,
And Fools, unknowing of their Danger, view him.
As from a Leprosy or Jaundice flies;
Religious Madness in its zealous Strain,
Nor the wild Frenzy of a moon-struck Brain,
Are half so dreadful; yet the Boys pursue him,
And Fools, unknowing of their Danger, view him.
But heedless wandering if our Man of Rhime,
Bursting with Verses of the true Sublime,
Like Fowler earnest at his Game, should fall
Into a Well or Ditch, and loudly call,
Good Fellow-Citizens and Neighbours dear,
Help a poor Bard—not one of them will hear;
Or if, perchance, a saving Rope they throw,
I will be there and—“Sirs, you do not know
“But he fell in on purpose, and, I doubt,
“Will hardly thank you, if you pull him out.”
Bursting with Verses of the true Sublime,
Like Fowler earnest at his Game, should fall
Into a Well or Ditch, and loudly call,
Good Fellow-Citizens and Neighbours dear,
Help a poor Bard—not one of them will hear;
Or if, perchance, a saving Rope they throw,
I will be there and—“Sirs, you do not know
“But he fell in on purpose, and, I doubt,
“Will hardly thank you, if you pull him out.”
Then will I tell Empedocles's Story,
Who nobly fond of more than mortal Glory,
Fond to be deem'd a God, in madding Fit
Plung'd frigid into Ætna's fiery Pit.
Let Bards be licens'd then themselves to kill;
'Tis Murder to preserve them 'gainst their Will.
But more than once this Frolic he hath play'd,
Nor, taken out, will he be wiser made,
Content to be a Man; nor will his Pride
Lay such a glorious Love of Death aside.
Who nobly fond of more than mortal Glory,
Fond to be deem'd a God, in madding Fit
Plung'd frigid into Ætna's fiery Pit.
Let Bards be licens'd then themselves to kill;
'Tis Murder to preserve them 'gainst their Will.
But more than once this Frolic he hath play'd,
Nor, taken out, will he be wiser made,
Content to be a Man; nor will his Pride
Lay such a glorious Love of Death aside.
Nor is it plain for what more horrid Crime
The Gods have plagu'd him with this Curse of Rhime;
Whether his Father's Ashes he disdain'd,
Or hallow'd Ground with Sacrilege prophan'd:
Certain he raves, and like a baited Bear,
If he hath Strength enough his Den to tear,
With all the Horrours of a desperate Muse
The Learned and Unlearned he pursues.
But if he seize you, then the Torture dread,
He fastens on you 'till he reads you dead,
And like a Leech, voracious of his Food,
Quits not his cruel Hold 'till gorg'd with Blood.
The Gods have plagu'd him with this Curse of Rhime;
485
Or hallow'd Ground with Sacrilege prophan'd:
Certain he raves, and like a baited Bear,
If he hath Strength enough his Den to tear,
With all the Horrours of a desperate Muse
The Learned and Unlearned he pursues.
But if he seize you, then the Torture dread,
He fastens on you 'till he reads you dead,
And like a Leech, voracious of his Food,
Quits not his cruel Hold 'till gorg'd with Blood.
| A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | |