University of Virginia Library

A Translation of the Tenth Epistle in Horace.

Health to my Friend lost in the smoky Town,
From him who breathes in Country Air alone,
In all things else thy Soul and mine are one:
And like two aged long acquainted Doves,
The same our mutual Hate, the same our mutual Loves;
Close, and secure, you keep your lazy Nest,
My wand'ring Thoughts won't let my Pinions rest:
O'er Rocks, Seas, Woods, I take my wanton Flight,
And each new Object charms with new Delight.
To say no more (my Friend) I live, and reign,
Lord of myself; I've broke the servile Chain,
Shook off with Scorn the Trifles you desire,
All the vain empty nothings Fops admire.
Thus the lean Slave of some fat pamper'd Priest,
With greedy Eyes at first views each luxurious Feast;
But quickly cloy'd, now he no more can eat
Their Godly Viands, and their Holy Meat:
Wisely ambitious to be free, and poor,
Longs for the homely Scraps he loath'd before.
Seek'st thou a Place where Nature is observ'd,
And cooler Reason may be mildly heard;
To rural Shades let thy calm Soul retreat,
These are th' Elysian Fields, this is the happy Seat,
Proof against Winter's Cold, and Summer's Heat.
Here no invidious Care thy Peace annoys,
Sleep undisturb'd, uninterrupted Joys;
Your Marble Pavements with disgrace must yield
To each smooth Plain, and gay enamel'd Field:
Your muddy Aquæducts can ne'er compare
With Country Streams, more pure than City Air;
Our Yew and Bays inclos'd in Pots ye prize,
And mimick little Beauties we despise.
The Rose and Wood-Bine marble Walls support,
Holly and Ivy deck the gaudy Court:
But yet in vain all Shifts the Artist tries,
The discontented Twig but pines away and dies.
The House ye praise that a large Prospect yields,
And view with longing Eyes the Pleasure of the Fields;
Tis thus ye own, thus tacitly confess,
Th' inimitable Charms the peaceful Country bless.
In vain from Nature's Rules we blindly stray,
And push th' uneasy Monitrix away:
Still she returns, nor lets our Conscience rest,
But Night and Day inculcates what is best,
Our truest Friend, tho' an unwelcome Guest.
As soon th' unskilful Fool that's blind enough,
To call rich Indian Damask Norwich Stuff,
Shall become rich by Trade; as he be wise,
Whose partial Soul, and undiscerning Eyes,
Can't at first sight, and at each transient View,
Distinguish Good from Bad, or False from True.
He that too high exalts his giddy Head,
When Fortune smiles, if the Jilt frowns, is dead:
Th' aspiring Fool, big with his haughty Boast,
Is the most abject Wretch when all his Hopes are lost.
Sit loose to all the World, nor ought admire,
These worthless Toys too fondly we desire;
Since when the Darling's ravish'd from our Heart,
The Pleasure's over-ballanc'd by the Smart.
Confine thy Thoughts, and bound thy loose Desires,
For thrifty Nature no great Cost requires:
A healthful Body, and thy Mistress kind,
An humble Cot, and a more humble Mind.
These once enjoy'd, the World is all thy own,
From thy poor Cell despise the tott'ring Throne,
And wakeful Monarchs in a Bed of Down.
The Stag well arm'd, and with unequal Force,
From fruitful Meadows chac'd the conquer'd Horse,
The haughty Beast that stomach'd the Disgrace,
In meaner Pastures not content to graze,
Receives the Bit, and Man's Assistance prays.
The Conquest gain'd, and many Trophies won,
His false Confed'rate still rode boldly on,
In vain the Beast curs'd his perfidious Aid,
He plung'd, he rear'd, but nothing cou'd persuade
The Rider from his Back, or Bridle from his Head.
Just so the Wretch that greedily aspires,
Unable to content his wild Desires;
Dreading the fatal Thought of being poor,
Loses a Prize worth all his Golden Ore,
The happy Freedom he enjoy'd before.
About him still th' uneasy Load he bears,
Spurr'd on with fruitless Hopes, and curb'd with anxious Fears.
The Man whose Fortunes fit not to his Mind,
The Way to true Content shall never find;
If the Shoe pinch, or if it prove too wide,
In that he walks in pain, in this he treads aside.
But you (my Friend) in calm Contentment live,
Always well pleas'd with what the Gods shall give;
Let not base shining Pelf thy Mind deprave,
Tyrant of Fools, the wise Man's Drudge and Slave;
And me reprove if I shall crave for more,
Or seem the least uneasy to be poor.
Thus much I write, merry, and free from Care,
And nothing covet, but thy Presence here.