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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Ode III. To Dellius.
In arduous Hours an equal Mind maintain,
Nor let your Spirit rise too high,
Though Fortune kindly change the Scene,
Alas! my Dellius, Thou wert born to die,
Nor let your Spirit rise too high,
Though Fortune kindly change the Scene,
Alas! my Dellius, Thou wert born to die,
Whether your Life in Sadness pass,
Or wing'd with Pleasure glide away;
Whether, reclining on the Grass,
You bless with choicer Wine the festal Day,
Or wing'd with Pleasure glide away;
Whether, reclining on the Grass,
You bless with choicer Wine the festal Day,
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Where the pale Poplar and the Pine
Expel th'inhospitable Beam;
In kindly Shades their Branches twine,
And toils, obliquely swift, the purling Stream.
Expel th'inhospitable Beam;
In kindly Shades their Branches twine,
And toils, obliquely swift, the purling Stream.
There pour your Wines, your Odours shed,
Bring forth the rosy, short-liv'd Flower,
While Fate yet spins thy mortal Thread,
While Youth and Fortune give th'indulgent Hour.
Bring forth the rosy, short-liv'd Flower,
While Fate yet spins thy mortal Thread,
While Youth and Fortune give th'indulgent Hour.
Your purchas'd Woods, your House of State,
Your Villa wash'd by Tiber's Wave,
You must, my Dellius, yield to Fate,
And to your Heir these high-pil'd Treasures leave.
Your Villa wash'd by Tiber's Wave,
You must, my Dellius, yield to Fate,
And to your Heir these high-pil'd Treasures leave.
Though you could boast a Monarch's Birth;
Though Wealth unbounded round Thee flows;
Though poor, and sprung from vulgar Earth,
No Pity for his Victim Pluto knows,
Though Wealth unbounded round Thee flows;
Though poor, and sprung from vulgar Earth,
No Pity for his Victim Pluto knows,
For all must tread the Paths of Fate,
And ever shakes the mortal Urn,
Whose Lot embarks us, soon or late,
On Charon's Boat, ah! never to return.
And ever shakes the mortal Urn,
Whose Lot embarks us, soon or late,
On Charon's Boat, ah! never to return.
| A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | |