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 IX. To Valgius.
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 | A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace |  |
Ode IX. To Valgius.
Nor everlasting Rain deforms
The squalid Fields, nor endless Storms,
Inconstant, vex the Caspian Main,
Nor on Armenia's frozen Plain
The loitering Snow unmelting lies,
Nor loud when Northern Winds arise,
The labouring Forests bend the Head,
Nor yet their leafy Honours shed:
But you in ceaseless Tears complain,
And still indulge this weeping Strain.
When Vesper lifts his Evening Ray,
Or flies the rapid Beam of Day,
The Death of Mystes fills your Eyes,
And bids the tender Passion rise.
The squalid Fields, nor endless Storms,
Inconstant, vex the Caspian Main,
Nor on Armenia's frozen Plain
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Nor loud when Northern Winds arise,
The labouring Forests bend the Head,
Nor yet their leafy Honours shed:
But you in ceaseless Tears complain,
And still indulge this weeping Strain.
When Vesper lifts his Evening Ray,
Or flies the rapid Beam of Day,
The Death of Mystes fills your Eyes,
And bids the tender Passion rise.
Not for his Son the Grecian Sage,
Renown'd for thrice the mortal Age;
Not for their youthful Brother dead
Such Sorrows Priam's Daughters shed.
At length these weak Complaints give o'er,
Indulge th'unmanly Grief no more,
But let us bolder sweep the String,
And Cæsar's new-rais'd Trophies sing;
Or sing Niphates' freezing Flood,
And Medus, with his Realms, subdued;
Whose Waves are taught with humbler Pride
Smoother to roll their lessening Tide,
And Scythians, who reluctant yield,
Nor pour their Squadrons o'er the Field.
Renown'd for thrice the mortal Age;
Not for their youthful Brother dead
Such Sorrows Priam's Daughters shed.
At length these weak Complaints give o'er,
Indulge th'unmanly Grief no more,
But let us bolder sweep the String,
And Cæsar's new-rais'd Trophies sing;
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And Medus, with his Realms, subdued;
Whose Waves are taught with humbler Pride
Smoother to roll their lessening Tide,
And Scythians, who reluctant yield,
Nor pour their Squadrons o'er the Field.
| A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | |