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 |  |
Ode XX. To Mæcenas.
With strong unwonted Wing I rise,
A two-form'd Poet through the Skies.
Far above Envy will I soar,
And tread this worthless Earth no more.
For know, ye Rivals of my Fame,
Though lowly born, a vulgar Name,
I will not condescend to die,
Nor in the Stygian Waters lie.
A two-form'd Poet through the Skies.
Far above Envy will I soar,
And tread this worthless Earth no more.
For know, ye Rivals of my Fame,
Though lowly born, a vulgar Name,
I will not condescend to die,
Nor in the Stygian Waters lie.
207
A rougher Skin now clothes my Thighs,
Into a Swan's fair Form I rise,
And feel the feather'd Plumage shed
Its Down, and o'er my Shoulders spread.
Swift as with Dædalean Wing,
Harmonious Bird, I'll soaring sing,
And in my Flight, the foamy Shores,
Where Bosphorus tremendous roars,
The Regions bound by Northern Cold,
And Lybia's burning Sands behold.
Then to the learned Sons of Spain,
To him, who ploughs the Scythian Main,
To him, who with dissembled Fears,
Conscious, the Roman Arms reveres,
To Him, who drinks the rapid Rhone,
Shall Horace, deathless Bard, be known.
Into a Swan's fair Form I rise,
And feel the feather'd Plumage shed
Its Down, and o'er my Shoulders spread.
Swift as with Dædalean Wing,
Harmonious Bird, I'll soaring sing,
And in my Flight, the foamy Shores,
Where Bosphorus tremendous roars,
The Regions bound by Northern Cold,
And Lybia's burning Sands behold.
Then to the learned Sons of Spain,
To him, who ploughs the Scythian Main,
To him, who with dissembled Fears,
Conscious, the Roman Arms reveres,
To Him, who drinks the rapid Rhone,
Shall Horace, deathless Bard, be known.
My Friends, the funeral Sorrow spare,
The plaintive Song, and tender Tear;
Nor let the Voice of Grief profane,
With loud Laments, the solemn Scene;
Nor o'er your Poet's empty Urn
With useless, idle Sorrows mourn.
The plaintive Song, and tender Tear;
Nor let the Voice of Grief profane,
With loud Laments, the solemn Scene;
Nor o'er your Poet's empty Urn
With useless, idle Sorrows mourn.
| A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | |