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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 | 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| I. |
Ode I.
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| 4. |
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| II. |
 | A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace |  |
Ode I.
[Monarchs on Earth their Power extend]
Monarchs on Earth their Power extend,
Monarchs to Jove submissive bend,
And own the sovereign God,
With glorious Triumph who subdued
The Titan Race, gigantic Brood!
And shakes whole Nature with his Nod.
Monarchs to Jove submissive bend,
And own the sovereign God,
With glorious Triumph who subdued
The Titan Race, gigantic Brood!
And shakes whole Nature with his Nod.
When rival Candidates contend,
And to the Field of Mars descend,
To urge th'ambitious Claim,
Some of illustrious Birth are proud,
Some of their Clients vassal Croud,
And some of Virtue's Fame.
And to the Field of Mars descend,
To urge th'ambitious Claim,
Some of illustrious Birth are proud,
Some of their Clients vassal Croud,
And some of Virtue's Fame.
211
Others the rural Labour love,
And joy to plant the spreading Grove,
The furrow'd Glebe to turn;
Yet with impartial Hand shall Fate
Both of the Lowly and the Great
Shake the capacious Urn.
And joy to plant the spreading Grove,
The furrow'd Glebe to turn;
Yet with impartial Hand shall Fate
Both of the Lowly and the Great
Shake the capacious Urn.
Behold the Wretch, with conscious Dread,
In pointed Vengeance o'er his Head
Who views th'impending Sword;
Nor Dainties force his pall'd Desire,
Nor Chaunt of Birds, nor vocal Lyre
To Him can Sleep afford;
In pointed Vengeance o'er his Head
Who views th'impending Sword;
Nor Dainties force his pall'd Desire,
Nor Chaunt of Birds, nor vocal Lyre
To Him can Sleep afford;
Heart-soothing Sleep, which not disdains
The rural Cot, and humble Swains,
And shady River fair;
Or Tempe's ever-blooming Spring,
Where Zephyrs wave the balmy Wing,
And fan the buxom Air.
The rural Cot, and humble Swains,
And shady River fair;
Or Tempe's ever-blooming Spring,
Where Zephyrs wave the balmy Wing,
And fan the buxom Air.
Who Nature's frugal Dictates hears,
He nor the raging Ocean fears,
Nor Stars of Power malign,
Whether in gloomy Storms they rise,
Or swift descending through the Skies
With angry Lustre shine;
He nor the raging Ocean fears,
Nor Stars of Power malign,
Whether in gloomy Storms they rise,
Or swift descending through the Skies
With angry Lustre shine;
213
Whether his Vines be smit with Hail,
Whether his promis'd Harvests fail,
Perfidious to his Toil;
Whether his drooping Trees complain
Of angry Winters, chilling Rain,
Or Stars, that burn the Soil.
Whether his promis'd Harvests fail,
Perfidious to his Toil;
Whether his drooping Trees complain
Of angry Winters, chilling Rain,
Or Stars, that burn the Soil.
Not such the haughty Lord, who lays
His deep Foundations in the Seas,
And scorns Earth's narrow Bound;
The Fish affrighted feel their Waves
Contracted by his numerous Slaves,
Even in the vast Profound.
His deep Foundations in the Seas,
And scorns Earth's narrow Bound;
The Fish affrighted feel their Waves
Contracted by his numerous Slaves,
Even in the vast Profound.
High though his Structures rise in Air,
Threatning Remorse, and black Despair
This haughty Lord shall find;
O'ertake his armed Galley's Speed,
And when he mounts the flying Steed,
Sits gloomy Care behind.
Threatning Remorse, and black Despair
This haughty Lord shall find;
O'ertake his armed Galley's Speed,
And when he mounts the flying Steed,
Sits gloomy Care behind.
If Purple, which the Morn outshines,
Or Marble from the Phrygian Mines,
Though labour'd high with Art,
If Essence, breathing Sweets divine,
Or flowing Bowls of generous Wine,
Ill sooth an anxious Heart,
Or Marble from the Phrygian Mines,
Though labour'd high with Art,
If Essence, breathing Sweets divine,
Or flowing Bowls of generous Wine,
Ill sooth an anxious Heart,
On Columns, rais'd in modern Style,
Why should I plan the lofty Pile
To rise with envied State?
Why, for a vain, superfluous Store,
Which would encumber me the more,
Resign my Sabine Seat?
Why should I plan the lofty Pile
To rise with envied State?
Why, for a vain, superfluous Store,
Which would encumber me the more,
Resign my Sabine Seat?
| A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | |