The works of Horace, translated into verse With a prose interpretation, for the help of students. And occasional notes. By Christopher Smart ... In four volumes |
 | I. |
| 1. |
| I. |
| 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. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
 | 2. |
| 3. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | The works of Horace, translated into verse |  |
239
ODE IV.
[Descend from yonder bright serene]
The poet mentions his being delivered by the assistance of the Muses from sundry perils, and that it has turned out bad for all that have attempted to act against the gods.
And sing, Calliope, my queen,
A longer strain—or with your warbling tongue,
Or, if you choose, the lute, or lyre by Phœbus strung.
Hear ye not plain? Or is my thought
By a transporting frenzy wrought?
I seem to hear sweet sounds, and seem to rove
Where pleasant airs and streams pass thro' th'Elysian grove.
Me tir'd to sleep, and yet a child,
From kind Apulia's bounds beguil'd,
Up in mount Vultur, now so fam'd and known,
The woodland doves conceal'd with foliage newly blown;
Which was a miracle to tell
By all th'inhabitants that dwell
High-nested on the Acherontian brow,
Or Bantine chace possess, or fat Ferentum plow.
241
Nor bears should rush, nor vipers creep;
That sacred bays and myrtle should combine
To hide the dauntless boy by providence divine.
Yours, O ye Muses! yours intire,
I to the Sabine heights aspire—
Me, whether cool Preneste shall invite,
Or Tibur sweetly slop'd, or Baian baths delight.
Me, fond of all your sylvan scene
Your founts and gambols on the green;
Not all our hopes Philippi render'd void,
Nor rough Sicilian wave, nor cursed tree destroy'd.
Whenever you shall be with me,
Chearful I'll sail upon the sea
Of raging Bosphorus, or go by land
Through all the length and drougth of that Assyrian sand.
Th'unhospitable Picts, the race
Of quiver'd Scythia, will I face;
And Concanum, with blood of horses fed,
And Tanais, secure from detriment and dread.
You Cæsar, of such high renown,
Soon as he quarters in each town
His wearied legions, bid his labours cease,
And in Pierian gottoes multiply his peace.
243
Rejoicing to refrain the scourge—
We know him who alone the Titans quell'd,
And hurl'd in thunder down the monsters that rebell'd—
Ev'n he that rules the stormy main,
The sluggish earth, and Pluto's reign,
And all above, and all beneath the sun,
Both gods and men commands, omnipotent and one.
Depending upon strength of arm,
Those desp'rate youths with dire alarm
Insulted Jove, while all the brethren vie
With Pelion on Olympus to ascend the sky.
But Rhœcus and strong Mimas too,
Or what could huge Porphyrion do,
Or what Typhœus, or with trees up-torn
Enceladus assaulting heav'n in impious scorn,
Rushing against the sounding targe
Of Pallas?—Here a furious charge
Was made by Vulcan—there heav'n's royal dame,
And he, who never quits his golden quiver, came,
Who in the pure Castalion spring
Laves his loose locks, who is the king
Of Lycian wilds, Apollo is his name,
Who Patara and Delos holds by natal claim.
245
By its own weight—but there's a crown
Of blest event for courage mixt with care;
But rashness heav'n detests, as working for despair.
That Gyas with his hundred hands,
Whose story upon record stands,
And he th'attempter of the spotless maid,
Slain by Diana's dart, confirm what we have said.
The earth her groaning bosom heaves,
And for each bury'd monster grieves,
To dismal hell by thund'ring vengeance doom'd.
Nor by the eager flames is Ætna yet consum'd.
The bird that on the liver preys
Of Tityus, ever-vengeful stays—
Three hundred chains Perithous confine,
And gall his am'rous flames, which burn'd for Proserpine.
| The works of Horace, translated into verse | |