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. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. | ODE VI. TO THE ROMANS, ON THE CORRUPT MANNERS OF HIS AGE. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | The works of Horace, translated into verse |  |
253
ODE VI. TO THE ROMANS, ON THE CORRUPT MANNERS OF HIS AGE.
Ye Romans, tho' not done by you,Ye must your fathers vices rue,
Unless the holy temples ye repair,
And images defil'd with filth and blackness there.
You justly claim imperial sway,
As ye th'immortal gods obey;
Thence your beginning, there refer th'event;
Oft heav'n, for our neglect, has doleful vengeance sent.
Now twice Moneses and the band
Of Pacorus has made a stand
Against our luckless troops, and glad in scorn
Equestrian collars seiz'd, their trinkets to adorn.
While discord is our business grown,
Almost we have been overthrown
By Moors and Dacians, those by sea so dread,
And these expert for jav'lins whirling at our head.
Fraught with offence, at first the times
Defil'd us with domestic crimes,
Our marriage-beds, and families, and race,
Whence all these murders sprang, and national disgrace.
255
Are proud th'Ionic step to try,
And move by leud prescription in their bloom,
And meditate on incest from the mother's womb.
Soon, when her husband's at his wine,
To younger sinners she'll incline,
Nor care with whom the lawless bliss she prove,
In hasty stealth, when once the candles they remove.
But, not without her consort's leave,
She boldly rises to receive
Some broker, that will buy her to his arms,
Or Spanish dupe, that pays full dearly for her charms.
'Twas not a race from sires like these
That stain'd with Punic blood the seas,
Slew Pyrrhus and Antiochus the Great,
And beat Hamilcar's son at such a glorious rate;
But a rough set of manly blades,
And skilful with the Sabine spades
To turn the glebe, and carry clubs of oak,
Such as their rigid mothers from the wood bespoke.
What hour the sun the shades enlarg'd,
And from the yoke the steers discharg'd,
Fatigu'd with toil, and urg'd with rapid flight
The time for friendly sleep, or neighbourly delight.
257
Worse than their sires our fathers were,
And we, far worse than them, about to fill
The world with baser men, and more degen'rate still.
| The works of Horace, translated into verse | |