The works of Horace, translated into verse :: :: University of Virginia Library

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

Smart, Christopher (1722-1771)

VOLUME I.

[dedication]

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE.

ODE I. TO MÆCENAS.

II.

ODE II. TO AUGUSTUS CÆSAR.

III.

ODE III.

IV.

ODE IV. TO SEXTIUS, A PERSON OF CONSULAR DIGNITY .

ODE V. TO PYRRHA.

VI.

ODE VI. TO AGRIPPA.

VII.

ODE VII. TO MUNATIUS PLANCUS, A PERSON OF CONSULAR DIGNITY

VIII.

ODE VIII. TO LYDIA.

IX.

ODE IX. TO THALIARCHUS.

ODE X. TO MERCURY.

XI.

ODE XI. TO LEUCONOE.

XII.

ODE XII. TO AUGUSTUS.

XIII.

ODE XIII. TO LYDIA.

XIV.

ODE XIV. TO THE REPUBLIC OF ROME, ON THE RENEWAL OF THE CIVIL WAR.

XV.

ODE XV. THE PREDICTIONS OF NEREUS CONCERNING THE DESTRUCTION OF TROY.

XVI.

ODE XVI. TO HIS MISTRESS.

XVII.

ODE XVII. TO TYNDARIS.

XVIII.

ODE XVIII. TO QUINTILIUS VARUS.

XIX.

ODE XIX. OF GLYCERA.

XX.

ODE XX. TO MÆCENAS.

XXI.

ODE XXI. TO APOLLO AND DIANA.

XXII.

ODE XXII. TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS.

XXIII.

ODE XXIII. TO CHLOE.

XXIV.

ODE XXIV. TO VIRGIL.

XXV.

ODE XXV. TO LYDIA.

XXVI.

ODE XXVI. TO THE MUSE, CONCERNING ÆLIUS LAMIA.

XXVII.

ODE XXVII. TO HIS BOTTLE-COMPANIONS.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

ODE XXXII. TO HIS LYRE.

XXXIII.

ODE XXXIII. TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS.

XXXIV.

ODE XXXIV. TO HIMSELF.

XXXV.

ODE XXXV. TO FORTUNE.

XXXVI.

ODE XXXVI. TO POMPONIUS NUMIDA.

XXXVII.

ODE XXXVII. TO HIS COMPANIONS.

XXXVIII.

ODE XXXVIII. TO HIS SERVANT.

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE.

ODE I. TO C. ASINIUS POLLIO.

II.

ODE II. TO C. SALLUSTIUS CRISPUS.

III.

ODE III. TO DELLIUS.

IV.

ODE IV. TO XANTHIUS PHOCEUS.

ODE V. ON LALAGE.

VI.

ODE VI. TO SEPTIMIUS.

VII.

ODE VII. TO POMPEIUS VARUS.

VIII.

ODE VIII. TO JULIA BARINE.

IX.

ODE IX. TO VALGIUS.

ODE X. TO LICINIUS.

XI.

ODE XI. TO QUINTIUS HIRPINUS.

XII.

ODE XII. TO MÆCENAS.

XIII.

ODE XIII. UPON THE TREE BY WHOSE SUDDEN FALL HE HAD LIKE TO HAVE BEEN CRUSHED.

XIV.

ODE XIV. TO POSTHUMUS.

XV.

ODE XV. UPON THE LUXURY OF THE AGE HE LIVED IN.

XVI.

ODE XVI. TO GROSPHUS.

XVII.

ODE XVII. TO MÆCENAS, WHEN SICK.

XVIII.

ODE XVIII.

XIX.

ODE XIX. ON BACCHUS.

XX.

ODE XX. TO MÆCENAS.

THE THIRD BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE.

ODE I.

II.

ODE II. TO HIS FRIRNDS.

III.

ODE III.

IV.

ODE IV.

ODE V.

VI.

ODE VI. TO THE ROMANS, ON THE CORRUPT MANNERS OF HIS AGE.

VII.

ODE VII. TO ASTERIE.

VIII.

ODE VIII. TO MÆCENAS.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

ODE XIII. TO THE FOUNTAIN BLANDUSIA.

XIV.

ODE XIV. TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE.

II.

VOLUME II.

THE THIRD BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE [Cont'd.].

XV.

ODE XV. ON CHLORIS.

XVI.

ODE XVI. TO MÆCENAS.

XVII.

ODE XVII. TO ÆLIUS LAMIA.

XVIII.

ODE XVIII. TO FAUNUS.

XIX.

ODE XIX. TO TELEPHUS.

XX.

ODE XX. TO PYRRHUS.

XXI.

ODE XXI. TO HIS WINE-JAR.

XXII.

ODE XXII. TO DIANA.

XXIII.

ODE XXIII TO PHIDILE.

XXIV.

ODE XXIV. UPON THE RICH AND COVETOUS.

XXV.

ODE XXV. TO BACCHUS.

XXVI.

ODE XXVI. TO VENUS.

XXVII.

ODE XXVII. TO GALATEA, ON POINT TO GO ABROAD.

XXVIII.

ODE XXVIII. TO LYDE.

XXIX.

ODE XXIX. TO MÆCENAS.

XXX.

ODE XXX. TO THE MUSE MELPOMENE.

THE FOURTH BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE.

ODE I. TO VENUS.

II.

ODE II. TO ANTONIUS JULUS, THE SON OF MARK ANTONY, OF THE TRIUMVIRATE.

III.

ODE III. TO MELPOMENE.

IV.

ODE IV. TO THE CITY OF ROME, CONCERNING THE GENIUS OF DRUSUS, AND HIS EDUCATION UNDER AUGUSTUS.

ODE V. TO AUGUSTUS.

VI.

ODE VI. TO APOLLO AND DIANA.

VII.

ODE VII. TO L. MANLIUS TORQUATUS.

VIII.

ODE VIII. TO MARTIUS CENSORINUS.

IX.

ODE IX. TO LOLLIUS.

ODE X. TO PHYLLIS.

XI.

ODE XI. TO VIRGIL.

XII.

ODE XII. UPON LYCE, AN ANTIQUATED COURTEZAN.

XIII.

ODE XIII. TO AUGUSTUS.

XIV.

ODE XIV. THE PRAISES OF AUGUSTUS.

THE BOOK OF THE EPODES OF HORACE.

EPODE I. TO MÆCENAS.

II.

EPODE II. THE PRAISES OF A COUNTRY LIFE.

III.

EPODE III. TO MÆCENAS.

IV.

EPODE IV. TO VOLTEIUS MENA.

EPODE V. UPON CANIDIA THE SORCERESS.

VI.

EPODE VI. AGAINST CASSIUS SEVERUS.

VII.

EPODE VII. TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE.

VIII.

EPODE VIII. TO MÆCENAS.

IX.

EPODE IX. AGAINST MÆVIUS THE POET.

EPODE X. TO PETTIUS, A BON-COMPANION OF HIS.

XI.

EFODE XI. TO HIS HUMOUROUS FRIENDS, THAT THEY WOULD PASS THE WINTER MERRILY.

XII.

EPODE XII. TO MÆCENAS.

XIII.

EPODE XIII. TO HIS MISTRESS NEÆRA

XIV.

EPODE XIV. TO THE PEOPLE OF ROME.

XV.

EPODE XV. TO CANIDIA.

XVI.

EPODE XVI. CANIDIA'S ANSWER

THE SECULAR ODE

[section]

ODE ON SAINT CECILIA'S DAY

III.

VOLUME III.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE SATIRES OF HORACE.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

SATIRE VI. To Mæcenas.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE SATIRES OF HORACE.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IV.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE EPISTLES OF HORACE.

EPISTLE I. To Mæcenas.

II.

EPISTLE II. To Lollius.

III.

EPISTLE III. To Julius Florus.

IV.

EPISTLE IV. To Albius Tibullus.

EPISTLE V. To Torquatus.

VI.

EPISTLE VI. To Numicius.

VII.

EPISTLE VII. To Mæcenas.

VIII.

EPISTLE VIII. To Celsus Albinovanus.

IX.

EPISTLE IX. To Claudius Nero.

EPISTLE X. To Fuscus Aristius.

XI.

EPISTLE XI. To Bullatius returned from Asia.

XII.

EPISTLE XII. To Iccius.

XIII.

EPISTLE XIII. To Vinnius Asella.

XIV.

EPISTLE XIV. To his Steward in the Country.

XV.

EPISTLE XV. To Vala.

XVI.

EPISTLE XVI. To Quintius.

XVII.

EPISTLE XVII. To Scæva.

XVIII.

EPISTLE XVIII. To Lollius.

XIX.

EPISTLE XIX. To Mæcenas.

XX.

EPISTLE XX. To his Book.

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE EPISTLES OF HORACE.

EPISTLE I. To Augustus.

II.

EPISTLE II. To Julius Florus.

HORACE HIS ART OF POETRY.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

THE FOURTH BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE.

ODE I. TO VENUS.

Horace is now arrived to that time of day, when he ought to alienate himself from love affairs, and ludicrous verses.

Left alone so long a season,
What! again new warfare rage?
Spare me, Venus, treason! treason!
This is not a lover's age.
Now no more my youthful vigour
Good queen Cynara inspires—
Cease to use thy gentle rigour,
Parent fierce of sweet desires.

Staid, and void of inclination—
Almost fifty—hence depart
To the softer invocation
Of full many a youthful heart.
On more equable condition
Drive your purple swans away,
And put Paulus in commission
At a better time of day.
For he's nobly born, and decent,
Would you fire a worthy breast?
And great instances are recent,
How he pleads for the distrest.
Youth of most accomplish'd merit,
Of an hundred arts and charms—
He shall bear with strength and spirit
Far and wide thy conqu'ring arms.
If he smile at times prevailing
O'er a bribing dupe's disgrace,
With sweet wood thy bust empaling,
He near Alba's lake shall place.
Thine indulgent presence thither
Shall much frankincense invite,
Lyre, and flute, and pipe together
Shall thy ravish'd ears delight.
Twice a day the lads and lasses
There thy praises shall resound,
And with foot that snow surpasses,
Salian-like, shall shake the ground.

ODE II. TO ANTONIUS JULUS, THE SON OF MARK ANTONY, OF THE TRIUMVIRATE.

It is hazardous to imitate the ancient poets.

Whoever vies with Pindar's strain,
With waxen wings, my friend, would fly,
Like him who nam'd the glassy main,
But could not reach the sky.
Cascading from the mountain's height,
As falls the river swoln with show'rs,
Deep, fierce, and out of measure great
His verses Pindar pours.
Worthy to claim Apollo's bays,
Whether his dithyrambics roll,
Daring their new-invented phrase
And words, that scorn controul.
Or gods he chants, or kings, the seed
Of gods, who rose to virtuous fame,
And justly Centaurs doom'd to bleed,
Or quench'd Chimera's flame.

Or champions of th'Elean justs,
The wrestler, charioteer records,
And, better than a hundred busts,
He gives divine rewards.
Snatch'd from his weeping bride, the youth
His verse deplores, and will display
Strength, courage, and his golden truth,
And grudges death his prey.
The Theban swan ascends with haste,
Of heav'n's superior regions free;
But I, exactly in the taste
Of some Matinian bee,
That hardly gets the thymy spoil
About moist Tibur's flow'ry ways,
Of small account, with tedious toil,
Compose my labour'd lays.
You, bard indeed! with more applause
Shall Cæsar sing, so justly crown'd,
As up the sacred hill he draws
The fierce Sicambrians bound.
A greater and a better gift
Than him, from heav'n we do not hold,
Nor shall—although the times should shift
Into their pristine gold.

The festal days and public sports
For our brave chief's returning here,
You shall recite, and all the courts
Of law contentions clear.
Then would I speak to ears like thine,
With no small portion of my voice,
O glorious day! O most divine!
Which Cæsar bids rejoice.
And while you in procession hie,
Hail triumph! triumph! will we shout
All Rome—and our good gods supply
With frankincense devout!
Thee bulls and heifers ten suffice—
Me a calf weaned from the cow,
At large who many a gambol tries,
Though doom'd to pay my vow.
Like the new moon, upon his crest
He wears a semicircle bright,
His body yellow all the rest,
Except this spot of white.

ODE III. TO MELPOMENE.

Horace was born for poetry, to which his immortality is intirely owing.

He, on whose natal hour you glance
A single smile with partial eyes,
Melpomene, shall not advance
A champion for th'Olympic prize,
Nor drawn by steeds of manag'd pride,
In Grecian car victorious ride.

Nor honour'd with the Delphic leaf,
A wreath for high atchievements wove,
Shall he be shewn triumphant chief,
Where stands the Capitol of Jove,
As justly rais'd to such renown
For bringing boastful tyrants down.

But pleasing streams, that flow before
Fair Tibur's flow'ry-fertile land,
And bow'ring trees upon the shore,
Which in such seemly order stand,
Shall form on that Eolic plan
The bard, and magnify the man.

The world's metropolis has deign'd
To place me with her darling care,
Rome has my dignity maintain'd
Amongst her bards my bays to wear;
And hence it is against my verse
The tooth of envy's not so fierce.

O mistress of the golden shell!
Whose silence you command, or break;
Thou that canst make the mute excel,
And ev'n the sea-born reptiles speak;
And, like the swan, if you apply
Your touch, in charming accents die.

This is thy gift, and only thine,
That, as I pass along, I hear—
“There goes the bard, whose sweet design
“Made lyricks for the Roman ear.”
If life or joy I hold or give,
By thee I please, by thee I live.

ODE IV. TO THE CITY OF ROME, CONCERNING THE GENIUS OF DRUSUS, AND HIS EDUCATION UNDER AUGUSTUS.

As him, by mighty Jove preferr'd
On high his thunder-bolts to bear,
Deem'd o'er the winged race the sovereign bird,
E'er since he made sweet youth, and innocence his care;
Of old, green years, but strength innate,
Drove him, unskill'd, upon his prey,
And vernal winds, the winter out of date,
Taught him unwonted flights, but not without dismay,
Anon, by vivid impulse sped,
He wages war against the folds,
And by his lust of fight and plunder led,
The curv'd-reluctant snakes within his claws he holds.
Or as a goat in pastures green
Intent, a lion's tawny whelp
(Whom his fierce mother did but lately wean)
Eyes rushing with new fangs, and has no hope of help.

Such warrior Drusus in his bloom
The Rhœtian and North-Alpine band
Beheld (which latter whence they did assume
With Amanzonian ax long since to arm their hand,
I have omitted to declare,
Nor can we every matter know)
But far and wide victorious as they were,
The young man's wondrous conduct taught them at a blow,
How a well-bent ingenuous mind,
And genius disciplin'd can awe,
Whose plan was in a happy school design'd
By Cæsar, more than father to his sons-in-law.
The brave are gender'd by the brave,
This truth ev'n genuine steers attest,
The manag'd steeds by progeny behave,
Nor are tame turtles hatch'd in yon fierce eagle's nest.
Yet learning inward strength assists,
And education mans the heart;
Refinement by morality exists,
Or else good-nature fails for want of wholesome art.

What to the Neroes Rome should pay,
The loud Metaurus witness bears,
And vanquish'd Asdrubal—and that fair day
Which clear'd the low'ring gloom from our distress'd affairs.
That day, which many a prize renowns,
First mention'd victory to gain,
When Hannibal fled thro' th'Italian towns,
Like wind that sweeps the sea, or fire that takes the train.
From this desirable event
The Roman enterprizes throve,
And ravag'd, where the Punic plund'rers went,
The temples stood repair'd in every sacred grove;
Until the traitor said at last,
“Like stags, of rav'nous wolves the prey,
“We follow those heroic bands too fast,
“Of whom by craft and flight we solely win the day.
“The nation, which from Troy on fire,
“Held sacred from their numerous woes,
“Brought through the Tuscan seas the son and sire,
“In fair Ausonia's towns from shipwreck to repose,

“As from the ax the hardy oak,
“Which in dark Algidus abounds,
“Tho' hurt and damag'd by the frequent stroke,
“Thrives, and exalts his head, aspiring by its wounds:
“Not more increase did Hydra, maim'd,
“Against griev'd Hercules assume,
“Nor was or Thebes, nor was ev'n Colchis, fam'd
“For prodigies, more great, more wonderful than Rome.
“Sunk to the center, they will rise
“More fair, and woe to him that strives;
“From vet'ran victors they will win the prize,
“And send the gallant tale to entertain their wives.
“No more my proud couriers I send
“To Carthage fall'n, ah fall'n! and fled
“Is all our hope; nor fortune is our friend
“(Though once she lov'd our name) now Asdrubal is dead.”
Nothing so glorious in the field,
But Claudius will with ease atchieve;
Whom Jove defends, with prudence for his shield,
Thro' intricate distress and war his way to cleave.

ODE V. TO AUGUSTUS.

That he would at length return to Rome.

From gods propitious sprung, O guard
Of Roman greatness! you retard
Now far too long your stay:
That promise of a quick return
You made the House, no more adjourn,
But keep a shorter day.
Restore to this thy native place
The light, good chief, for when thy face,
Like spring, its lustre throws,
The day goes off with more content,
And in a better firmament
A brighter sunshine glows.
As for her son a mother's pain'd,
Above the destin'd year detain'd,
By southern blasts malign,
Beyond Carpathian waves profound,
Where he continues weather-bound,
For his sweet home to pine.
With calculations, tears, and sighs,
And vows, she calls, nor turns her eyes
From off the winding shore;
Ev'n with that fondness these desires
Cæsar his native land requires,
Still wanted more and more.

For where you are, the grazing steer
Roams o'er the meadows, free from fear,
Ceres yields ampler fruit;
The sailors plow the peaceful main,
And honour, cautious of a stain,
Keeps accusation mute.
Each house is clear of guilt impure,
Example and the laws secure
The heart from filthy sin;
For penalty sticks close to blame;
Our ladies are of peerless fame
For children like their kin.
The Parthian, or with ice congeal'd
Who fears the Scythian in the field,
Or who the monstrous host
That Germany brings forth and sends,
Or who the threats from Spain attends,
While Cæsar keeps his post?
Each Roman sends the sun to bed
On his own hill, and loves to wed
To widow'd elms the vine,
Thence home at night he goes alert,
And thee, as god of his desert,
Invites to grace his wine.
Thee their incessant pray'rs adore,
And large libations on the floor,
Are offer'd to thy state;
Thou with the houshold-gods art join'd,
As Greece her Castor bore in mind,
And Hercules the great.

Long may'st thou give, O glorious chief!
To Rome this leisure and relief,
So constant patriots pray;
Thus sober in the morn we cry,
Thus in the night with bumpers high,
When ocean hides the day.

ODE VI. TO APOLLO AND DIANA.

God, whose dread power the Theban queen
Felt for her boastings proud and vain,
And Tityos ravisher obscene,
And Peleus' son, who might have been
High Ilion's fatal bane;
The soldier, braver than them all,
No match for thee was taught to fear,
Though him her child did Thetis call,
And though he shook the Dardan wall,
Arm'd with tremendous spear.
As falls to biting steel the pine,
Or Cypress to the eastern gust,
So he was humbled to resign
His life, extended, and recline
His neck in Trojan dust.
He in no wooden horse disguis'd,
For sacred rites of false report,
The Trojan dupes would have surpris'd,
'Midst feasts and dances ill-advis'd,
In city and at court.

101

But boldly fierce, with open ire,
Alas! alas! the dreadful doom
Had gratify'd his vengeance dire,
And infants burnt with Grecian fire,
Ev'n in their mother's womb.
If not by thee wrought to relent,
And Venus in persuasion skill'd,
The sire of gods had giv'n assent
That for more fortunate event,
Æneas walls should build.
O lyrist, with a master's air,
By whom the sweet Thalia plays,
Which in cool Xanthus lav'st thy hair,
Make thou the Daunian muse thy care,
Enlightner of our ways.
Phœbus, my spirit, taste, and flame,
Gives all the gifts that verse adorn;
From him I have the poet's name—
“Ye virgins of unspotted fame,
“And youths most nobly born,
“Wards of the Delian maid, so fleet
“'Gainst stags and ounces with her bow,
“Take notice of the Lesbian feet,
“And, as the time you see me beat,
“Attend to fast and slow,

103

“Extolling with the ritual praise
“Latona's darling in your song,
“And her that nightly mends her blaze,
“As shedding her fructiferous rays,
“She rolls the months along.
“Soon when you're marry'd each shall say,
“I too was present to rehearse,
“Upon that memorable day,
“The numbers of th'Horatian lay,
“Skill'd in his mystic verse.”

Niobe.

105

ODE VII. TO L. MANLIUS TORQUATUS.

All things are changed by time; one ought therefore to live chearfully.

The melted snow the verdure now restores,
And leaves adorn the trees;
The season shifts—subsiding to their shores
The rivers flow with ease.
The Grace, with nymphs and with her sisters twain,
Tho' naked dares the dance—
That here's no permanence the years explain,
And days, as they advance.
The air grows mild with zephyrs, as the spring
To summer cedes the sway,
Which flies when autumn hastes his fruits to bring,
Then winter comes in play.
The moons their heav'nly damages supply—
Not so the mortal star—
Where good Eneas, Tullus, Ancus lie,
Ashes and dust we are.

107

Who knows if heav'n will give to-morrow's boon
To this our daily pray'r?
The goods you take to keep your soul in tune,
Shall scape your greedy heir.
When you shall die, tho' Minos must acquit
A part so nobly play'd;
Race, eloquence, and goodness, from the pit
Cannot restore your shade.
For nor Diana's heav'nly pow'r or love,
Hippolytus revives;
Nor Theseus can Perithous remove
From his Lethean gives.

109

ODE VIII. TO MARTIUS CENSORINUS.

There is nothing that can immortalize rather than the works of poets.

Goblets to every friend of gold,
And statues of Corinthian mould,
In gratitude I had bestow'd,
Attending to the present mode;
And tripods too, which were the mead,
That Greece her valiant sons decreed;
Nor shou'd you have the meanest prize,
Were I enrich'd with such supplies,
As Scopas or Parrhasius send,
The one his colours skill'd to blend;
The one, whose excellence is known
To cut a god or man in stone:
But I keep no toy-treasures hid,
Nor do you want them if I did:
Your taste is of a nobler flight,
And poetry is your delight;
Which I can furnish, and assign
The merit of the gift divine.

Not marbles, that the public place
With long inscriptions on the base,

111

By which returns beyond the grave
New life and spirit to the brave;
Not Hannibal what time he fled,
With threats retorted on his head;
Not impious Carthage, all a-flame,
To greater brightness raise his name,
(Who, when from conquest he return'd,
The title Africanus earn'd)
Than he, who those achievements sung,
Ev'n Ennius from Calabria sprung;
Nor, if our writings shou'd be mute,
Wou'd benefit receive its fruit.
What wou'd the acts of him the son
Of Mars, and what had Ilia done;
If silence, envious of renown,
Had borne their matchless merits down?
The virtue, votes, and pow'rful word
Of bards, have Eacus transferr'd
From Stygian darkness, to the isles
Where happiness eternal smiles.
The muse excepts against the doom
Of meritorious men in Rome.
The muse can bless you to the skies—
'Twas thus brave Hercules cou'd rise
To taste with Jove, a welcome guest,
Celestial fare amongst the rest.

113

'Tis thus the fam'd twin-stars obtain,
To save ships shatter'd on the main;
Thus, ivy-crown'd, the god of wine
Gives furth'rance to each fair design.

115

ODE IX. TO LOLLIUS.

The writings of Horace will never be lost: virtue, without verse, is liable to oblivion. He will sing the praises of Lollius, whose particular excellencies he likewise commemorates.

Lest you should think the strains will die,
Which I in skill but newly found
With voice to correspondent strings ally,
Borne where from far the rocks of Aufidus resound.
Know, that if Homer take the lead,
Yet is not Pindar out of date;
Nor Cean nor Alcean fire recede,
Nor that Sicilian bard's authority and weight.
Nor if of old Anacreon sung,
Has time his sportive lays suppress'd;
Alive are all the notes of Sappho's tongue,
Which too her lyre she play'd, of genuine warmth possess'd.
Helen was not the only fair,
That was enamour'd to admire
Th'adult'rer's golden garb, and flowing hair,
And royal equipage, with all their grand attire.

117

Nor Teucer, from Cydonian string,
Was first that with his darts engag'd;
Nor Troy but once besieged, nor Cretan king,
Nor Sthenelus alone the well-sung contest wag'd.
Not Hector, val'rous as he was,
Nor fierce Deiphobus begun
To bleed and suffer in their country's cause,
Or for a virtuous wife, or for a darling son.
Before great Agamemnon shone,
Heroes there were—but all in night,
Long night, are buried, piteous and unknown,
For want of sacred bards their glories to recite.
Virtue conceal'd is next, I deem,
To bury'd sloth—I will not spare
For ornament, when Lollius is the theme;
Nor suffer so much merit, such a life of care
In black oblivion to be hurl'd—
You, Lollius, have a noble mind;
Skilful and fraught with knowledge of the world,
Equal for all events, or temp'rate or resign'd.

119

Of greedy fraud the judge severe,
Forbearing all-attractive gold;
A consul not elected for a year,
But still esteem'd, in fact, that dignity to hold.
Where'er the magistrate prefers
Things honest to his private ends,
And bribing villains with a look deters,
And draws against the crowd, and his fair fame defends
He is not happy, rightly nam'd,
Whom large possessions still increase—
By him more truly is that title claim'd,
Who holds the gifts divine in prudence and in peace;
Who's able hardship to sustain,
And dreads vile actions worse than death;
He for his friends counts any loss a gain,
And for his country's cause will give his dying breath.

Stesichorus.

121

ODE X. TO PHYLLIS.

He invites her to a banquet, upon the birth-day of Mæcenas.

Full nine years old my cellar stows
A cask of good Albanian wine,
And parsley in my garden grows;
For Phyllis chaplets to compose,
Much ivy too is mine:

With whose green gloss you shall be crown'd;
With burnish'd plate the house looks gay,
The altar, with chaste vervains bound,
Craves to be sprinkled from the wound,
As we the lambkin slay.

All hands are busied—here and there
Mixt with the lads the lasses fly,
The bustling flames, to dress the fare,
Roll up thick smoke, which clouds the air
Above the roof on high.

123

But would you know what joy resides
With me, to tempt you at this time—
You are to celebrate the ides,
The day which April's month divides,
And Venus calls her prime:

A feast observable of right,
Which I more heartily revere,
Than that which brought myself to light,
From whence my patron to requite,
Flow many a happy year!

Young Telephus, at whom you aim,
Is not for such as thee at all;
A rich and a lascivious dame
Upon his love has fixt her claim,
And holds him in sweet thrall.

Let blasted Phaeton dissuade
Presumptuous hope too high to soar;
And he a dread example made
By Pegasus, who scornful neigh'd
That he a mortal bore.

Things worthy of yourself pursue,
Nor go where vain desire allures;
'Tis lawless to extend your view
To one that's not a match for you—
Hail! crown of my amours!

125

For, after this, I will be free
From every other flame and fair—
Come, learn the song I made for thee,
And join, with charming voice and me,
To banish gloomy care.

Horace's was a very old altar, so that avet and the obsolete infinitive spargier, are peculiarly happy.

Bellerophon.

127

ODE XI. TO VIRGIL.

He describes the approach of spring, and invites Virgil to an entertainment upon a certain condition.

Now the breezes fresh from Thrace,
Those attendants on the spring,
Still the sea, yet urge the race
Of the ships upon the wing:
No more the meadows lands are froze,
Nor roar the streams o'ercharg'd with snows.

Now the bird with mournful scream,
Aye for Itys wont to pine,
Builds her nest, disgrace extreme
Of the great Cecropian line
E'er since, that most horrid treat
She forc'd the lustful king to eat.

Swains the thriving sheep that tend,
Thrown upon the mossy sod;
With the pipe their verses blend,
To divert the rural god:
Whom that sweet scene of flocks and hills,
In Arcady, with rapture fills.

129

'Tis the time of drinking hard,
But Calenean would you take,
You must bring a box of nard,
For your entertainment's sake:
No less can wealthy Virgil frank,
As tutor to our youths of rank.

E'en an ounce of that perfume,
Shall a special cask intice;
Which in the Sulpician room
Now sleeps clear of noise and vice:
Fraught with new hopes of cleansing pow'r,
Against the bitter and the sour.

To these pleasures if you haste,
You must enter with your fee;
You shall not my goblets taste,
By my inclination, free:
As in the rich man's house you fare,
Without contributing your share.

But, my Virgil, lay aside
All delay and thirst of gain;
While 'tis lawful to provide,
'Gainst the seats of death and pain:
Let mirth relieve each grave concern,
For folly's pleasant in it's turn.

131

ODE XII. UPON LYCE, AN ANTIQUATED COURTEZAN.

He insults her with extreme bitterness; that now being old, and yet retaining her lustful appetite, she is contemned by the young gallants.

Lyce, the gods my vows have heard,
At length they've heard my vows;
You wou'd be beauteous with a beard,
You romp and you carouse:
And drunk, with trembling voice, you court
Slow Cupid, prone to seek
For better music, bloom, and sport,
In buxom Chia's cheek.
For he, a sauce-box, scorns dry chips,
And teeth decay'd and green;
Where wrinkled forehead, and chapt lips,
And snowy hairs are seen.
Nor Coan elegance, nor gems,
Your past years will restore;
Which time to his records condemns,
With fleeting wings of yore.

133

Ah! where's that form, complexion, grace,
That air—where is she, say,
That cou'd my sick'ning soul solace,
And stole my heart away?
Blest! who cou'd Cynara succeed,
As artful and as fair—
But fate, to Cynara, decreed
Few summers for her share.
That crow-like Lyce might survive,
'Till lads shou'd laugh and shout,
To see the torch, but just alive,
So slowly stinking out.

135

ODE XIII. TO AUGUSTUS.

Honours, adequate to the merits of Augustus, cannot be attributed by the Roman senate and people.

What can the conscript fathers do,
Or Romans join'd, with all their souls;
To give th'Augusten worth the honours due,
Grav'd on eternal brass, or written in the rolls.
O thou, the most illustrious prince,
Wheree'r the sun the world illumes;
'Twas thine the rough north Alpines to convince,
What dignity of rank your martial fame assumes.
For by your troops did Drusus rout
The fierce Genaunians, Brennians keen
And, more than once, raz'd many a strong redoubt
They pil'd upon the Alps tremendous to be seen.
Anon, the elder Nero fought
A dreadful fight with your success;
And drove th'enormous Rhetians, quick as thought,
From ev'ry post of war they ventur'd to possess.

137

Nero, a glorious sight to see,
How he bore down the mighty bane
Of souls, resolv'd to die or to be free,
Ev'n as the south attacks the ocean's proud disdain,
While Pleiad, and her sisters, cleave
The clouds, the furious victor sped
Thro' midmost fire, the murm'ring troops to grieve,
And with his warrior horse ev'n there the troops to head.
As Aufidus, that rolls before
Appulian Daunus, is in scorn;
And, like the meadow's lord, augments his roar,
And meditates vastation to the fields of corn.
Thus Claudius, thro' each iron rank
Of these barbarians, forc'd renown;
And, charging first and hindmost, front and flank,
Victorious, without loss, he mow'd their armies down.
With thine advice, and prosp'rous fates—
For, on that memorable day,
When suppliant Alexandria ope'd her gates,
With nought within her courts but terror and dismay.

139

Before the fifteen years ran out,
Fortune successful in the end
The glory, so long wish'd for, brought about,
And made th'imperial arms their final pow'r extend.
Cantabrians, unsubdu'd till now,
Medes, Indians, with submissive mien;
Thee the vague Scythian honour and allow,
Guard of the Latian name, and Rome the world's great queen.
Thee Nilus, that conceals his fount,
Thee Danube, rapid Tigris fear;
Thee the swoln waves, on which such monsters mount,
'Till British cliffs, remote, the horrid bellowing hear.
The region of th'intrepid Gaul,
And all Iberia's harden'd race;
And thee, their lord, the tam'd Sicambrians call,
And, bloody, as they were, thy terms of peace embrace.

141

ODE XIV. THE PRAISES OF AUGUSTUS.

Willing to sing upon my lyre,
The fights we dare, the tow'rs we scale;
Apollo bade me check my fond desire,
Nor on the vast Tyrrhenian spread my little fail.
Cæsar, in this thy better age,
Again the fertile fields have throve;
And from proud Parthia's fanes thy godlike rage,
Our standards has retook, and giv'n to Roman Jove.
And Janus' temple too is clos'd,
Good order from the peace deriv'd;
And curbs upon licentiousness impos'd,
Have banish'd vice afar, and ancient arts reviv'd.
From which the Latin name and strength
Of Italy are so increast,
And our imperial glory, breadth and length,
From the sun's western bed have reach'd remotest east.

143

While Cæsar the dominion claims,
Nor civil rage nor active spite,
Can take us from our peace; nor wrath, whose flames
Forge hostile sounds, and states in friendship disunite.
Not those that in deep Danube lave,
Shall now the Julian edicts scorn;
Nor Getans, Seres, or the treach'rous slave
Of Persia, nor the folk upon the Tanais born.
And we on work and festal days,
Amidst our cups of jovial wine;
With wives and children (first with pray'r and praise,
Having made application to the pow'rs divine)
Will, like our sires, in songs of joy,
With many a Lydian air between,
Sing our accepted chiefs Anchises, Troy,
And those descendant heirs of love's indulgent queen.