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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Ode VII. To Torquatus.
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A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | ||
Ode VII. To Torquatus.
The Snow dissolves; the Field its Verdure spreads;
The Trees high wave in Air their leafy Heads;
Earth feels the Change; the Rivers calm subside,
And smooth along their Banks decreasing glide;
The elder Grace, with her fair Sister-Train,
In naked Beauty dances o'er the Plain;
The circling Hours, that swiftly wing their Way,
And in their Flight consume the smiling Day;
Those circling Hours, and all the various Year,
Convince us, nothing is immortal here.
The Trees high wave in Air their leafy Heads;
Earth feels the Change; the Rivers calm subside,
And smooth along their Banks decreasing glide;
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In naked Beauty dances o'er the Plain;
The circling Hours, that swiftly wing their Way,
And in their Flight consume the smiling Day;
Those circling Hours, and all the various Year,
Convince us, nothing is immortal here.
In vernal Gales cold Winter melts away;
Soon wastes the Spring in Summer's burning Ray:
Yet Summer dies in Autumn's fruitful Reign,
And slow-pac'd Winter soon returns again.
The Moon renews her Orb with growing Light,
But when we sink into the Depths of Night,
Where all the Good, the Rich, the Brave are laid,
Our best Remains are Ashes and a Shade.
Soon wastes the Spring in Summer's burning Ray:
Yet Summer dies in Autumn's fruitful Reign,
And slow-pac'd Winter soon returns again.
The Moon renews her Orb with growing Light,
But when we sink into the Depths of Night,
Where all the Good, the Rich, the Brave are laid,
Our best Remains are Ashes and a Shade.
Who knows if Heaven, with ever-bounteous Power,
Shall add To-morrow to the present Hour?
But know, that Wealth, bestow'd to gay Delight,
Far from thy ravening Heir shall speed its Flight;
But soon as Minos, thron'd in awful State,
Shall o'er thee speak the solemn Words of Fate,
Nor Virtue, Birth, nor Eloquence divine,
Shall bid the Grave its destin'd Prey resign:
Nor chaste Diana from infernal Night
Could bring her modest Favourite back to Light;
And hell-descending Theseus strove in vain
To break his amorous Friend's Lethæan Chain.
Shall add To-morrow to the present Hour?
But know, that Wealth, bestow'd to gay Delight,
Far from thy ravening Heir shall speed its Flight;
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Shall o'er thee speak the solemn Words of Fate,
Nor Virtue, Birth, nor Eloquence divine,
Shall bid the Grave its destin'd Prey resign:
Nor chaste Diana from infernal Night
Could bring her modest Favourite back to Light;
And hell-descending Theseus strove in vain
To break his amorous Friend's Lethæan Chain.
A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace | ||