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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

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EPISTLE XIX. To Mæcenas.
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155

EPISTLE XIX. To Mæcenas.

He reprehends the false zeal certain writers had to imitate the defects, rather than the perfections of the poets.

Dear Friend, if you the lore embrace
Of old Cratinus, in this case
No verse can last, or charm the age,
Wrote by the water-drinking sage;
And this has been a maxim fix'd,
E'er since the brain-sick bards were mix'd,
By Liber's laws injoin'd to rove
With fawns and satyrs of the grove:
Hence all the muses sweetly gay,
Oft smell of wine at early day.
When Homer call'd the grape divine,
He wrote his verses by his wine;
And Ennius, our reverend sire,
Wou'd not to sing of arms aspire,
Till for his subject made a match
By drink—I therefore shall dispatch
The sneaking milk-sops one and all,
For sentence to the judgment-hall,
Nor will I any licence grant,
For those to sing, who whine and cant.

157

Soon as this edict was promulg'd,
The poets night and day indulg'd
The bumpers they wou'd not abate.—
What if a man shou'd imitate
The naked feet, and surly frown
Of Cato, with his scanty gown?
Wou'd he be instantly endued
With Cato's worth and rectitude.
The mimic, who propos'd to please
By taking off Timagenes,
With envy burst, as he in vain
Did after wit and utt'rance strain.
Mean imitation foils the base,
As faults are all that they can trace,
As tho', when I've a pallid hue,
They shou'd take drugs to be so too.
O mimics! scarce above the brutes!
How very frequently the fruits,
Of that in which each bungler prides,
Provok'd my wrath, or split my sides?
A sheer original from God,
I stalk'd upon the vacant sod,
Nor in another's footsteps trod.
He who as leader can perform
His part in justice heads the swarm.
I first made Italy repeat,
Iambics of the Parian beat,
Form'd on Archilochus, to tow'r
At once in harmony and pow'r,

159

But not pursuing of his scheme,
To kill my brother with my phlegm;
And lest I shou'd from Rome receive
A crown that sparing critics weave,
Because I fear'd to undertake
The changing measure of his make:
There's Sappho, writing like a man,
Corrects and variegates my plan;
Alcæus too—but all the while
Diverse in numbers and in stile,
Nor does he now unto his shame,
Seek his step-father to defame,
Nor strangle, in poetic wrath,
The maid to whom he pledg'd his troth:
Him, who was never known before,
I harp'd upon the Latian shore:
For 'tis my pleasure to be new,
And read by an ingenuous few.
Now wou'd you know the real cause,
My readers give me such applause,
Fond of my arch-instructive tomes,
When sung within their private homes;
But soon as e'er they quit their place
Degrade me—this is then the case.
To count the suffrage of the mob,
I ever thought too mean a job,
By treating them with dainty fare,
And rags and tatters for their wear.
I hear no writings of the great,
Nor in revenge my own repeat;

161

Nor do I hie me to the schools
Of those, that teach the grammar-rules—
Hence all this grievance—if I say,
I am asham'd my worthless lay
In crouds theatric to recite;
As tho' I wou'd to things so light
A thought of dignity and weight
In rank presumption arrogate.
At us (says one) your honour sneers,
Preserving for celestial ears
Your poetry—for you distill
Alone, it seems, the honey'd rill,
A person in your own sweet eyes,
Extremely beautiful and wise.
At taunts like these, I do not dare
To let my nose have too much air,
And lest their nails my skin deface,
I cry, I do not like this place,
And beg a truce—for gamesome jest
Brings on a trial, who is best,
Then emulation furthers strife,
And that ill-blood, and loss of life.
 

Ανδρα δε κεκμηωτα μενος μεγα οινος αιξει, and sundry other places.