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. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| 3. | THE THIRD BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| II. |
| 3. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| 4. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
|
| III. |
| 1. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| 2. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IV. |
| 1. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| 2. |
| I. |
| II. |
 | The works of Horace, translated into verse |  |
221
THE THIRD BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE.
ODE I.
[I hate the mob, and drive them hence]
A happy life is effected not by wealth and honours, but by peace of mind.
Lost to all sanctity and sense;
Hist to the Muse's priest! hist I implore—
I sing for maids and youths the strains unheard before.
Dread sovereigns their own people sway,
But Jove the kings themselves obey;
He which in triumph hurl'd the giants down,
And rules the universe by his commanding frown.
223
In rows that regular extend;
Another comes more noble to the poll,
Another pleads his fame, and uncorrupted soul;
Another will th'ascendant claim
For clients—but 'tis all the same;
Necessity demands us, dross and scum,
And shakes the labell'd lots, and out they all must come.
He, o'er whose head the naked steel
Impends, will make no hearty meal
From rich Sicilian fare—his sleep no more
The chirping of the birds or harpers will restore—
Sweet sleep's the lusty lab'rer's lot:
Sleep does not scorn the lowly cot,
Nor trees that o'er the riv'let interweave,
Nor, Tempe, where the zephyrs play their pranks at eve.
He who desires but neighbour's fare,
Will for no storm or tempest care;
Him setting bear nor rising goat offends,
Nor all the wizzard-wit of diarist portends.
Not vineyards beaten by the hail;
Not flattering farm, whose symptoms fail,
The trees now laying blame upon the showers,
Now winter's pinching hand, or hot sidereal pow'rs.
225
Such loads into the depths they sink;
Here many a proud surveyor with his slaves,
And owner of the land, incroach upon the waves.
But fear and conscience with her cries
Aboard with the possessor flies;
Nor care will from the top-mast head recede,
And, when he lands, she mounts behind him on his steed.
What if nor stone in Phrygia hewn
Can keep the troubl'd mind in tune,
Nor purple brighter than the painted sky,
Nor rich Falernian grape, nor Persian luxury;
Why should I set about a pile,
High-pillar'd in the modern stile—
A bait for envy?—Why should I exchange
For cumbersome expence my little Sabine grange?
227
ODE II. TO HIS FRIRNDS.
Lads must be habituated from their tender years to poverty, warfare, and a laborious life.
Let the young lad no hardship fear;
But learn against fierce Parthians to advance,
And on the gallant steed shake his tremendous lance.
And let him lead a life of care
In bustle and the open air—
Him from the wall the tyrant's consort spies,
And marriagable virgin sends her broken sighs.
“Ah me! for fear my royal spouse
“Should this ungovern'd lion rouze,
“And with inferior skill provoke his rage,
“Which breaks thro' thickest ranks the midmost war to wage.”
'Tis sweet, 'tis seemly ev'n to die
For one's dear country—should'st thou fly,
Death will pursue the youth afraid to fight,
Nor spares his timid knees, and back, when turn'd to flight.
229
And cannot, like this clay of ours,
Sustain repulse, her fame unfully'd sees,
Nor takes, nor quits her office, as light voters please.
Virtue, to those that may not die,
Opes the strait doors of heav'n on high,
And with her wings in stretch for that sublime,
Scorns the unletter'd mob, and sordid earth, and time.
There's likewise an undoubted mead
For silence, that its faith can plead;
Him that mysterious rites has blaz'd—with me,
Nor tent, nor tilt shall cover, or by land or sea.
Oft the great regent of the day,
If thoughtless man neglect to pray,
In the same lot have vice and virtue cast,
Justice, tho' lame and blind, will take her due at last.
231
ODE III.
[A man of truth and honour prov'd]
A man of virtue is in dread of nothing. The speech of Juno concerning the destruction of Troy, of the end of the Trojan war, and of the Roman empire, which was to take its rise from the remnant of the Trojans.
And in his great resolves unmov'd,
No clam'rous mob his principles can stir,
Nor ev'n a tyrant's threat his manly heart deter.
No—nor the south, whose dread command
Fierce Adria's waves cannot withstand,
Nor thund'ring Jove—the universe might fall,
And not disturb his thoughts, or make him shrink at all.
It was upon no other plan
That Pollux was so great a man,
And wand'ring Hercules atchiev'd the skies—
Augustus too with them to rites divine shall rise.
'Twas by no other art than this,
O Bacchus, sire of social bliss,
Thine unbroke tygers drew thee to the stars,
And Romulus 'scap'd death upon the steeds of Mars.
233
Juno thus spake her gracious mind—
“A foreign whore, and that dire umpire's lust,
“Has Troy, ev'n Troy reduc'd to downfal and the dust.
“By me and chaste Minerva doom'd,
“E'er since Laomedon presum'd
“The gods to rob of their most due reward,
“And subjects shar'd the fate of their deceitful lord.
“No more that ignominious guest
“Is of the Spartan dame possest,
“Nor Priam's perjur'd house prevails to break,
“By Hector's strength alone, the forces of the Greek.
“War by our diff'rent int'rests drawn
“To such a length, is past and gone—
“Henceforward I my wrath to Mars give o'er,
“And hatred for the son the Trojan priestess bore.
“Him will I suffer and befriend
“Heav'n's lucid mansions to ascend,
“To take his fill from our nectareous bowl,
“And in the rank of gods his titles to enroll—
“On this condition, that there be
“'Twixt Troy and Rome a raging sea
“For many a league—and let their exiles reign
“And prosper where they will—so that there still remain
325
“The trampling herd, the beast of prey,
“And cubs secure—The Capitol shall tow'r,
“And vanquish'd Medes confess proud Rome's imperial pow'r.
“Let her extend her fame and fear
“To every region far and near,
“Where the mid-sea from Europe Afric rives,
“And where o'erflowing Nile the fertile land revives.
“Deriving from contempt of gold
“A spirit great and uncontroul'd—
“Gold best unsought, and cover'd in the sand,
“Rather than coin'd for use with sacrilegious hand.
“Whatever pole or place be found
“To give the world his utmost bound,
“There let them pride their armies to engage,
“Both where cold mists descend, or torrid sun-beams rage.
“But this their fate my word confirms
“For Romans on these only terms—
“That they should not an ill-judg'd zeal embrace,
“Nor think their mother-town they prosper to replace.
237
“Again their thousands must be slain,
“Whilst I, Jove's sister and his wife, command
“Against their rising works a new victorious band.
“If thrice their walls of brass should rise,
“By Phœbus helping from the skies,
“Thrice should my Grecian champions lay it low;
“Thrice leave their dames and sons to widowhood and woe.”
But whither, Muse, do you aspire?
These subjects are not for the lyre—
Too grand and grave—cease, wanton, to rehearse
The converse of the gods in light degrading 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.
247
ODE V.
[The thund'rer, as in heav'n supreme]
The applause of Augustus, the dispraise of Crassus, the constancy of Regulus, and his return to the Carthaginians.
We from his dreadful bolts esteem;
And Cæsar, like a god, directs our helm,
Picts and vexatious Persians added to our realm.
Have they, who under Crassus fought,
With base barbarian wives been caught,
And (O inverted manners, alter'd times!)
With step-fathers grown old in foreign slavish climes?
The Marsian and Appulian band,
Beneath an haughty Mede's command,
Forgetting Numa's shields, and name, and gown,
Jove's Capitol, and Rome subsisting in renown!
The soul of Regulus the great
Precluded such a shameful fate,
Scorning all base conditions ev'n in thought,
As exemplary bad, with future mischief fraught:
249
Their doom the captive youth had shar'd—
“I've seen our standard hung up for a show,
“And troops by Punic foes disarm'd without a blow.
“I've seen our citizens confin'd,
“Ty'd with their free-born arms behind;
“The hostile gates op'd in defiance wide,
“And fields, we ravag'd, till'd in ostentatious pride.
“What! shall the soldier bought and sold
“Be braver when exchang'd for gold?
“You add but loss unto an impious stain,
“The poison'd wool its whiteness never can regain.
“Nor valour, wrought to a reverse,
“Can be repair'd by worse and worse—
“If rescu'd from the toils, the tim'rous deer
“Will turn and fight the hounds—then he shall cease to fear,
“Who once has trusted to deceit;
“And shall the Punic host defeat
“Another time—who felt a ruffian tie
“His coward hands with thongs, and was asham'd to die.
251
“For hope, could peace and war confound—
“O shame! O Carthage! infamously great
“By our confirm'd disgrace, and Rome's subverted state!”
'Tis said, from his chaste wife's embrace
And little boys, he turn'd his face,
And look'd as one amerc'd upon the dust,
With aspect manly stern, determin'd to be just,
Until the conscript fathers all,
With council most original,
He did confirm—and 'midst his friends dismay
And tears, the godlike exile forc'd himself away.
And yet full clearly did he know
The torments he should undergo—
But waving all his kin with unconcern,
And crowds of Roman people grutching his return,
He cooly took his leave, as one,
The business of the forum done,
Goes for vacation to Venafran lands,
Or where Tarentum, built by that fam'd Spartan, stands.
Numa's shields—oval bucklers, used by the priests in processions, one of which being sent down from heaven, was esteemed a token of the establishment of the empire; which, that it might not be known or stolen away, Numa commanded eleven more to be made exactly like it, and to be kept in the temple of Mars.
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.
259
ODE VII. TO ASTERIE.
He consoles her in her sorrow for her absent husband, and admonishes her to preserve the faith she had plighted to him.
Him, whom the zephyrs shall restore,
Which fill with vernal breath the sail,
Wafting Bithynian wealth on shore,
The happy Gyges, whose fair truth is known,
And constancy has made so much your own?
He, driv'n by that autumnal goat
And southern winds, is forc'd away,
His meditations to devote
On fair Asterie night and day,
And joyless, sleepless, spends the year,
With many a melancholy tear.
And yet the busy footman speeds
And many a subtle art he tries,
To urge how Chloe burns and bleeds,
And how she pines, and how she dies:
And, anxious to receive him to her bed,
Has many such like stories in her head,
“How a false woman could persuade
“King Prœtus, credulous too much,
“With false pretences that she made
“To murder him, who shunn'd the touch
“Of all impurity and shame,
“The chaste Bellerophon by name.
261
“To hell, in that he had abstain'd,
“And wary 'scap'd the am'rous post
“Where fair Hippolyte remain'd.”
And mentions many a novel tale,
That teaches mortals to be frail.
In vain—for deafer than the rocks
Of Icarus he hears the lure,
And as temptation's voice he mocks,
Asterie, thou art still secure—
And yet—Enipeus—give me leave—
Do not with so much joy receive.
Tho' (to be fair) no man can ride
Upon the Martian plain so well:
A goodly sight, of gallant pride,
And skill equestrian to excel;
Nor any active man alike
Can through the yielding Tibur strike.
Soon as the day begins to close,
Shut up the doors, shut up the gate,
Nor in the street yourself expose,
Nor for the scurvy minstrels wait—
The more they call you hard and hard,
The more your doors and ears be barr'd.
When the constellation of the goat sets at the close of autumn, it generally stirs up showers and storms.
263
ODE VIII. TO MÆCENAS.
Mæcenas is not to wonder why Horace celebrates the calends of March, notwithstanding he has no wife.
Free from the matrimonial god,
Why flow'rs and frankincense are seen,
And what these heaps of fewel mean
Upon the living sod,
Friend, is from your discernment hid,
Tho' Greek and Latin are your own.
Know then I vow'd a feast and kid
To him, who did my death forbid,
When down the tree was blown.
This day, the chief of all by far,
A special festival denotes,
And shall remove from out the jar
The cork smok'd down with pitch and tar,
When Tullus had the votes.
Take, for the safety of thy friend,
An hundred bumpers at the least;
On high the wakeful lamps suspend,
Let wrath and clamour have an end,
Nor interrupt our feasts.
265
Nor Rome let all your cares engage;
The Dacian Cotison is beat,
The hostile Medes, in self-defeat,
Domestic warfare wage:
The Spanish foe now pays the tax,
Though by slow steps this wreath was won;
The Scythian troops their bows relax,
And, fearful of the Roman ax,
The field of battle shun:
The state, not as a man in pow'r,
But as a private friend, repute;
Leave things that are severe and sour
For pleasures of the present hour,
Wine, converse, harp, and lute.
The calends of March were sacred to Juno, and particularly celebrated by married men and their wives.
267
ODE IX. TO LYDIA.
It is a Dialogue concerning their former loves, with a proposal for renewing them.
Whilst my growing flame you nourish'd,
Spotless of a rival's touch,
Clasp'd within your arms I flourish'd,
Not the Persian king so much.
Ly.
Ere you languish'd for another,
And with Chloe was inflam'd,
Lydia, greater than the mother
Of the Roman race, was nam'd.
Ho.
Me indeed that Thracian beauty,
Sweet musician, holds her slave;
For whose life I deem it duty
Death, ev'n death itself to brave.
Ly.
Me my Calais with such ardour
Courts and kisses—him to spare—
Death, or was there aught still harder,
I ten thousand times would bear.
269
What if our old flame recover,
And our hearts again subdue,
While the portal of your lover,
Shut to Chloe, opes to you?
Ly.
Tho' he be as bright as brightness,
Thou with cork, or with the sea,
Well compar'd for wrath and lightness,
I could live and die with thee.
271
ODE X. UPON LYCE.
He advises Lyce to lay aside hardheartedness, and to be mild to him in his state of submission.
Far away, where Tanais flows,
Had you been a Scythian's wife—
Yet to see a man expose,
At your cruel doors, his life,
To the northern blasts a prey,
Might have fill'd you with dismay.
Had you been a Scythian's wife—
Yet to see a man expose,
At your cruel doors, his life,
To the northern blasts a prey,
Might have fill'd you with dismay.
Hear you not the creeking door,
How the winds, in ruffian haste,
Make the grove-trees howl and roar
Round the piles of Attic taste;
And how Jove, with purer air,
Glazes snow that settles there!
How the winds, in ruffian haste,
Make the grove-trees howl and roar
Round the piles of Attic taste;
And how Jove, with purer air,
Glazes snow that settles there!
To the queen of softer mould
Cast away ungrateful pride,
Lest you chance to lose your hold,
When the knot of love's unty'd.
You're not of the Tuscan breed,
Right Penelope indeed.—
Cast away ungrateful pride,
Lest you chance to lose your hold,
When the knot of love's unty'd.
You're not of the Tuscan breed,
Right Penelope indeed.—
273
Tho' nor bribes nor pray'rs prevail
On that harden'd breast of thine,
Nor complexion, violet-pale,
Nor your spouse, who, 'midst his wine,
Wounded by the vocal art
Of a minstrel, yields his heart.
On that harden'd breast of thine,
Nor complexion, violet-pale,
Nor your spouse, who, 'midst his wine,
Wounded by the vocal art
Of a minstrel, yields his heart.
Spare, yet spare your suppliant swains,
Rougher than th'obdurate oak,
Or the snakes, which Moorish plains
To severer spite provoke—
Constitution cannot last,
Thus to bear the stormy blast.
Rougher than th'obdurate oak,
Or the snakes, which Moorish plains
To severer spite provoke—
Constitution cannot last,
Thus to bear the stormy blast.
275
ODE XI. TO MERCURY.
He requests Mercury to suggest to him such strains as may work upon the affections of Lyde, chusing for his subject the tale of the Danaids.
The notes of old Amphion sung,
Who with his voice could cities build,
And thou, O shell! compleatly fill'd,
When sev'n-times sweetly strung;
Nor vocal, nor in vogue of yore,
Now known in palaces and fanes,
In such inviting accents soar,
As may tempt Lyde to her door,
Attentive to thy strains.
The tygers, with their woodlands wild,
You to your train in pow'r compel;
You make the rapid torrents mild,
Th'enormous hell-hound heard, and smil'd,
You play'd your lute so well.
He smil'd—tho' on his Stygian head
A hundred twisted snakes are hung,
And steams of pestilential dread,
And matter still with poison fed,
Flow from his triple tongue.
277
An irksome glimpse of ghastly joy,
While to your melody renew'd,
No more the Danaids pursu'd
Their task of vain employ.
Let Lyde hear the rueful tale,
And punishment at last injoin'd,
How they still ply the sieve-like pail,
Which ever must be fill'd to fail,
The monsters of their kind.
The destiny that must remain
For crimes beyond the grave to feel—
Impious! what could be more a stain?
Impious! their bridegrooms all were slain
By their remorseless steel.
But one of many was a bride,
Whose merit grac'd the nuptial flame,
To her false father nobly ly'd,
And left her memory the pride
Of everlasting fame.
Who bade her youthful spouse “arise—
“Arise (she said) with my reprieve—
“Lest a long sleep should seal your eyes
“Whence least you fear—my father's spies
“And sisters too deceive—
279
“With younglings in their rav'nous claws,
“Ev'n now, alas! thy brethren slay—
“But I will neither strike nor stay
“Whom gentlest nature awes.
“With chains me let my father load,
“Because I chose my spouse to spare,
“And pity on distress bestow'd—
“Or make me settle my abode
“In sharp Numidian air.
“Convey'd by swiftness and the wind,
“Begone, my love, in peace begone,
“While Venus and the night are kind—
“But when my monument's design'd,
“Engrave my tale thereon.”
281
ODE XII. TO NEOBULE.
Neobule, smitten with the love of young Hebrus, leads a life of indolence and sloth.
Nor wash down chagrin with sweet wine;
To yield to an uncle all spirit and hope,
Who rails at your pleasures and mine.
The charms of young Hebrus, and love's flying boy,
Have stol'n your work-basket away,
And all that fine tap'stry that us'd to employ,
And give to Minerva the day.
This gay Liparean's a notable knight,
Bellerophon's self he may seem,
Not beat in the battle, or match'd in the flight,
When fresh from the cruse and the stream.
The same in each motion's as clean as a cat,
To hurl at the deer in the park,
Thro' bushes and shrubs the wild-boar can come at,
And his quickness ne'er misses the mark.
283
ODE XIII. TO THE FOUNTAIN BLANDUSIA.
He promises a sacrifice to the fountain, whose pleasantness he highly commends.
Blandusia's fav'rite spring;
O worthy to receive the prize
Of wine and flow'rs we bring;
To-morrow we shall give thy flood
A kid, whose horns begin to bud,
And fight and wantonness portend:
In vain—his pranks must be no more—
For shortly with his sacred gore
He thy cool stream shall blend.
Thee scorching Sirius cannot touch—
You yield a pleasing shade,
Which for the steers, when work'd too much,
And wand'ring flock's display'd.
Thou shalt be register'd by fame,
A fountain of illustrious name,
Whilst I thy useful beauties book;
The oak so happy on the spot,
To overhang thine hollow grot,
Whence spouts thy pratling brook.
285
ODE XIV. TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE.
This ode contains the praises of Augustus, on his return from Spain, after having defeated the Cantabrians.
That, like Amphytrion's son,
He went, at hazard of his head,
To buy a wreath from Spain) is sped,
And has the battle won.
Let her come forth, whose faithful heart
Is center'd in her spouse,
So great in military art,
Having to heav'n perform'd her part,
In rend'ring of her vows.
And let Octavia too be there,
And, with neat fillets bound,
The mothers of the Roman fair,
And youths the gods have deign'd to spare,
In triumph to be crown'd.
O lads and lasses newly bless'd,
That have your bridegrooms known,
Let not a word be now express'd,
But in such decency is dress'd,
As modesty may own.
This day my festival indeed
Shall banish care and pain,
Nor will I fear by force to bleed,
But from all trouble shall be freed,
In Cæsar's peaceful reign.
287
And for a measure call,
Whose date preserves the Marsian fray,
If Spartacus, in quest of prey,
Has not secur'd them all.
Quick, with her hair set off with myrrh,
Let me Neæra see,
And bring her lute along with her;
If that cross porter should demur,
Come back again to me.
A hoary head dispute abates,
Though tempted to be sour,
Nor appetite for wrath creates—
I had not borne it, by the fates!
When Plancus was in pow'r.
| The works of Horace, translated into verse | |