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

ODE XV. ON CHLORIS.

That now being old, she would set some bounds to her impudence and lasciviousness.

Poor Ibycus his wife,
At length, methinks, 'tis time
To quit your wicked life,
And each flagitious crime:
You should the better, sure, behave,
Now you are verging on the grave.
Sure now you should desist,
Amidst the brilliant stars,
To spread a gloomy mist:
For decency debars
That 'mongst the maidens you should play,
Like Pholoe the young and gay.

Your daughter, with less shame,
May rouse up our young rakes,
While Bacchanalian dame
Her timbrel she awakes;
The love of Nothus makes her brisk,
Like goat upon the hill to frisk.
The fair Lucerian fleece
Not rosy wreathes to twine,
Nor harps are of a piece
With such an age as thine;
Nor should an antiquated hag
E'er boast of an exhausted cag.

ODE XVI. TO MÆCENAS.

All things are open to gold; but Horace is content with his lot, by which he remains in a state of happiness.

A tow'r of brass, whose doors were barr'd
With oak, while, howling, upon guard,
Stood dogs, prepar'd to bite,
Had been sufficient, to be sure,
Imprison'd Danae to secure
From rakes that prowl by night:
If Jove, and she of ocean born,
Had not Acrisius laugh'd to scorn,
With all his anxious tribe;
A way they found was fair and free,
When once the god should make his plea,
Transform'd into a bribe.
Gold through the centinels can pass,
And break through rocks and tow'rs of brass,
Than thunder-bolts more strong:
That Argive prophet lost his life,
And was undone, because his wife
Was bought to do him wrong.
The Macedon of such renown,
With gifts the city-gates broke down,
And foil'd his rival kings:
Gifts ev'n can naval chiefs ensnare,
Though rough and honest, they would care
For more superior things.

Anxiety pursues increase,
And craving never like to cease—
I have myself deny'd
With cause to lift my crest on high,
And with such men as thee to vie,
O knighthood's peerless pride.
The more a man himself refrains,
The more from hea'vn his virtue gains:
I pitch my tent with those
Who their desires, like me, divest,
And, as an enemy profest,
The slaves of wealth oppose.
More noble in my lowly lot,
Than if together I had got
Whate'er th'Appulian ploughs;
And poor amongst great riches still,
The fruit of no mean toil and skill,
Could in my garners house.
A wood of moderate extent,
And stream of purest element,
And harvest-home secure,
Make me more happy than the weight
Of Africa's precarious state
Of empire could ensure.
What tho' nor sweet Calabrian bee
Makes his nectarious comb for me,
Nor Formian wine grows old
Within my cellars many a year,
Though from rich Gallic meads I shear
No fleeces of the fold:

Yet want's remote, that wretched fate,
That makes a man importunate—
If more I should require,
I should not be refus'd by you—
But I must raise my revenue
By curbing my desire.
And better so, than should I add
The Lydian realm to what I had,
And all the Phrygian land;
They that crave most, possess the least—
'Tis well where'er enough's the feast;
Heav'n gives with frugal hand.

Amphiaraus, a Grecian prophet, foreseeing he should die at the siege of Troy, kept himself concealed; but was betrayed by his wife, for the sake of a golden necklace.

ODE XVII. TO ÆLIUS LAMIA.

He extols the nobility of Lamia—He then advises him to spend the morrow with merriment.

O sprung from Lamus! fam'd of old,
Since by our fathers we were told,
That you from him your family derive,
And diaries that feast each rising year revive.
From him, your fountain-head, you spring,
Who was a most extensive king,
And first the Formian walls was said to found
On Liris for Marica in his current bound.
To-morrow's eastern blast shall speed
To strew with leaves and useless weed
The groves, unless th'old raven's voice be vain,
That witch of rising winds, and of descending rain.
On your glad hearth dry billets raise,
And (while 'tis lawful) let 'em blaze;
Indulge to morrow on fat pig and wine,
And servants call'd from work, with their gay lord to dine.

The Ælian family was very illustrious in Rome, and very numerous—it comprehended likewise the house of Lamia, which did to it distinguished honour on account of its antiquity, insomuch that, if a man was better born than ordinary, he was proverbially called a Lamia.

ODE XVIII. TO FAUNUS.

He beseeches the sylvan god, that, in traversing his fields, he would be propitious to Horace and his stock.

O Faunus! ardent to pursue
The nymphs that from thee bound,
Propitious all my fields review,
My sunny haunts—and favour shew
To all my younglings round.
If yearly with a tender kid
Thy presence we invoke,
And if to love and feasting bid,
You daily see th'old altar hid
In wreathes of fragrant smoke.
The cattle on the grassy plain,
Disport in active play;
Both men and flocks at ease remain,
December's nones to entertain,
Which, Faunus, is thy day.
The wolf amongst the lambs is seen,
And by the sheep's defy'd;
Down falls the foliage ever-green,
The delvers dance with joyous mien,
And throw their spades aside.

ODE XIX. TO TELEPHUS.

He raillies him in a jocose manner, that, describing ancient histories, he neglects things pertaining to a merry life.

How distant from th'Inachian root
Was patriot Codrus, who so bravely fell,
You in your histories compute,
Of Peleus' race, and Trojan wars you tell,
But what a cask of Chian costs,
And who the bath shall temper and prepare,
When I shall 'scape these chilling frosts,
And at whose house, to mention you forbear.
Fill up, my boy, for this new moon,
For midnight, and Muræna's num'rous poll,
Mix liquor handily and soon,
Three or nine bumpers in each toper's bowl.
The bard that loves th'odd-number'd train
Of Muses, takes nine bumpers in his glee.
The grace, with naked sisters twain,
Fearful of wrangling, will admit but three.

It is my pleasure to be mad,
Why cease to blow the Berecynthian horn?
Why hang the pipe and harp so sad?
All niggard hearts and sparing hands I scorn.
Bring roses, bring abundance in,
Let neighbour Lycus, and his blooming girl,
Unfit for Lycus, hear our din,
To mortify that old invidious churl.
At thee, with bushy hair so spruce,
And bright as Vesper, buxom Chloe aims;
Me slow-consuming cares reduce,
As Glycera now checks, now fans the flames.

The last king of Athens, who gave his life for the good of his country. The Lacedemonians being engaged in war with the Athenians, were told by the oracle, that those should get the victory whose general should happen to be slain. Codrus, hearing of this, disguised himself, and went amongst the Lacedemonians, whom he provoked by abuse to put him to death, upon which the Athenians came off victorious.

At which Muræna was chosen augur.

ODE XX. TO PYRRHUS.

That he should not force away the beautiful Nearchus from his mistress.

O Pyrrhus! what art thou about,
The lioness's cubs to move,
And take her very fav'rite out?
Full soon the plund'rer, none-so-stout,
Th'attack will disapprove.
When he shall pass along the train
Of rakes, that for their mistress stir,
Who shall have best of the campaign,
Shalt thou thy friend to good regain,
Or leave to vice and her?
Mean time, while you the darts acute
Present—she whets her dreadful tooth,
Lo! he degrades beneath his foot
That palm, the price of this dispute,
The long-contested youth,
With his loose locks perfum'd and curl'd,
For sportive zephyrs there to play,
Like Nireus in his form begirl'd,
Or who, from Ida and the world,
To heav'n was snatch'd away.

Ganymede.

ODE XXI. TO HIS WINE-JAR.

He pleasantly admonishes it to pour out old wine for the sake of Corvinus, from whence he takes occasion to commemorate the praises of wine in general.

O cask! that bears, like me, thy date
From Manlius his consulate,
Whether with murmurs, jests, or brawlings fraught,
Or mad amours, or sleep, the kind relief of thought!
Whatever be your long intent,
Choice Massic, worthy to have vent
On a good day, come forth at the behest
Of my Corvinus, come with mellowness and zest.
Not he, tho' forward to imbibe
The lore of the Socratic tribe,
Will brutish scorn thee—Cato, as they say,
Would often warm with wine his virtue and his clay.
To lend to sluggish minds a lift—
And brighten harshness is thy gift—
You take the cares from out a wiseman's breast,
And make our politicians with their secrets jest.

You doubtful minds by hope ensure,
The horns exalting of the poor,
Who, after he has fairly drank thee down,
Nor heeds the soldiers arms, nor dreads the tyrant's frown.
Bacchus and Venus on the spot,
And graces ever in a knot,
And living lamps shall eke thee out to-night,
Till Phœbus drive the stars with his superior light.

ODE XXII. TO DIANA.

He consecrates the pine, which hangs over his villa, to Diana, whose offices he celebrates.

Queen of the mountains far and near,
And of the woodlands wild,
Who, thrice invok'd, art swift to hear,
And save the maids with child;
This pine, that o'er my villa tow'rs,
And from its eminence embow'rs,
I dedicate alone to thee;
Where ev'ry year a pig shall bleed,
Lest his obliquity succeed
Against thy fav'rite tree.

ODE XXIII TO PHIDILE.

The gods are to be worshipped with clean hands, and conscience of a well-spent life.

If, heav'n-address'd, your hands and knees
At each new moon the gods appease,
And if a pig you slay, my rustic dame,
And offer your first-fruits with incense in the flame;
Your fruitful vineyard then shall scorn
The Afric blast, nor shall your corn
Be scarce or blighted—nor the fatal stroke,
Amidst th'autumnal plenty reach your little folk.
For the vow'd victim, that is fed
Where Algidum his snowy head
'Midst holms and oaks uprears, or in the mead
Of Alba, must beneath the pontiff's hatchet bleed.
If you the lares crown and clean,
With myrtle and with froth marine,
'Tis not requir'd that such as you and I
Should on our altar cause whole hecatombs to die,

If there a spotless hand you place,
A sumptuous victim, in that case,
Will not with heav'n more sure acceptance make,
Than mix'd with good intent the little salted cake.

ODE XXIV. UPON THE RICH AND COVETOUS.

Though richer than the hoarded gain
Of Araby and Ind unplunder'd yet,
You of th'Appulian and Tyrrhenian main,
Should with casoons and piers possession get;
If deepest on the highest head
Dire fate his adamantine hooks will drive,
You cannot rid your fearful soul from dread,
Nor from the snares of death escape contrive.
The Scythians have a better lot,
Who dwell in plains, and carry in a cart
From place to place their customary cot,
And those rough Getans, negligent of art,
Whose common acres, unsurvey'd,
Yield corn and fruit, that's bread for all the race;
Nor do they drive the plough, or ply the spade,
Above a year in one continu'd place.
And when their annual toil is o'er,
Another set the vacant lands receive,
Who on the self-same terms with those before,
As they succeed, the prior hands relieve.

There her step-childrens orphan life
The woman in her innocence will spare;
Nor does the man obey a portion'd wife,
Nor does she make a well-dress'd rake her care.
Their parents great and virtuous fame,
And, cautious, constant chastity's their dow'r.
Thus runs the law: “Keep clear of sin and shame,
“Or death's the wages from offended pow'r.”
O that some sage would rise to quell
Our impious slaughter, and our civil rage,
Fond as his country's father to excel—
So call'd beneath his bust—let him engage
Our monstrous licence to revise—
Fam'd to the latest times—since we, O shame!
Hate virtue, when she's seen before our eyes,
But envious, when she's gone, her worth proclaim.
For what are all these woful cries,
If sin by punishment is not cut off?—
Laws without morals!—Can mere forms suffice
For any thing but vanity and scoff?
If such presumption still subsists,
That neither torrid zone, nor northern pole,
Nor solid snow, that mountain-high exists,
Can terrify the merchant's sordid soul?

The mariners expertly dare
The horrid seas; for in their rough account
Want is disgrace—they rather do or bear
All ills, than virtue's arduous way surmount.
Let us our gold and gems refund,
Source of our woe, into the neighb'ring main,
Or Capitol, where all our ears are stunn'd
With party clamours, and the servile train.
If we are penitent in truth,
The very seeds of vice should be eras'd,
And the too tender spirits of our youth,
And nerves with exercise severer brac'd.
Our noble youth have got no seat
Upon their horse, and fear to urge the chace,
As far more learned in the idle feat
Of Grecian tops, or law-forbidden ace.
Mean time the father's perjur'd heart
Imposes on his partner and his guest,
And hastes to try each method, and each mart,
To make a worthless heir of wealth possest.

For why? Ill-gotten goods increase—
Yet after all their toil and time mis-spent,
They have acquir'd by far too much for peace,
And far too little to insure content.

ODE XXV. TO BACCHUS.

Roused by an inward goad from Bacchus, he proposes to speak certain new Lyrics concerning Agustus.

Bacchus, with thy spirit fraught,
Whither, whither am I caught?
To what groves and dens am driv'n,
Quick with thought, all fresh from heav'n?
In what grot shall I be found,
While I endless praise resound,
Cæsar to the milky way,
And Jove's synod to convey?
Great and new, as yet unsung
By another's lyre or tongue,
Will I speak—and so behave,
As thy sleepless dames, that rave
With enthusiastic face,
Seeing Hebrus, seeing Thrace,
And, where feet barbarian go,
Rhodope so white with snow.
How I love to lose my way,
And the vastness to survey
Of the rocks and desarts rude,
With astonishment review'd!
O of nymphs, that haunt the stream,
And thy priestesses supreme!

Who, when strengthen'd at thy call,
Can up-tear the ash-trees tall,
Nothing little, nothing low,
Nothing mortal will I show.
'Tis adventure—but 'tis sweet
Still to follow at thy feet,
Wheresoe'er you fix your shrine,
Crown'd with foliage of the vine.

ODE XXVI. TO VENUS.

Worn out at length with old age, he takes leave of the lyre and his love affairs.

Of late an able am'rous swain,
I made full many a great campaign;
But now my harp and arms, of edge bereft,
Shall hang upon this wall, which rising on the left
In sea-born Venus' temple stands—
Here bring the torches and the brands;
Here bring the wrenching-irons and the bows
Against obstructing doors, so big with threats and blows.
Yet, goddess, of rich Cyprus queen,
And Memphis, where no snow is seen,
Once gently, with thy long-extended whip,
Touch my coquettish Chloe, till you make her skip.

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

He dissuades her especially from the example of Europa.

The screamings of th'ill-omen'd jay,
Or pregnant bitch, or fox attend,
Or tauny wolf in quest of prey,
All wicked wretches on their way,
And to their journey's end:
Or let a serpent drive them back,
The road swift crossing like a dart,
And terrify the stumbling hack—
For thee I dread no such attack;
But with an augur's art,
In early pray'r I will apply,
That some good-natur'd crow may speed,
And leave the east before the cry
Of brids that bode a stormy sky,
And to their lakes proceed.
O Galatea! be thou blest,
Where'er you choose to take your rout,
And keep my mem'ry in your breast;
Nor raven nor the pye molest
Your course, as you set out.

But look, as he's in haste to set,
How prone Orion moves the seas,
I well know Adrian's gloomy threat,
And how much mischief's to be met
From yonder whit'ning breeze.
May wives and children of our foes
The rising goat's alarm partake;
To the black surge themselves expose,
Which, roaring to the blast that blows,
Makes all the land to quake.
Thus did Europa trust, of yore,
To that false bull her snowy limbs,
And, trembling at her boldness, bore
Her midmost course, where, far from shore,
Full many a monster swims.
She, who of late the meadows knew,
Fair student of the flow'ry bloom,
Wove chaplets to the wood-nymphs due—
Nought now but stars and waves could view,
All in the glimm'ring gloom.
And when she was arriv'd at Crete,
So famous for its hundred towns,
O father! lost and indiscrete,
The daughter's duty to defeat,
She cry'd, in wrath, and frowns.

Whence? Whither am I come?—Too light
A punishment one death would be—
Am I awake, and wail of right?
Or is't a vision of the night,
And I from baseness free?
A vision from the iv'ry gate,
Which brings false fancies to the head—
Say, was it then a better fate
Through the long seas to sail—or wait
Where new-blown flow'rs are spread?
O if I had th'audacious steer
My indignation hates and scorns,
I'd kill him with a falchion here,
And, though he was of late so dear,
Would strive to break his horns.
Shameless I left my father's place,
Shameless I wait the doom of hell—
Ye gods! if any hear my case—
O that I naked, in disgrace,
Might roam 'mongst lions fell!
Before a virulent decay
Shall feed upon my blooming cheek,
While yet there's moisture in my clay,
To be the tyger's tender prey,
With all my charms, I seek.

Ah base! thy father to offend,
Whose passion urges thee to die;
Well did thy girdle thee attend—
Thyself upon this ash suspend,
And with his will comply.
Or if, upon the rocks to split,
Acute with death, you are inclin'd;
To the fierce storm yourself submit—
Unless, perhaps, you should think fit
To ply a task injoin'd,
And live a tyrant's harlot vile,
And bear his queen's imperious tongue—
Thus, as she urg'd her plaintive stile,
Came Venus with perfidious smile,
And boy with bow unstrung—
Anon, when she had jeer'd enough,
She said, forbear your wrath and heat,
Since with his horns, though ne'er so tough,
This bull shall meet a full rebuff,
When you with him shall treat.
Do you not know your fame and fort,
As matchless Jove's distinguish'd dame—
Learn your high dignity at court—
And let the quarter'd world support
Your story and your name.

ODE XXVIII. TO LYDE.

He exhorts Lyde to pass the day sacred to Neptune merrily, in drinking and singing.

Neptune, on his festal day,
How can we so well exalt?
Lyde, bring without delay
Wine from out our inmost vault;
Thus you, with a fresh resource,
Wisdom's fort shall reinforce.

Don't you see the day decline?
Yet, as if the sun would wait,
You neglect to bring the wine,
Which is of most pleasant date;
For when Bibulus was chosê,
It was laid to his repose.

We will sing alternate lays—
Neptune and the Nereids green,
I with lively verse will praise—
You, Latona, pow'rful queen,
And swift-darting Dian's laud,
With your twisted lyre applaud.

And the end of all to crown,
We will chant the queen of smiles,
Who with harness'd swans comes down
Unto all her fav'rite isles;
And as goddess of delight,
We will deify the night.

Bibulus signifies a toper.

ODE XXIX. TO MÆCENAS.

He invites him to a chearfal supper, omitting public concerns.

O from Tyrrhenian monarchs sprung!
This many a season I forbear
A cask of mellow wine, untouch'd by tongue,
With roses for thy breast, and essence for thy hair.
Dispatch—nor Tibur's marshy meads,
Nor always Esula admire,
Whose sloping soil the eye with verdure feeds,
Nor buildings rais'd aloft by him who slew his fire.
Leave squeamish plenty, and the pile,
Whose structures to the skies presume,
And cease to praise in such a pompous style
The smoke, and wealth, and clamour of your prosp'rous Rome.
'Tis joy, at times, to shift the scene,
As men of wealth and pow'r allow,
And without purple carpets neat and clean,
The poor man's cottage-treat has smooth'd an anxious brow.

Now Cepheus drives his flaming car,
Now Procyon's wrath begins to burn;
Now the mad lion shews his rampant star,
As fiery Phœbus makes the drinking-days return.
Now weary to the stream and shade
Go shepherds with their languid sheep,
Or where Sylvanus spreads his thickest glade,
And on the silent bank vague winds are lull'd asleep.
What regulations best may suit
The state, and for the world you care,
What points the Seres, Bactrians would dispute,
And what discordant Tanais rises to prepare.
Wisely do heav'nly pow'rs th'event
Of future times in night suppress,
And smile when mortal men are too intent
Beyond their reach—Take thought, that moment you possess
To husband—As for other cares,
As with the streaming river's course
Now gliding to the Tuscan sea it fares,
Now wave-worn rocks, and trunks up-torn with rapid force,

And flocks and houses in its flood
Involving, not without the roar
Of Echo—mountains and th'adjoining wood,
When deluge boils the streams above the peaceful shore.
He, master of himself, shall dwell,
And in a state of joy subsist,
Who every day his heart can fairly tell—
“Why this is life.”—To-morrow with a gloomy mist,
Or brightness Jove may deck the pole,
Yet shall he never take away
The past, or with his utmost pow'r controul
That bliss, the fleeting hours have ravish'd as their prey.
Delighted with her cruel pow'r,
Still trifling insolently blind,
Fortune shifts short-liv'd honours ev'ry hour,
Now good, perhaps, to me, now to another kind.
I praise her while I call her mine;
But if she spread her wings for flight,
Wrapt in my virtue, I her gifts resign,
And court ingenuous want, whose portion is her mite.

'Tis not my business, though the mast
Should with the southern whirlwinds groan,
With wretched pray'rs to deprecate the blast,
Lest in the greedy main my bales be overthrown.
In such a case, my little boat,
For which two oars alone are made,
Should bear me through th'Egean dread afloat,
Fann'd by the gentle breeze, and safe in Castor's aid.

Telegonas.

ODE XXX. TO THE MUSE MELPOMENE.

Horace has gained eternal glory by his lyric compositions.

I've made a monument to pass
The permanence of solid brass,
And rais'd to a sublimer height
Than pyramids of royal state,
Which washing rains, or winds that blow
With vehemence, cannot o'erthrow:
Nor will th'innumerable tale
Of years, or flight of time avail.
For death shall never have the whole
Of Horace, whose immortal soul
Shall 'scape the pow'rs of human bane,
And for new praise his works remain,
As long as priest and silent maid
Shall to the Capitol parade;
Where Aufidus in rapture goes,
And where poor Daunus scarcely flows,
Once rural king—I shall be thought
The prince of Roman bards, that brought
To Italy th'Æolian airs,
Advanc'd from want to great affairs.

Assume, Melpomene, that pride,
Which is to real worth ally'd;
And in good-will descending down,
With Delphic bays my temples crown.