Poems by the celebrated translator of Virgil's Aeneid Together with The Jordan, a poem in imitation of Spenser, by --- ---, Esq [i.e. Christopher Pitt] |
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THE TENTH EPISTLE OF THE First Book of HORACE, IMITATED. |
 | Poems by the celebrated translator of Virgil's Aeneid |  |
11
THE TENTH EPISTLE OF THE First Book of HORACE, IMITATED.
To Mr. Spence, from Encomb.
Health from the Bard, who loves the rural Sport,
To the more noble Bard who haunts the Court;
In every other Point of Life we chime
Like two soft Lines when coupled into Rhyme.
I praise a spacious Villa to the Sky;
You a close Garret full five Stories high:
I revel here in Nature's various Sweets;
You in the nobler Scents of London Streets:
I left the Court, and here at Ease reclin'd,
Am happier than the King who stay'd behind.
Twelve stifling Dishes I could scarce live o'er;
At home I dine with Luxury on four.
Where would a Man of Judgment chuse a Seat,
But in a wholesome rural soft Retreat?
Where Hills adorn the Mansions they defend?
Where could he better answer Nature's End?
Here from the Sea the melting Breezes rise,
Unbind the Snow, and warm the wintry Skies.
Here gentle Gales the Dog-star's Heat allay,
And softly breathing cool the sultry Day.
Here free from Care, from Danger, and Affright,
In pleasing Dreams I pass the silent Night.
Does not the variegated Marble yield
To the gay Colours of the flow'ry Field?
Can the New River's artificial Streams,
Or the thick Waters of the troubled Thames,
In many a winding rusty Pipe convey'd,
Or dash'd and broken down a deep Cascade,
With our much clearer Streams in Sweetness vye
That in eternal Rills run bubbling by?
In Dimples o'er the polish'd Pebbles pass,
Glide o'er the Sands, or glitter thro' the Grass!
And yet in Town the rural Prospects please,
Where stately Colonades are flank'd with Trees;
On a whole Country looks the Master down
With Pride, where scarce five Acres are his own.
Yet Nature, tho' repell'd, maintains her Part,
And in her Turn she triumphs over Art;
The Handmaid now may prejudice our Taste,
But the fair Mistress will prevail at last.
That Man must smart in Time, whose puzzled Sight
Mistakes in Life false Colours for the right;
As the poor Dupe is sure his Loss to rue,
Who takes a Pinchbeck Guinea for a true.
The Wretch whose frantic Pride kind Fortune crowns,
Grows twice as abject when the Goddess frowns;
As he who rises till his Head turns round,
Must tumble twice as heavy to the Ground.
Then love not Grandeur; 'tis a splendid Curse;
The more the Love, the harder the Divorce.
We live far happier by these gurgling Springs
Than Statesmen, Courtiers, Counsellors or Kings.
The Stag expell'd the Courser from the Plain;
What can he do?—He begs the Aid of Man.—
He takes the Bit; he proudly bears away
His new Ally;—He fights and wins the Day.
But, ruin'd by Success, he strives in vain
To quit his Master and the Curb again:
So from the Fear of Want most Wretches fly,
But lose their noblest Wealth, their Liberty.
To their imperious Passions they submit,
Who mount, ride, spur; but never draw the Bit.
'Tis with your Fortune, Spence, as with your Shoe;
A large may wrench; a small one pinch the Toe.
Then bear your Fortune in the golden Mean,
Not every Man is born to be a Dean.
I'll bear your Jeers, if ever I am known
To seek two Cures, when scarce I merit one.
Riches, 'tis true, some Service may afford,
But oft'ner plays the Tyrant o'er their Lord.
Money I scorn, but keep a little still,
To pay my Doctor, or my Lawyer's Bill.
From Encomb's soft romantic Scenes I write,
Deep sunk in Ease, in Plenty, and Delight;
Yet, tho' her generous Lord himself is here,
'Twould be one Pleasure more, could you appear.
To the more noble Bard who haunts the Court;
In every other Point of Life we chime
Like two soft Lines when coupled into Rhyme.
I praise a spacious Villa to the Sky;
You a close Garret full five Stories high:
12
You in the nobler Scents of London Streets:
I left the Court, and here at Ease reclin'd,
Am happier than the King who stay'd behind.
Twelve stifling Dishes I could scarce live o'er;
At home I dine with Luxury on four.
Where would a Man of Judgment chuse a Seat,
But in a wholesome rural soft Retreat?
Where Hills adorn the Mansions they defend?
Where could he better answer Nature's End?
Here from the Sea the melting Breezes rise,
Unbind the Snow, and warm the wintry Skies.
Here gentle Gales the Dog-star's Heat allay,
And softly breathing cool the sultry Day.
Here free from Care, from Danger, and Affright,
In pleasing Dreams I pass the silent Night.
Does not the variegated Marble yield
To the gay Colours of the flow'ry Field?
13
Or the thick Waters of the troubled Thames,
In many a winding rusty Pipe convey'd,
Or dash'd and broken down a deep Cascade,
With our much clearer Streams in Sweetness vye
That in eternal Rills run bubbling by?
In Dimples o'er the polish'd Pebbles pass,
Glide o'er the Sands, or glitter thro' the Grass!
And yet in Town the rural Prospects please,
Where stately Colonades are flank'd with Trees;
On a whole Country looks the Master down
With Pride, where scarce five Acres are his own.
Yet Nature, tho' repell'd, maintains her Part,
And in her Turn she triumphs over Art;
The Handmaid now may prejudice our Taste,
But the fair Mistress will prevail at last.
That Man must smart in Time, whose puzzled Sight
Mistakes in Life false Colours for the right;
14
Who takes a Pinchbeck Guinea for a true.
The Wretch whose frantic Pride kind Fortune crowns,
Grows twice as abject when the Goddess frowns;
As he who rises till his Head turns round,
Must tumble twice as heavy to the Ground.
Then love not Grandeur; 'tis a splendid Curse;
The more the Love, the harder the Divorce.
We live far happier by these gurgling Springs
Than Statesmen, Courtiers, Counsellors or Kings.
The Stag expell'd the Courser from the Plain;
What can he do?—He begs the Aid of Man.—
He takes the Bit; he proudly bears away
His new Ally;—He fights and wins the Day.
But, ruin'd by Success, he strives in vain
To quit his Master and the Curb again:
So from the Fear of Want most Wretches fly,
But lose their noblest Wealth, their Liberty.
15
Who mount, ride, spur; but never draw the Bit.
'Tis with your Fortune, Spence, as with your Shoe;
A large may wrench; a small one pinch the Toe.
Then bear your Fortune in the golden Mean,
Not every Man is born to be a Dean.
I'll bear your Jeers, if ever I am known
To seek two Cures, when scarce I merit one.
Riches, 'tis true, some Service may afford,
But oft'ner plays the Tyrant o'er their Lord.
Money I scorn, but keep a little still,
To pay my Doctor, or my Lawyer's Bill.
From Encomb's soft romantic Scenes I write,
Deep sunk in Ease, in Plenty, and Delight;
Yet, tho' her generous Lord himself is here,
'Twould be one Pleasure more, could you appear.
| Poems by the celebrated translator of Virgil's Aeneid | |