 | A collection of original poems and translations |  |
83
In Imitation of Horace.
Lib. I. Epist. IV.
O ------ to whose keen yet candid Sense,
My Verse I trust, and know its Value thence;
While rattling Coaches just beneath me roll,
Ruffle my Thoughts, and discompose my Soul;
How shall I guess my Friend his Time employs;
In London fix'd, yet rescu'd from its Noise?
Flows from thy Pen the sweet spontaneous Line,
While Cælia's Look supplies the absent Nine?
Or do you thro' Ideal China rove,
And mixt with Brachmans in the hallow'd Grove?
Or are you posting o'er some Roman Road,
By captive Kings and conqu'ring Consuls trod,
By which the Worlds remotest Ends were join'd,
And Rome's dread Orders issu'd to Mankind?
Or dost thou sit in serious musing Mood
Weighing within thy Mind what's Right and Good,
Teaching thyself, without the Aid of Schools,
True Virtue's, Honesty's, and Friendship's Rules?
For thou, my Friend, art not mere breathing Clay,
But all thy Thoughts the strongest Sense display.
To thee the Gods sufficient Wealth have giv'n,
And taught its use, the greatest Gift of Heav'n.
What for his Child would more a Parent have?
What for his Pupil more could Tutor crave,
Than that with Health and Fame Heav'n wou'd him bless,
Make him think right, and well his Thoughts express?
My Verse I trust, and know its Value thence;
While rattling Coaches just beneath me roll,
Ruffle my Thoughts, and discompose my Soul;
How shall I guess my Friend his Time employs;
In London fix'd, yet rescu'd from its Noise?
Flows from thy Pen the sweet spontaneous Line,
While Cælia's Look supplies the absent Nine?
Or do you thro' Ideal China rove,
And mixt with Brachmans in the hallow'd Grove?
Or are you posting o'er some Roman Road,
By captive Kings and conqu'ring Consuls trod,
By which the Worlds remotest Ends were join'd,
And Rome's dread Orders issu'd to Mankind?
Or dost thou sit in serious musing Mood
Weighing within thy Mind what's Right and Good,
85
True Virtue's, Honesty's, and Friendship's Rules?
For thou, my Friend, art not mere breathing Clay,
But all thy Thoughts the strongest Sense display.
To thee the Gods sufficient Wealth have giv'n,
And taught its use, the greatest Gift of Heav'n.
What for his Child would more a Parent have?
What for his Pupil more could Tutor crave,
Than that with Health and Fame Heav'n wou'd him bless,
Make him think right, and well his Thoughts express?
Mid'st Hope and Care, and jealous Fear and Rage,
Expect each coming Day to close thy Age;
Then if propitious Fate shall add one more,
Happier you'll pass the sweet unthought for Hour.
Expect each coming Day to close thy Age;
Then if propitious Fate shall add one more,
Happier you'll pass the sweet unthought for Hour.
| A collection of original poems and translations | |