Horace in London Consisting of imitations of the first two books of the odes of Horace. By the authors of the rejected addresses, or the new theatrum poetarum [Horace and James Smith] |
 | I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. | ODE XVIII. THE UNANSWERABLE QUERY.
|
| XIX. |
| XX. |
 | Horace in London |  |
164
ODE XVIII. THE UNANSWERABLE QUERY.
Non ebur, neque aureum.
Sage elephant, thou'rt safe—I hold
No ivory, save one tooth-pick case,
My paper boasts no edge of gold;
My stationer is Henry Hase.
No ivory, save one tooth-pick case,
My paper boasts no edge of gold;
My stationer is Henry Hase.
My stucco is of Gallic grey,
My cornices from gilt are free;
My pillars spurn the gaudy sway
Of antichristian porphyry.
My cornices from gilt are free;
My pillars spurn the gaudy sway
Of antichristian porphyry.
I boast no heaps of sordid gain,
No plunder'd heirs my fraud bemoan;
I bear no golden fleece from Spain,
To patch a Joseph of my own.
No plunder'd heirs my fraud bemoan;
I bear no golden fleece from Spain,
To patch a Joseph of my own.
165
Yet honour and the liberal arts
To Fashion's dome my steps invite;
And when the God of Day departs,
I kiss the Muse by Dian's light.
To Fashion's dome my steps invite;
And when the God of Day departs,
I kiss the Muse by Dian's light.
Through life's low vale I take my way,
From wealthy friends no wealth I borrow,
Content to see the passing day
So used as not to mar the morrow.
From wealthy friends no wealth I borrow,
Content to see the passing day
So used as not to mar the morrow.
Whilst Avarice counts his bags of gold,
And Mammon's dome salutes the sight,
New moons succeed the waning old,
Day urges day with ceaseless flight.
And Mammon's dome salutes the sight,
New moons succeed the waning old,
Day urges day with ceaseless flight.
See towering o'er Threadneedle Street
A mausoleum, rais'd by Soane,
Where dutiful directors meet,
Thy loss, dead bullion, to bemoan.
A mausoleum, rais'd by Soane,
Where dutiful directors meet,
Thy loss, dead bullion, to bemoan.
The mansion swells behind, before,
Old Lothbury laments in vain:
The saint who lost his skin of yore,
Now mourns the loss of half his lane.
Old Lothbury laments in vain:
The saint who lost his skin of yore,
Now mourns the loss of half his lane.
166
Oh! say what means this deafening din,
A thousand Babel voices shout;
Bears leagued with bulls rush roaring in,
And limping lame ducks waddle out.
A thousand Babel voices shout;
Bears leagued with bulls rush roaring in,
And limping lame ducks waddle out.
Hence speculation upward springs,
Nor heeds the law that rules the ball,
Who mounts aloft on paper wings,
But mounts, like Icarus, to fall.
Nor heeds the law that rules the ball,
Who mounts aloft on paper wings,
But mounts, like Icarus, to fall.
Earth labours with a motley freight,
From Gallia's king to Afric's slave;
But soon or late impartial fate
Bestows on all an equal grave.
From Gallia's king to Afric's slave;
But soon or late impartial fate
Bestows on all an equal grave.
To bear poor souls to Pluto's tribe,
One doit is Charon's modest gain,—
Ten thousand pounds will never bribe
The rogue to row us back again!
One doit is Charon's modest gain,—
Ten thousand pounds will never bribe
The rogue to row us back again!
In earth our splendour to enshrine,
Like sightless moles, we downward toil;
For this, pale Avarice digs the mine,
And ruddy Labour ploughs the soil.
Like sightless moles, we downward toil;
For this, pale Avarice digs the mine,
And ruddy Labour ploughs the soil.
167
Ye monarchs, doom'd at last to die,
Where now is all your golden store?
Where now—but, if you won't reply,
'Twere waste of words to ask you more.
Where now is all your golden store?
Where now—but, if you won't reply,
'Twere waste of words to ask you more.
| Horace in London | |