esis ne Beis fere st ¥ a yas 8s ort Sot aust e bees Sees TNE Sec bleh oy, ei is 5 Seer eattey ee caries eae ratte secs seaeeee mats, pes os Fete 23 Sa gnsece. a * np ted THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY cl Bos Return this book on or before the Latest Date stamped below. A charge is made on all overdue books. University of Illinois Library JUL 6 8 1993, HORACE. * Sve phe “1 PY , So § “THE CHANDOS CLASSICS.” ime @r bec A Cpe ; Che Odes, Gpodes, Satires, and Epistles, TRANSLATED BY THE MOST EMINENT ENGLISH SCHOLARS AND POETS, INCLUDING BEN JONSON, MILTON, DRYDEN, ADDISON, LYTTON, CONINGTON, CALVERLEY, SIR THEODORE MARTIN, &c., &o. LONDON AND NEW YORK: FREDERICK WARNE AND CO, 1889, LONDON : BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. | SIMMONS mM 4 Mrs oW °C -Headen PREFACH. —@——. In spite of the great difficulty of rendering the exquisite Odes of Horace into another language with- out at least diminishing their singular charm, they have found more translators than any other classic poet. From the days when the gallant and gifted Surrey and Sir Philip Sidney tried to achieve the task of rendering a few Odes, to the present day, numbers of our poets and greatest scholars have attempted to bestow on English Literature a more or — less perfect version of the Roman Poet’s works. Thus the terseness, the picturesqueness, the archness, or pathos of Horace have had the advantage of being reflected from many minds, and given in rhymeless metre or melodious verse as each translator preferred. The earliest ones were remarkable for almost too close a fidelity to the original, with the exception, perhaps, of Milton’s rendering of the Ode to Pyrrha, which is as beautiful as it is faithful. Then came paraphrastic translators and imitators, as Cowley and Dryden; and at last the version by ‘ Francis, which was long considered the standard one, appeared, and since then numbers of our best poets 99399%¢ vi PREPACE. or ripest scholars have given us more or less excellent translations of the poet. It is to obtain this varied reflection of the poet’s genius from many minds, that this translation of Horace has been compiled; selec- tions being made from poets and scholars dating from Ben Jonson to the present day. Amongst the earliest will be found the names of Sir R. Fanshawe, Sir T. Hawkins, Sir John Beaumout (brother of the dramatist), Lord Roscommon, C. Pitt (whose translation of the Aineid Dr. Johnson preferred to Dryden’s), Boscawen, Warton, Mitford, &c. &c.,; with other names too well known to need specifying. For the more recent and admirable versions of the Odes with which the Editor has been permitted to enrich this volume, sincere thanks are offered to Sir Theodore Martin, to Professor Newman, and to the publishers of Lord Lytton’s Odes of Horace, of * J. Conington’s and of the late Herbert Grant’s, for their courtesy in permitting their insertion. If by chance any Ode should have been inserted without acknowledgment, apologies are now made for the: oversight. Tue EpiItTor oF “THE CHANDOS CLASSICS.” CONTENTS. eck mele THE ODES OF HORACE. BOO Kel. NO. ODE. TRANSLATOR. PAGE — 1, To Mecenas .. . Herbert Grant ... 3 2. To ieasing : . Philip Francis, D.D. 5 _» 8. To the Ship in eee Vip cal eile ‘s Athens * ade ee Wee Dryden 7 ‘4, To Lucius Sestius ... Archdeacon Wrang vhain 9 ~ 5, To Pyrrha is ... Milton 10 _ S$. To M. Vipsanius Apps ta . Lord Lytton 11 —-~7, To Munatius Plancus .. ... ArchdeaconWrangham 12 8. To Lydia .., Evelyn 14 — 9, To Thaliarchus ... Dryden ; 15 10. To Mercury ... . Whyte Melville 16 — 11. To Leuconoé... _ Sir Thomas Hawkins 17 12. To Augustus... ... Christopher Pitt 18 ait 13. To Lydia .. Lord Lytton 20 qh 14, To a Ship .. Chas. Stuart Galieriel ioe s 15. The Prophecy of beter .. &. Carter 22 16. A Palinode oA ... Wm. Duncombe 24 17. To Tyndaris ... . Francis 25 18. To Varus . Francis 27 19. To Glycera ... Congreve ... 28 20. To Maecenas... .... -- .. A. Grant ... 29 21. To Diana and Apollo ‘a . Whyte Melville 29 ~; 22. To Aristius Fuscus . Johnson 30 — 93, To Chloé ... Professor Newman ... 31 - 24, To Virgil .. Rev. R. N. French... 32 25. To Lydia . Pye 33 Vili NO. 26. . To his Companions 28. 29. 30. . To Apollo 32. 33. 34, 35. 36. peal _S 38. CONTENTS. ODE. To his Muse... Archytas To Iccius To Venus To his Lyre ... To Tibullus ... To Himself ... To Fortune ... On Numida’s Return fam Sui To his Companions To his Servant BOOK II. . To Asinius Pollio . . To Crispus Sallustius Crispus . To Quintus Dellius . To Xanthias Phoceus ... Ode . To Septimius . To Pompeius Varus . To Barine . To Valgius . To Lacinius.., . To Quintius Hirpinus.. . To Mecenas ... . Toa Tree . To Postumus . Against the Luxury of ie Rennes . To Pompeius Grosphus . To Mecenas . . Against ete and cae y . Hymn for Feast of Bacchus . Lo Meecenas 1 TRANSLATOR. . kev. G. Croly ... . Francis . J. Conington, M. A, . . Francis : . Francis . N. L. Torre . A Grant 6: . Francis . Sir RR. Fownee ... 1. Bourne Mies . Arch. Wrangham ... . Francis WOW 3 ... Hartley Coleridge . Francis . Wakefield . Jd. A. Merwale ... Lord Lytton ... Lrancis ; . G. Wakefield ... . Conington ... F . Sir Charles Sedley ... . Dr. Fohnson . W. Cowper . Sir T. Hawkins . Francis : . Richard Ore . Francis tel Mitford . Otway . Stir Theodore Maree . Francis . Wrangham . Francis PAGE 34 35 36 38 39 39 40 4] 42 43 45 45 47 CONTENTS. BOOK III. ODE. . Odi Profanum Vulgus .. rat 3 9? 2 To his Friends . To Dellius To Calliope ... The Praises of Aa gustis To the Romans . To Asterie . To Mecenas ... . Reconciliation elo Lyte... to Mercury -.. . Neobule “f . To the Fountain Bendisia oF . To the Romans . To Chloris . To Mecenas ... . To #lius Lamia ... Selo ash aun . To Telephus ... . To Pyrrhus Lo. nis Cask... 2. To Diana . To Phidyle . Against Misers . To Bacchus ... Ry AS . To Galatea . To Lyde . To Mecenas . Erenhrsse of same nods . To Melpomene To Venus Par eee TRANSLATOR. ... Sir Theodore Martin. .. Abraham Cowley . Dean Swift . Addison . Wilmott Wrangham ... Lord Roscommon . Wrangham . Francis . Ben Jonson . Boscawen ... . Francis . Francis : x . John Cam Hobhoilse : . Francis .. Francis . Mitford . Francis & Sa Cds Ciena . Francis : . Whyte Melwille . Francis . Boscawen ... . Sir T.. Hawkins ... Francis bre DOTTY Obbm bot: . Alexander Brome . Francis . Francis sur J. Bowne . Dryden . A Grant .: 1X PAGE 77 79 82 83 87 90 92 94 95 96 97 99 101 101 102 104 105 107 107 108 109 110 Tie 112 1138 115 116 117 120 121 123 127 x CONTENTS. BOOK IY. NO. ODE. TRANSLATOR. PAGE 1, To Venus : . Ben Jonson 128 2. To Antonius fale ... Francis 129 3. To Melpomene ; ... Bishop Atter pea y 131 4, The Praises of Drusus... . Lyttelton so ae 5. To Augustus... . Rev. S. Sanderson .., 185 6. To Apollo ... Wrangham 137 7. To Torquatus . J. H. Merivaile... 138 8. To Censorinus . Francis 140 9, To Lollius . Conington ... 142 10. To Ligurinus . Francis - 144 11. To Phyllis . Whyte- Melville 144 12: To. Virgil .. Lord Thurlow ... 146 13. To Lyce .. ... Cartwright 147 14. To Augustus.. ... W. Duncomle ... 148 15. To Barer is nate ery ae eee ICTS iy jw ee THE \SECULAR *ODE(=.! ... san -ffowes \: 59 ee THE EPODES OF HORACE. oe 1. To Mecenas . we as» Lev. Canon Howes ... 157 2. The Praises of a Paabtry Life wis Shaw DIT YREE cette a eo a 3. To Mecenas on eating Garlic . Professor Newman ... 161 4, To Menas : ; ... Canon Howes ... 162 5. On the Witch Caniaias ... Rev. C.A. Wheelwright 163 6. To Cassius Severus ... Francis 167 7. To the Roman People... . Seward 168 9. To Mecenas ... .. Canon Howes ... 169 10. Against Mevius .. . Canon Howes ip § 11. To Pettius ... rancts 172 13. Toa Friend ... . Duncombe 173 14. To Mecenas.. . Canon Howes 174 15. To Neera ... Howes 175 16. To the Romans ... Howes 176 17, To Canidia .. . Francis 178 Canidia’s Answer... . Francis 181 CONTENTS. xl THE SATIRES OF HORACE. —— eae BOOK I. NO. SATIRE. TRANSLATOR. P AGE mele Vo Meccenas..:. “004. We. ae Canon Howes i.# sed? 185 Der LopVimcenns ce . WRG ke tei ie. ee raiser al eee es 2190 pen O MeeGenas =... Int ie aed rds tant eee Howes Te betes At OS POA EITG dp cine on sr NE ee cae oes Theos teens LLOWES ty iusis Loe) 202 prom Journey.to: briundusivm: ... 2... Cowper 91 e iw tel 209 me Eh VESECON ES ca) WBD Wht ukea's NL. hte TORI, Ua eh a LG POS eLIrOR Ebi BONE. olraby 2. fox Ll0wes ok EN at 229 Pec omnplainiof PMapUusd.. = iin cee ks PPORUTS LAs eee PE Ce SOT iil 5. 4 ed ee ee cart (lviney LLOWES ok ree 8 1 206 RP TOW Say oes’ TOT awe 42 5t b as ALOWES Ratt iret. sere ok BOOKS ET, 1. A Dialogue between Horace and Trebatius Somat tte Sacer Oil TONES oe itn ema 2 Oe Ou Wruvaltivs \ sae Nin hoes AP ONOCES, «ea an ee 3. A Dialogue between Horace and ‘ [ARRAS PPS: ce AN oc bee eae + LLOWES ih ites, Banat h 4, A Dialogue between Horace and Catiuse 24. os WP Sih LLOUCR AG a) carne meats . A Dialogue between Ulysses and PLiPeOsiaGreteng! ee 288s Fiend ote, WTOC TS cea ee be wen SOG RIOT te hr, Ue est Bly Pickin tases ohea peed OROES see dae Sees 2 . Dialogue of Horace with his Slave ... Francis... ... ... 278 8. Dialogue between Horace and Fun- Ganiaege wre potin sy! See uae eum gee T6210 (QUINtIUS 7 pee. tt ee eke ee es ot ee fe RLO CHV cee nc? eee Pik) eee CULES Nie ange CR eS ee 18-sLo0 Lollius’-.2 Ga. as. SOS ak TONS) ae ee 19s To Meecenas ee 25" "80" Saw A Ee cis ee ee 20.20 his Book. oe ey eee eee ones wie 8 Nie ne uae ee BOOK II. igvlosAncustis Casareimin (cuss. bse ytlowes cotha tinal dau 2. Vo Jialing MOUS gem, et teehee) se DOCKS en nl. eee 7 THE ART OF POETRY ~~." rancis 0) Pee a? INDEX or LATIN LINES AND TRANSLATORS’ NAMES ... .. 888 MEMOLR. —_————— Quintus Horatius Fiaccus—the delightful ‘‘Ho- race”’ beloved by all classic scholars—was born on December 8, in the year of Rome 689, sixty-five years before the birth of Christ, during the Consulate of L. Cotta and L. Manlius Torquatus. The poet’s native place is one of the loveliest in Italy—Venusia (now Venosa), placed on a lofty pine- clad slope of the Apennines, is situated near the source of one of the tributaries of the Aufidus, a rushing, impetuous river, now called the Ofanto, in Apulia, on the mountain side facing the Adriatic. It had been a Roman colony ever since the Samnite wars. It was in Horace’s time a military town. Above his home rose the heights of Mount Vultur (now Voltore) ; near it were the woods and glens of Bantia (Banzi), where Acherontia nestled amidst the groves—such a home was in truth “ Meet nurse for a poetic child.” His father was a freed-man; probably he had been the slave before his enfranchisement of amember of the great and distinguished family of the Horatii, whose name, according to the general Roman custom, he was allowed to take on being emancipated. Recent writers * have, however, discovered that Venusia * G. F. Grotefend in ‘‘Ersch und Gruber’s Encyclopedie,” C. L. Grotefend in the ‘‘ Darmstadt Lit. Journal,’’ and Franke, ‘‘ Fasti Horatiani,” note 1. Xiv MEMOIR. belonged to the Horatian tribe at Rome, and Horace’s father may therefore have been a freed-man of the town itself. He found employment, after he became a freed-man, as a collector of payments made at auctions. The collector was a servant of the State; and as pro- bably he received a percentage on the sales, he may have saved money: for it was a period of confiscation and rapid changes of fortune. However that may be, the freed-man became in time able to purchase a farm near Venusia, on the boundaries of Lucania and Apulia. Here, as we have said, Horace was born. Of his mother he has said nothing, and, as he was a most affectionate son to his father, we may conclude that she died in his infancy. Not otherwise can we under- stand how the lonely infant could have been allowed to wander unguarded on Mount Vultur’s side, where the black viper and the prowling bear might have taken his life. He tells us— ‘* Fatigued with sleep and youthful toil of play, When on a mountain’s brow reclined I lay Near to my native soil, around my head The fabled woodland doves a verdant foliage spread. ‘* Matter, be sure, of wonder most profound To all the gazing habitants around, Who dwell in Acherontia’s airy glades, Amid the Bantian woods, or low Ferentum’s meads, ‘* By snakes of poison black, and beasts of prey, That thus in dewy sleep unharmed I lay ; Laurels and myrtle were around me piled, Not without guardian gods, an animated child.’”’* There is something charming in this incident. The innocent child sleeping fearlessly under the care of * Book III., Ode iv. MEMOIR. XV the gods; the doves covering him with leaves; his bed of myrtle and laurel leaves—altogether form a charm- ing picture. Indeed, Horace is so graphic and pictu- resque in his descriptions that every ode nearly might task the skill of the artist. The time came for commencing the education of the boy. It is quite likely that his father may have been a man of education: many slaves were capable of acting as tutors to their owners’ sons; and pro- bably the elder Horatius superintended the lessons of his only son till he was ten or twelve years old; then, no doubt aware of the genius of the boy, he resolved not to send him to the country schoolmaster Flavius, where the children of the neighbouring landowners and centurions went, Lut to take him at once to Rome, and give him the best teaching Italy afforded: and he did this though, as his son says, ** Maintained By a lean farm but poorly.” * Horace was deeply grateful, and the world also has sreat cause of gratitude to this devoted father. And not only did he send his Horace to study in Rome, but he accompanied him thither, to watch over and guard him from the perils and temptations of a great city, providing him also with slaves, and garments such as would save the boy from the petty scorn of his richer schoolfellows. Horace has mentioned the name of Orbilius, the gsrammarian, as one of his schoolmasters: a severe one too, who did not spoil the child by sparing the rod. * Satires, I.- VI. XVI MEMOIR. With him the future poet read Homer in Greek— going through the whole Hiad—and in Latin Livius Andronicus, the earliest writer of Roman tragedy and the translator of the Odyssey into the vernacular metre of Italy—the Saturnian. 3 Stirring events occurred in Rome during Horace’s schooldays. The war between Pompey and Cesar had begun; Cicero was at the height of his fame; and when Horace was sixteen Cesar crossed the Rubicon, and entered triumphantly into Rome. The lad probably then shared, as a boyish partizan of Pompey, the indignation of the Roman populace and their fears of a renewal of the horrors of Marius’ and Sylla’s proscriptions. | His schooldays finished, his excellent father sent his boy to Athens, then the teaching mother of the world; for the conquered had won a mental victory over their conquerors, and the world’s masters went to Greece to be trained in the arts and learning of the age. It was in Athens that the education of the poet was, so to speak, completed ; here he went through the whole range of Greek poetry-and studied also the Greek historians and comic writers. These peaceful studies were interrupted by the news of the assassination of Cesar, an act which, we regret to know, was approved of by Cicero in a treatise he then sent to his son, who was also a student at Athens; there were many sons of senators also there who favoured the assassins. Then Brutus, the son-in-law of Cato, appeared on his way to Macedonia; in need, it would seem, of officers for his legions; and Horace, as well as many other Roman — students, was eager to lend him his aid. He was at once made a military tribune, and had the command MEMOIR. XVil of a legion.* Is there not some hint here as to the cause of the inferiority of Brutus’s troops, or at least of their leading, at the fatal battle of Philippi? Yet the young Roman obtained the confidence of his com- manders and was engaged in some perils or difficul- ties;+ but he was not a born soldier, and when the army of Brutus was defeated at Philippi, he tells us himself that he threw away his shield and fled. Yet we can scarcely blame the young tribune for flying from a hopeless field, when we remember that Brutus and Cassius at the first tidings of defeat died by suicide, and made not the slightest effort to rally their broken soldiers. ‘The escape of the poet was so re- markable that he ascribes it to Mercury.{ In fact he fled because all had fled, and abandoned the cause of his leader only when that leader had abandoned it himself. Messala—the third in command—had refused to assume the generalship, and went over to the other ‘side. ‘A few only,” we are told, “‘among whom was the friend of Horace, Pompeius Varus, threw them- selves into the fleet of Sex. Pompeius, a pirate rather than a political leader.” § With difficulty and probably in some peril of ship- wreck, || Horace returned to Rome, and found that his paternal estate was lost—confiscated ; for Venusia was one of the eighteen cities with the possession of which the victors of Philippi rewarded their veteran soldiers. Reduced to extreme poverty Horace had to earn his bread in Rome. He had probably been included in some general amnesty, for he at last succeeded in * Satires, L-VI. + Odes, Book II., Ode vii. + Odes, Book II.-VII. § Milman. || Odes, Book III.-IV. b Xviil MEMOIR. obtaining the situation of secretary to a questor. He endeavoured to eke out his small salary by writing poetry.* Probably his poems brought him acquainted with the two great poets of the day, Virgil and Varius—the latter wrote poems on several occa- sions, but is remembered only as a dramatist. Virgil had already acquired fame as a poet by his smaller poems and a few of his Eclogues. He possessed the friendship of Asinius Pollio—statesman and dramatic writer—and to him, probably owed his introduction and subsequent intimacy with Meecenas. These two elder poets at once befriended the younger one, with generous aid and even more welcome appre- ciation of his early poems; moreover, Virgil changed his fortunes by presenting him to Mecenas, the friend and confidential minister of Augustus. Horace has himself described this interview in Satire, Book LI., 6, addressing Meecenas thus : ** When introduced, in few and faltering words (Such as an infant modesty affords, ) I did not tell you my descent was great, Or that I wandered round my country seat On a proud steed in richer pastures bred : But what I really was, I frankly said. Short was your answer in your usual strain— I take my leave, nor wait on you again Till nine months past, engaged and bid to hold A place among your nearer friends enroll’d.”’ Francis. Thus commenced one of the tenderest friendships on record. Mecenas was able fully to appreciate the genius of the young poet, and gratitude and admiration for the noble statesman’s great gifts, attached Horace to him most devotedly both in life and death. * Epis. B. 2. 2, p. 356. MEMOIR. X1X Two years after he had been presented to the minister, Horace followed his patron to Brundusium, where in company of Cocceius Nerva and Capito, he was employed in endeavouring to arrange a reconcilia- tion between Antony and Augustus. An amusing description of the miseries of the journey thither is given by him in the Sth Satire of the First Book. In fact the Odes, Satires, and Epistles supply an auto- biography of the poet, in following which his bio- eraphers can scarcely err. He volunteered to accom- pany Mecenas in the expedition against Antony and Cleopatra, which ended in the battle of Actium, but Mecenas refused the offer, knowing that Horace’s health unfitted him for the voyage. But he un- doubtedly rightly gauged the affection that thus lent courage to the unwarlike poet,—and he did not for- get it. In v.c. 719, B.c. 85, the First Book of Satires was published, and next year Horace received as a gift from Meecenas the Sabine farm which he has immor- talised. This estate was not extensive, but it produced corn, olives, and vines; and it was surrounded by shady woods. It was managed by a bailiff, and cultivated by five families of free Coloni. Horace possessed also about eight slaves.* From this time the genius of the poet had its full development. He wrote one or two of the Epodes, it is thought, during his period of adversity, but they are not equal to those produced in the ease and rest from anxiety that he enjoyed on his Sabine farm. * Satires, 11.-VII. XX MEMOIR. The Second Book of Satires next appeared. The publication of the Epodes followed; amongst them were some of Horace’s earliest compositions now first gathered together, though probably dating from the year after his return to Rome. The ten years following the victory of Actium (cele- brated in the Ninth Epode), were devoted by.the poet to the composition of his three first books of Odes. They were published about twenty-three years before Christ.* He had been introduced by Mecenas to Augustus, and soon won the favour of the sagacious Emperor. Cesar had hitherto been his own secretary ; he now wished to offer the post to Horace—a strong proof of his trust in the latter’s honesty, and his sense of his capacity. ‘The sovereign wrote to Mecenas, telling him that hitherto he had been equal to carrying on his own correspondence, but that he was much occupied now and infirm in health, therefore he wanted to rob Mecenas of their ‘‘ friend Horace, who would leave his (Meecenas’s) table where he dined as a parasite and go to the palace to help him (Augustus) to write letters.” Horace declined the offer, unwilling to leave Mecenas, and dreading, perhaps, the responsibility if not the jealousy of the court of the Cesar. But his refusal was not resented by Augustus, who continued his kindness and expressed it in several letters to the poet. He says, ‘‘ If you are so proud as to disdain my friend- ship, I shall not become haughty in my turn.” When one remembers this bold rejection by the poet of the personal service of the master of the world, — * Franke, ‘‘ Fasti Horatiani.” MEMOTR., Xxl one can scarcely think that his praises of the Emperor were either servile or insincere. In fact the better he became acquainted with Augustus the more sincerely he grew attached to him. The Emperor enriched him by many acts of munificence, and sometimes called him playfully “a pleasant manikin;” for the poet was short and corpulent. In another letter the Kmperor also says, in allusion to his size, ‘‘ If you lack inches, you do not lack a dear little body.” It was by the express desire of the Emperor that the Fourth Book of Odes and the Secular Hymn were written ; Augustus wishing that his stepsons, Tiberius and Drusus, should receive immortality in the strains of Rome’s great lyric poet. The friendship between Horace and Mecenas grew with the years. The latter was ever desirous of the poet’s company, but sometimes Horace excused him- self on the plea of his feeble health and love of retire- ment. Meecenas suffered also from feeble health and had been weakly from his childhood. ‘* He had laboured from his youth,’ Mr. Dunlop says, ‘‘under a perpetual fever, and for many years before his death, he suffered much from watchfulness, which was greatly aggravated by his domestic chagrins. Mecenas was fond of life and enjoyment; and of life even without enjoyment. He confesses, in some verses preserved by Seneca, that he would wish to live even under every accumulation of physical calamity. (Seneca, Epist. 101.) Hence he anxiously resorted to different remedies for the cure or relief of this distressing malady.” He seems to have uttered sad complaints to his friend, and Horace, in one of the loveliest and most touching of his Odes,—exquisitely XXli MEMOIR. translated by Sir Theodore Martin—passionately re- proaches him for giving him (Horace) so much pain by speaking of his death, and declares that they will be fellow-travellers on that sad journey; even death should not divide them — prophetic words they proved ! ; But for a time Meecenas was relieved and spared to his friend, and Horace passed altogether thirty happy years, content with living a simple life on his beloved Sabine farm, broken only by occasional visits to Rome and Meecenas, while in their turn his distinguished friends were glad to visit him. Horace never married, and his love poetry has no depth of feeling or ring of truth in it. If he ever loved at all it was the ‘‘Cinera,” who won his affections in his youth, and herself died young. The poet’s most delightful biographer, Sir Theodore Martin, tells us that “‘ She, if anyone, had touched his heart and haunted his fancy.” His Lalage, Lydia, Glycera, &c., appear to be simply poetical mistresses who had no real hold on his affections; and the great immorality of the period may have been the chief cause of his and of other Romans of the upper class being averse to marriage, even though Augustus tried all means to induce them to wed. Horace’s want of reverence and affection for women may, perhaps, have originated in his not having known. the tender care of a mother, and by the little he could have seen in his youth of domestic life; nor could Meecenas’s troubles with his wilful Terentia have done anything to excite such feelings. But he was a good son, a kind master, a devoted friend, and a warm patriot. | MEMOIR. XXIi1 It is difficult for us to think that Horace really believed in the deities of his mythology; yet that he did so, and was in some sense a devout worshipper of them, is certainly proved by his poems. ‘They contain hymns to the gods and goddesses—expressions of gratitude to them for his preservation from danger, and he attributes the calamities of the Romans to their neglect of religion. Philosophy at this period supplemented by its moral teaching the deficiencies in the heathen theology. Horace’s was youth—nor of Zeno; probably it was rather that of the Academy. It was, however, sufficient. to form his moral character, and to sustain him under trials and difficulties. ‘‘ The best evidence ... . of the claims of the poet as a moral philosopher,” writes Dean Milman, ‘‘as a practicai observer, and sure interpreter of human nature in its social state, are the countless quotations from his works which are become universal moral axioms. ‘Their triteness is the seal of their veracity ; their peculiar terseness and felicity of ex- pression or illustration, may have commended them to general acceptance, yet nothing but their intuitive truth can have stamped them as household words on the memory of educated men. Horace might seem to have thrown aside all the abstruser doctrines, the more remote speculations, the abstract theories of all the different sects, and selected and condensed the practical wisdom in his pregnant poetical aphorisms.” The First Book of the Epistles was published, it is believed, when Horace had attained the age of forty- five. They have been thought by many great critics the finest productions of his pen, though we think XXiV MEMOIR. they cannot be compared with the Odes. A second Book of Epistles followed the first, some little time intervening, and in this was included the Epistle to the Pisos, known as the ‘‘ Art of Poetry.” It was in the fifty-seventh year of Horace’s life that his mortal sorrow fell on him—he lost his friend Mecenas. The Emperor stood by the couch of the dying statesman, and Mecenas, true in death to the love he bore the poet, then uttered the words recorded by Suetonius, ‘‘ Remember Flaccus as you would myself.”’ There is not a doubt that Augustus would have fulfilled his minister’s dying wish, and taken his place with the poet, but Horace had no longer need of imperial favour. His promise to take the last sad journey—so terrible to the heathen—with his friend, was kept too faithfully; he survived Meecenas only three weeks. His last illness was sudden and so severe, that he had not strength to sign his will; therefore in the presence of witnesses he declared the Emperor his heir. Horace was short and rather stout, with dark hair and eyes. He was undoubtedly of a cheerful, con- tented, and amiable temper; temperate in his ordinary life ; full of wit and genius, and so loveable by nature, that he is still, and will probably always be, as popular and as much beloved by succeeding genera- tions as he was by the poets and statesmen of the Augustan age. Horace was buried next to the tomb of Mecenas at the extremity of the Esquiline Hill. THE ODES OF HORACH, AND THE SECULAR ODE. THE ODES OF HORACE. BOOK I. a ODE I. TO MACENAS.* “ Maecenas atavis.” Macenas from old princes sprung ! My glory and protection strong! Some ’mid Olympian dust delight To urge the chariot’s rapid flight, And watch the glowing axles roll Swift round the scarce avoided goal ; For them the palm of noble worth Exalts above their mother earth. Others the civic crown desire, And to the triple power aspire. And these rejoice in garners deep To store the grain from Libya’s heap. The swain who loves the pleasing toil To hoe his own ancestral soil, Not Asia’s wealth would tempt to sail O’er Myrto’s main and brave the gale. * Caius Cilnius Mecenas was said to be descended from Elbius Volterrenus, one of the Lucumones or chiefs of Etruria. B2 THE ODES OF HORACE. Lauding his rural city’s ease, The merchant shuns the stormy seas ; Till failing funds and want in view Soon rig his shattered fleet anew. Another drinks of ancient wine Pressed from the fruit of Massic vine ; See his free limbs at leisure laid Beneath the arbute’s grateful shade ; See now he makes his mossy bed Nigh the cool fountain’s sacred head. Many prefer a martial life, The trumpet-sound and fields of strife, With ardour seek the tented plain, And battles wage—the mother’s bane. Exposed to cold nocturnal dews, The hunter his employ pursues, Unmindful of his consort’s charms, When his true hound the stag alarms, Or when the boar in fury borne The well-wove nets and toils hath torn. But learning renders me divine, With ivy wreaths my temples shine; Far from the world’s tumultuous throng The nymphs enchant me with their song ; When sounds Euterpe’s lute again, Or Polyhymnia’s dulcet strain, If I to lyric fame arise My brow shall touch the very skies. I[ERBERT GRANT. (By courteous permission of Messrs, HARRISON.) BOOK I.—ODE I. 5 ODE II. TO AUGUSTUS. “ Jam satis terris.” Enovuex of snow and hail in tempests dire Have poured on earth, while heaven’s eternal sire With red right arm at his own temples hurled His thunders, and alarmed a guilty world, Lest Pyrrha* should again with plaintive cries Behold the monsters of the deep arise, When to the mountain summit Proteus drove His sea-born herd,+ and where the woodland dove Late perched, his wonted seat, the scaly brood Entangled hung upon the topmost wood, And every timorous native of the plain, High-floating, swam amid the boundless main. We saw, pushed backward to his native source, The yellow Tiber roll his rapid course ; With impious ruin threat’ning Vesta’s fane, And the great monuments of Numa’s reign ; With grief and rage while Ilia’st bosom glows, Boastful, for her revenge, his waters rose ; But now th’ uxorious river glides away, So Jove commands, smooth-winding to the sea. * Alluding to the deluge of Deucalion. Pyrrha was his wife. + Seals. _ + Rhea Silvia, the mother of Romulus, was fabled to be the wife of the Tiber, into the waters of which she had been thrown by order of her uncle Amulius. Ovid mentions her as wife to the Anio, Amores Ill., 6, 45. 6 THE ODES OF HORACE. And yet, less numerous by their parents’ crimes, Our sons shall hear, shall hear to latest times, Of Roman arms with civil gore imbrued, Which better had the Persian* foe subdued. Among her guardian gods, what pitying power To raise her sinking state shall Rome implore ? Shall her own hallowed virgins’ earnest prayer Harmonious charm offended Vesta’s ear ? To whom shall Jove assign to purge away The guilty deed ? Come, then, bright god of day, But gracious veil thy shoulders beamy bright, Oh! veil in clouds th’ unsufferable light. Or come, sweet queen of smiles, while round thee rove On wanton wing, the powers of mirth and love ; Or hither, Mars, thine aspect gracious bend, And powerful, thy neglected race defend. Parent of Rome, amidst the rage of fight Sated with scenes of blood, thy fierce delight, Thou, whom the polished helm, the noise of arms And the stern soldier’s frown with transport warms: Or thou, fair Maia’s wingéd son appear, And human shapet in prime of manhood wear ; Declared the guardian of th’ imperial state, Divine avenger of great Cesar’s fate : Oh! late return to heav’n, and may thy reign With lengthened blessings fill thy wide domain ! * Parthians, called Persians because they possessed Persia. + The form of Augustus. There was a singular likeness between Augustus and the statues of Mercury. BOOK I.—-ODE III. 7 Nor let thy people’s crimes provoke thy flight, On air swift rising to the realms of light. Great prince and father of the state, receive The noblest triumphs which thy Rome can give; Nor let the Parthian with unpunished pride, Beyond his bounds, O Cesar, dare to ride. Puinip Francis, D.D. ODE III. TO THE SHIP IN WHICH VIRGIL SAILED TO ATHENS. ‘6 Sic te Diva.” So may the auspicious queen of love, And the twin stars * (the seed of Jove), And he who rules the raging wind, To thee, O sacred ship, be kind, And gentle breezes fill thy sails, Supplying soft Etesian gales, As thou, to whom the muse commends The best of poets and of friends, Dost thy committed pledge restore, And land him safely on the shore ; And save the better part of me From perishing with him at sea. Sure he, who first the passage tried, In hardened oak his heart did hide, And ribs of iron armed his side! Or his at least, in hollow wood * The Gemini, favourable to mariners, THE ODES OF HORACE. Who tempted first the briny flood ; Nor feared the winds’ contending roar, Nor billows beating on the shore ; Nor Hyades portending rain ; Nor all the tyrants of the main. What form of death could him affright Who, unconcerned, with steadfast sight, Could view the surges mounting steep, And monsters rolling in the deep ? Could through the ranks of ruin go, With storms above, and rocks below ? In vain did Nature’s wise command Divide the waters from the land, If daring ships, and men profane, Invade the inviolable main ; The eternal fences overleap, And pass at will the boundless deep. No toil, no hardship can restrain Ambitious man inured to pain ; The more confined, the more he tries, And at forbidden quarry flies. Thus bold Prometheus did aspire, And stole from heaven the reed of fire: A train of ills, a ghastly crew, The robber’s blazing track pursue ; Fierce Famine, with her meagre face, And fevers of the fiery race, In swarms the offending wretch surround, All brooding on the blasted ground ; And limping Death, lashed on by Fate, Comes up to shorten half our date. This made not Dedalus beware, With borrowed wings to sail in air: BOOK I.—ODE IV. 9 To Hell Alcides forced his way, Plunged through the lake, and snatched the prey. Nay, scarce the gods, or heavenly climes Are safe from our audacious crimes : We reach at Jove’s imperial crown, Waa pull the unwilling thunder down. \ DRYDEN. ODE IV. TO LUCIUS SESTIUS.* “ Solvitur acris hiems.” By spring and zephyr’s gladsome sway Unloosed, stern winter hastes away. Again the vessel tempts the sea ; The herds again bound o’er the lea; His ingle-nook the hind forsakes, And frosts no longer bleach the brakes. Beneath the moon, o’er grassy meads The sprightly dance soft Venus leads ; And linked the Nymphs’ and Graces’ train With foot alternate beats the plain ; While Mulciber with kindling fires The Cyclops’ toilsome forge inspires. Now round the brow be myrtle twined In verdant braid ; now chaplets bind * Lucius Sestius was the son of the Sestius defended by Cicero. He served under Brutus in Macedonia, and always retained his affection for his former leader, preserving his images. Augustus, however _ honouring his fidelity, appointed him Consul Suffectus in his own room. B.C, 23. 10 THE ODES OF HORACE. Of flowers, from Earth’s freed bosom thrown ; The sacrifice now lead to Faun, Lambkin or kid, whiche’er he claim, In grove deep-hallowed with his name. Pale Death knocks with impartial foot At prince’s hall and peasant’s hut : Warned, Sestius, by life’s brief amount Forbear on distant bliss to count. Soon, soon to realms of night away, Hurried where fabled spectres play, Thou shalt, neath Pluto’s shadowy doom, —Thyself a shadow,—thither come. No more shall dice allot to thee The banquet’s jovial sovereignty ; * _ Nor Chloe more shalt thou admire The virgin’s pride, the youth’s desire. ARCHDEACON WRANGHAM. ODE V. TO PYRRHA. “ Quis multa gracilis.” Wuart slender youth, bedewed with liquid odours, Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave, Pyrrha? For whom bind’st thou In wreaths thy golden hair, Plain in thy neatness? O how oft shall he On faith and changéd gods complain, and seas * The “‘governor of the feast’? was chosen by the throw of dice. Venus, 7.¢., double sixes, was the highest throw. BOOK I.—ODE VI. 11] Rough with black winds, and storms Unwonted shall admire! Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold, Who, always vacant, always amiable Hopes thee, of flattering gales Unmindful. Hapless they To whom thou untried seem’st fair. Me, in my vowed Picture, the sacred wall declares to have hung My dank and dropping weeds To the stern god of sea. Mixon. ODE VI. TO M. VIPSANIUS AGRIPPA.* “* Seriberis Vario fortis.” Tis by Varius that Song, borne on pinions Homeric, Shall exalt thy renown as the valiant and victor, Whatsoe’er the bold soldier by land or by ocean With thee for his leader achieved. Themes so lofty we slight ones attempt not, Agrippa, Nor the terrible wrath of unyielding Pelides, * Asrippa was sprung from an obscure family, but happening to be a fellow student of Octavius at Apollonia he became one of his most intimate associates, and in the end the most influential adviser of the Emperor of the world. He made the Roman navy ; defeated Sextus Pompeius, then master of the sea; and secured by his skill the victory at Actium. He built aqueducts and adorned Rome with magnificent buildings. He twice refused a triumph. Note abbreviated from Lord Lytton. 12 THE ODES OF HORACE. Nor the fell house of Pelops, nor seas which Ulysses The double-tongued hero, explored. While the Muse who presides over lutestrings unwar- like, And my own sense of shame would forbid me to lessen, By the inborn defect of a genius unequal, The glories of Cesar and thee. Who can worthily sing Mars in adamant tunic, Or Merion all grim with the dust-cloud of Ilion, Or Tydides, when, thanks to the favour of Pallas, He stood forth a match for the gods ? We of feasts, we of battles, on youth rashly daring Waged by maids armed with nails too well pared for much slaughter, Sing, devoid of love’s flame; or, 1f somewhat it scorch us, Still wont to make light of the pain. Lorp Lyrron. (By courteous permission of Messrs. BLACKWOOD.) ODE VII. TO MUNATIUS PLANCUS.* “ Laudabunt ali.” Some Rhodes or Lesbos in their lays And some will twinned-sea’d Corinth praise * Munatius Plancus was first the adherent of Decius Brutus, then the friend of Antony, and at length the courtier of Octavius. It was at his suggestion that the name of Augustus was conferred on Octavius. BOOK I.—ODE VII. Or Thebes, or Delphi’s hallowed towers And some Thessalian Tempe’s bowers. Others in still unwearied verse Pallas, thy city’s fame rehearse ; And (prized above each rival boug 1). With olive chaplet wreathe their brow; While rich Mycenee many a Muse, Or Argos’ steeds with song pursues, Me, nor unflinching Sparta’s groves, Nor so Larissa’s verdure moves, As does Albunea’s sounding dome, And headlong Anio’s sheet of foam ; And the irriguous orchard’s pride Which quaffs at will the fattening tide. Oft does the south wind’s ministry Sweep the black tempest from the sky, Nor aye breeds storms. So, Plancus thou Wisely with wine chase care and woe ; Whether ’mid banners bright arrayed Or in thy Tiber’s dear loved shade. His home, his sire when Teucer * fled The poplar garland round his head, Dropping with wine he turned, and cried (His friends all saddening at his side). ** Comrades where Fortune (kinder she Than Telamon) shall marshal me, We'll go; nor, gallant hearts, despair— Teucer your guide leaves nought to fear. When press our steps a foreign strand And a new city decks the land, * The son of Telamon, King of Salamis, who banished him. founded a second Salamis in Cyprus. 13 14 THE ODES OF HORACE. Its walls—sure Phoebus vouches this— Shall vie with ancient Salamis. Courage, brave souls! erewhile stern doom Has stamped our days with deepest gloom This hour be given to wine and glee— T'o-morrow—and again to sea.”’ ARCHDEACON WRANGHAM. ODE VIII. LORE YD TAS “ Lydia, dic, per omnes.” Lypra, I conjure you, say, Why haste you so to make away Poor Sybaris with love ? Why hates he now the open air? Why heat, and clouds of dust to bear, Does he no more approve ? Why leaves he off his martial pride ? Why is he now afraid to ride Upon his Gallic steed ? Why swims he not the Tiber o’er? , Or wrestles as he did before ? Whence do his fears proceed ? Why boasts he not his limbs grown black With bearing arms, or his strong back With which he threw the bar ? Is he like Thetis’ son concealed, And from all manly sports withheld, To keep him safe from war ? JOHN EVELYN, BOOK I.—ODE IX. 15 ODE IX. TO THALIARCHUS. “ Vides, ut alta.” BEHOLD yon mountain’s hoary height Made higher with new mounts of snow: Again behold the winter’s weight Oppress the labouring woods below ; And streams with icy fetters bound Benumbed and cramped to solid ground. With well-heaped logs dissolve the cold And feed the genial hearth with fires ; Produce the wine that makes us bold, And sprightly wit and love inspires ; For what hereafter shall betide God (if ’tis worth His care) provide. Let Him alone with what He made, To toss and turn the world below ; At His command the storms invade, The winds by His commission blow, Till with a nod He bids them cease, And then the calm returns and all is peace. To-morrow and its works defy ; Lay hold upon the present hour, And snatch the pleasures passing by To put them out of Fortune’s power ; Nor love nor love’s delights disdain— Whate’er thou gett’st to-day, is gain. THE ODES OF HORACE. Secure those golden early joys That youth unsoured with sorrow bears, Ere with’ring time the taste destroys With sickness and unwieldy years. For active sports, for pleasing rest, This is the time to be possest ; The best is but in season best. Th’ appointed hour of promised bliss, The pleasing whisper in the dark, The half-unwilling willing kiss, The laugh that guides thee to the mark, When the kind nymph would coyness feign And hides but to be found again— These, these are joys the gods for youth ordain. DRYDEN. ODE X. TO MERCURY. “ Mercuri facunde.” Mercury! Atlas’ smooth-tongued boy, whose will First trained to speech our wildest, earliest race, And gave their rough-hewn forms with supple skill The gymnast’s grace. Be it my task thy glories to declare, Herald of Jove! inventor of the lyre ; Right apt in merry theft to take whate’er Thou may’st desire. bOOK I.—ODE XI. 17 When as a boy the oxen stolen by thee, He urged thee to restore, light-fingered one ! Chiding Apollo turned and laughed to see His quiver gone, Rich-laden Priam, by thy favour led Amid the foe beneath the encompassed wall, Through sentries and Thessalian watch-fires sped Unseen by all. "Tis thine the unbodied spirits of the blessed, To guide to bliss, and with thy golden rod To rule the shades; above, below, caressed By every god. G. J. Wuyrr- MELVILLE. ODE XI. TO LEUCONOE. “Tu ne quesierts.” StTriveE not, Leuconoé, to know what end The gods above to me or thee will send ; Nor with astrologers consult at all, That thou mayst better know what can befall ; Whether thou liv’st more winters, or thy last Be this, which 'l'yrrhen waves ’gainst rocks do cast. Be wise! drink free, and in so short a space Do not protracted hopes of life embrace, Whilst we are talking, envious time doth slide: This day’s thine own; the next may be denied. Sir Tuomas Hawkins. 1625. es; i 18 THE ODES OF HORACE. ODE XII. LOR AUG Oi Lis. “ Quem virum.” Wuat man, what hero, will you raise, By the shrill pipe, or deeper lyre! What god, O Clio, will you praise, And teach the Echoes to admire ? Amidst the shades of Helicon, Cold Hemus’ top, or Pindus’ head, Whence the glad forests hastened down, And danced as tuneful Orpheus played. Taught by the muse, he stopped the fall Of rapid floods, and charmed the wind : The listening oaks obeyed the call, And left their wondering hills behind. Whom should I first record, but Jove, Whose sway extends o’er sea and land, The king of men and gods above, Who holds the seasons in command ? To rival Jove, shall none aspire ; None shall to equal glory rise; But Pallas claims beneath her sire The second honours of the skies. To thee, O Bacchus, great in war, To Dian will I strike the string, Of Phcebus wounding from afar, In numbers like his own I'll sing. BOOK I,—ODE XII. 19 The muse Alcides shall resound ; The twins of Leda shall succeed ; This for the standing fight renowned, And that for managing the steed, Whose star shines innocently still : The clouds disperse; the tempests cease ; The waves, obedient to thei will, Sink down, and hush their rage to peace. Next shall I Numa’s pious reign, Or thine, O Romulus, relate ; Or Rome, by Brutus freed again ; Or haughty Cato’s glorious fate ? Or dwell on noble Paulus’ * fame, Too lavish of the patriot’s blood ? Or Regulus’ immortal name, Too obstinately just and good ? These, with Camillus brave and bold, And other chiefs of matchless might, Rome’s virtuous poverty of old Severely seasoned to the fight. Like trees, Marcellus’ glory grows With an insensible advance ; The Julian star, like Cynthia, glows, Who leads the planetary dance. The Fates, O sire of human race, Intrust great Cesar to thy care ; Give him to hold thy second place, And reign thy sole vicegerent here. * Emilius Paulus, after the lost battle of Cann, which had been fought by his advice, refused a horse offered to him by a tribune of the soldiers, not desiring life. He perished on the field. c 2 20 THE ODES OF HORACE. And whether India he shall tame, Or to his chains the Seres doom 3 Or mighty Parthia dreads his name, ' And bows her haughty neck to Rome ; While on our groves thy bolts are hurled, And thy loud car shakes heaven above, He shall with justice awe the world, To none inferior but to Jove. CHRISTOPHER PITT. ODE XIII. TO LYDIA. “ Cum tu, Lydia.” Wren thou the rosy neck of Telephus, ‘The waxen arms of Telephus, art praising, Woe is me, Lydia, how my jealous heart Swells with the anguish I would vainly smother. Then in my mind thought has no settled base, To and fro shifts upon my cheek the colour, And tears that glide adown in stealth reveal By what slow fires mine inmost self consumeth. T burn, or whether quarrel o’er his wine, Stain with a bruise dishonouring thy white shoulders, Or whether my boy-rival on thy lips | Leave by a scar the mark of his rude kisses. BOOK I,—-ODE XIV. 21 Hope not, if thou wouldst hearken unto me, That one so little kind prove always constant ; Barbarous indeed to wound sweet lips imbued By Venus with a fifth part * of her nectar. Thrice happy, ay more than thrice happy, they Whom one soft bond unbroken binds together, Whose love serene from bickering and reproach In life’s last moment finds the first that severs. Lorp Lyrron. (By courteous permission of Messrs. BLACKWOOD.) ODE XIV. AGS oe Aa Be: * O navis, referent.” Yet on fresh billows seaward wilt thou ride, O ship? What dost thou? Seek a hav’n and there Rest thee: for lo! thy side Is oarless all, and bare. * “Quinta parte sui nectaris.” It has been disputed whether Horace means by this expression the Pythagorean quintessence, which is ether. Most modern translators so take it—‘‘an interpretation,” says Macleane, ‘‘which I am surprised to find Orelli adopts with others, that does not commend itself to my mind at all.” Neither does it to mine. I think the interpretation rendered by Dillenburger much less pedantic and more poetical. The ancients supposed that honey contained a ninth or tenth part of nectar, and therefore the lips of Lydia were imbued with double the nectar bestowed on honey.—Lord Lytton s note. + The Ship of State; the Roman Empire already torn by the civil strife of yeers.—En. 22 VHHE ODES OF HORACE. And the swift south-west wind hath maimed thy mast, And thy yards creak, and, every cable lost, Yield must thy keel at last On tyrannous sea-waves tossed Too rudely. Goodly canvas is not thine, Nor gods,* to hear thee when thy need is sorest; True, thou—a Pontic pine t Child of a stately forest— Boast’st rank and empty name; but little trust The frightened seamen in a painted stern. Stay—or be mocked thou must By every wind in turn. Flee—what of late sore burden was to me, Now a sad memory and a bitter pain,— Those shining Cyclads flee, That stud the far off main. C. S. CaLvERLEY. ODE XV. THE PROPHECY OF NEREUS. “ Pastor cum traheret.”’ From Sparta’s hospitable shore, His prize when faithless Paris bore, While guilt impatient crowds his sail, Prophetic Nereus ¢ checks the gale, * At the stern of a ship the tutelary gods of Rome were generally placed with an altar ; the meaning is that the divinities displeased at the Civil Wars withdrew their protection.—Ep. + The pineweod of Pontus was the best for shipbuilding. —Ep, $ A god of the sea, the son of Oceanus and Tethys. BOOK IL—ODE XV. By force the flying robber holds, And thus the wrath of heaven unfolds : ‘In vain thy fleet transports the dame, Whom injured Greece shall soon reclaim, Prepared to break thy lawless tie, And Priam’s ancient realm destroy. Behold the troops, the foaming steed, To labours doomed, and doomed to bleed ! See! victim to thy lewd desires, Thy country blaze with funeral fires ! See! Pallas eager to engage, Prepares her car and martial rage : She waves her egis, nods her plumes, And all the pomp of war assumes! In vain, devoted to thy side, Shall Cytherea swell thy pride ; In vain thy graceful locks express The studied elegance of dress ; Thy languid harp, with amorous air, In vain shall charm the listening fair ; The palace screen thy conscious heart In vain, against the Cretan dart, And Ajax, nimble to pursue. What though, concealed from public view, The chamber guards thy nicer ear From all the horrid din of war ! At length, adulterer! fall thou must, And trail those beauteous locks in dust ! See ! author of thy country’s fate, Ulysses, practised in deceit. Behold the hoary Pylian sage Against her forfeit towers engage. 23 i THE ODES OF HORACE. Teucer and Sthenelus unite With various skill, in various fight. Tydides, greater than his sire, To find thee, burns with martial fire. But as a grazing stag, who spies The distant wolf, with terror flies ; So shalt thou fly, with panting breath, And faltering limbs, the approach of death. Where is thy boasted courage ? Where Thy promise plighted to the fair ? Though fierce Achilles’ sullen hate Awhile protracts the city’s fate, Heaven shall its righteous doom require, And Troy in Grecian flames expire !’ EK. Carter. ODE XVI. A PALINODE. “O matre pulchra.” Nympux of a beauteous mother born, Whom still superior charms adorn, My slanderous verses as you please Destroy, by flames, or in the seas. Not Phebus could his prophets fire Nor Bacchus to extremes so dire, Nor Corybantian cymbals wound The ear with such a clattering sound As baleful rage, which neither flame, Nor steel, nor tempest can reclaim ; BOOK 1—ODE XVII. 25 And Jove, its madness to restrain, Would hurl his triple bolt in vain. Tis said when Japhet’s son * began T’o mould the clay and fashion man, He stole from every beast a part, And fixed the lion in his heart. From rage the tragic ills arose That crushed 'Thyestes ; hence the woes Of cities, with the ground laid even And ploughshares o’er their ashes driven. Then curb your anger; heat of youth, (I now, with shame confess the truth), Prompted alone my guilty muse In rapid numbers to abuse Your blameless name—forgiven by you I will a softer theme pursue. W. DuNncomMBE. ODE XVII. TO TYNDARIS. “ Velox amenum.” Pan from Arcadia’s hills descends To visit oft my Sabine seat ; And here my tender goats defends From rainy winds, and summer’s fiery heat ; For when the vales, wide-spreading round The sloping hills, and polished rocks With his harmonious pipe resound, In fearless safety graze my wandering flocks ; * Prometheus. THE ODES OF HORACE. In safety, through the woody brake, The latent shrubs and thyme explore, Nor longer dread the speckled snake, And tremble at the martial wolf no more. Their poet to the gods is dear; They love his piety and muse; And all our rural honours here Their flow’ry wealth around thee shall diffuse. Were shall you tune Anacreon’s lyre, Beneath a shady mountain’s brow, To sing frail Circe’s guilty fire, And chaste Penelope’s unbroken vow. Far from the burning dog-star’s rage, Here shall you quaff our harmless wine; Nor here shall Mars intemperate wage Rude war with hiin who rules the jovial vine, Nor Cyrus’ bold suspicions fear ; Not on thy softness shall he lay His desperate hand, thy clothes to tear, Or brutal snatch thy festal crown away. FRANCIS. BOOK I—ODE XVIII, 27 ODE XVIII. TO WARDS * Nullam, Vare.” + Rounp Catilus’ walls, or in Tibur’s rich soil, L'o plant the glad vine be my Varus’ first toil; For God hath proposed to the wretch, who’s athirst, T'o drink ; or with heart-gnawing cares to be cursed. Of war, or of want, who e’er prates o’er his wine ? For ’tis thine, Father Bacchus; bright Venus, ’tis thine, To charm all his cares; yet that no one may pass The freedom and mirth of a temperate glass, Let us think on the Lapithe’s quarrels so dire, { And the Thracians, whom wine can to madness inspire: Insatiate of liquor, when glow their full veins, No distinction of vice, or of virtue remains. Great god of the vine, who dost candour approve, I ne’er will thy statues profanely remove ; I ne’er will thy rites, so mysterious, betray T'o the broad-glaring eye of the tale-telling day. Oh! stop the loud cymbal, the cornet’s alarms, Whose sound, when the Bacchanal’s bosom it warms, Arouses self-love, by blindness misled, And vanity, lifting aloft the light head ; And honour, of prodigal spirit, that shows, Transparent as glass, all the secrets it knows. FRANCIS. * The poet, Quinctilius Varus, the Epicurean and friend of Augustus and Virgil. + This ode is an imitation of one written by Alczeus on the same subject, and in the same kind of verse. t A people of Thessaly, near Mount Olympus. During the marriage feast of their king they were slain in a combat with the Centaurs. 28 THE ODES OF HORACE. ODE XIX. TO GLYCERA. “ Mater seva Cupidinum.” Tux tyrant queen of soft desires, With the resistless aid of sprightly wine, And wanton ease, conspires T'o make my heart its peace resign, And to admit love’s long rejected fires. For beauteous Glycera I burn ; The flames so long repelled with double force return : Endless her charms appear, and shine more bright Than polished marble when reflecting light : With winning coyness she my soul disarms ; And when her looks are coldest, most she warms: Her face darts forth a thousand rays Whose lustre an unwary sight betrays; My eyeballs swim, and I grow giddy while I gaze. She comes! she comes! she rushes in my veins! At once all Venus enters, and at large she reigns ! Cyprus no more with her abode is blessed, I am her palace, and her throne my breast. Of savage Scythian arms no more I write, Or Parthian archers, who, in flying, fight, And make rough war their sport : Such idle themes no more shall move, Nor any thing but what’s of high import ; And what’s of high import but love ? Vervain and gums, and the green turf prepare ; With wine of two years old your cups be filled: After our sacrifice and prayer The goddess may incline her heart to yield. CONGREVE. BOOK I—ODHE XX, 29 ODE XX. TO MAICENAS. “ Vile potabis.” I can but offer Sabine wine In modest cups, which I laid by When in thé theatre thou and thine Received all Rome’s applauding cry : O loved Mecenas, honoured knight ! As from old Tiber’s banks the cheer To Vatican’s re-echoing height Fell on a mighty nation’s ear: For thee the Czecuban o’erflows, With all that Cales’ press distils ; Ah! not for me Falernian grows Or Formie’s grape my goblet fills. HERBERT GRANT. (By kind permission of Messrs. HARRISON. ) ODE XXI. TO DIANA AND APOLLO. “ Dianam tenere.” Sine virgins! sing the tender Dian’s fame ; Shout, boys! the ever-blooming Cynthian’s name; Latona too, the secret love Of all-subduing Jove. 30 THE ODES OF HORACE. Laud her, ye girls! who guards the mountain rill, The woods that wave on Algidus’ cool hill, And Erimanthus’ deepening shades, And Cragus’ verdant glades. Be not outdone, ye boys! but shouts of praise For Tempe and Apollo’s Delos raise— The quivered god, who at his side His brother’s lyre hath tied. In Cesar’s reign may he propitious please To drive from us war, famine, and disease To Parthian wilds or Britain’s shore, While ye his aid implore. Wuytrs-MELvILLE. ODE XXII. TO, ARISTIUS FUSCUS+ “ Integer vite.” THE man, my friend, whose conscious heart With virtue’s sacred ardour glows, Nor taints with death th’ envenomed dart, Nor needs the guard of Moorish bows. O’er icy Caucasus he treads, O’er torrid Afric’s faithless sands Or where the famed Hydaspes spreads His liquid wealth through barbarous lands. * An author and a very dear and intimate friend of Horace. He was a man of high moral character. BOOK I—ODE XXIII. 31 For while in Sabine forests charmed By Lalage, too far I strayed, Me—singing careless and unarmed— A furious wolf approached—and fled. No beast more dreadful ever stained Apulia’s spacious wilds with gore, No beast more fierce Numidia’s land (The lion’s thirsty parent) bore. Place me where no soft summer gale Among the quivering branches sighs, Where clouds condensed for ever veil With horrid gloom the frowning skies. Place me beneath the burning zone, A clime denied to human race, My flame for Lalage I'll own ; Her voice, her smiles, my song shall grace. Dr. JOHNSON. ODE XXIII.* TO CHLOE. “ Vitas hinnuleo.” Cuioxr, me thou shunnest, like a fawn, Who by mountain tracks her scaréd dam, Seeks devious—breeze or wood Oft misdoubting in empty fear. * This Ode and Epode iii. are taken, by Professor Newman’s kind permission, from his version of the Odes. He has translated them on the principle of adhering to one special English metre for each special Horatian metre. THE ODES OF HORACE. Should the arriving Spring o’er quivering leaves, Bristle rude, or should the liquid green A bramble move aside, Quick she trembles in breast and knees. Yet not I, as tiger fierce to rend, Or Geetulian lion follow thee. Oh, leave thy mother’s side Ripe at length for a dearer love. PROFESSOR NEWMAN. ODE XXIV. TOFVIBGIL.® ‘© Quis desiderio.” Au me! what bounds can sorrow know, Or in what measured cadence flow For one so loved, so dear ? Teach, plaintive muse! to whom is given, The lyre that charms the sons of heaven, To soothe a mortal ear. Doth then the power of endless Sleep In his cold grasp Quinctilius keep ? Doth he remorseless bind The bold but unassuming youth, Whose spotless faith, unvarnished truth, Have left no peer behind ? * On the death of his friend Quinctilius Varus. BOOK I—ODE XAXV. Wept by the virtuous and the wise, But most by thee, O friend! he lies, Whose pious prayers in vain From the unheeding gods implore, That they would to thine arms restore Quinctilius once again. Couldst thou the Thracian bard excel Whose magic song enchanted hell, Yet vain were all thine art ! Life’s ruddy flame would ne’er return To kindle in their marble urn The ashes of the heart ; Nor couldst thou from the Stygian coast Recall the pale departed ghost Z From its relentless guide. ’Tis hard !—but resignation knows To soothe irreparable woes, And Fate’s stern will abide. Rev. R. N. FRencu. ODE XXV. Ogee EA “ Parcius gunctas.” THE amorous youths with heated breast Thy windows rarely now molest ; Their songs thy rest disturb no more, And quiet hangs thy silent door. Now less and less each hour thy ear These plaintive strains of love shall hear, 33 34 THE ODES OF HORACE. ‘Lydia! while slumbers close thine eye, We freeze beneath the midnight sky!” But thou, in turn when time’s decay Bids all thy beauties fade away, In the dark streets the wanton crew With trembling voice shalt shameless woo. While rage for unappeased desires, And slighted love thy bosom fires, The amorous train for younger brows Shall twine the myrtle’s verdant boughs, And all thy withered garlands lave ‘With scorn in Hebra’s wintry wave. HH. Jere: Poet Laureate, 1813. ODE XXVI. TO HIS MUSE. “6 Musis amicus.” Frienp to the Muse, this day I give My sorrows to the Cretan wave : This day to love and friendship live, Nor think a thought of king or slave. Careless alike whose scourge 1s laid On Asian hill or Scythian snow, Beside the Muses’ stream, I braid The chaplet for my Lamia’s brow. BOOK ?.—ODE XXVII. 35 Come, Muse! without thee dies the wreath ; Thy hand its rosiest buds must twine ; Thy lip its sweetest fragrance breathe ; Its life, bloom, beauty, all be thine. Rev. GEoRGE CROLY. ODE XXVII. TO HIS COMPANIONS.* “ Natis in usumn.” WirTH glasses, made for gay delight, "Tis Thracian, savage rage, to fight. With such intemperate, bloody fray, Fright not the modest god away. Monstrous! to see the dagger shine Amidst the midnight joys of wine. Here bid this impious clamour cease, And press the social couch in peace. Say, shall I drink this heady wine, t Pressed from the rough Falernian vine ? Instant, let yonder youth impart The tender story of his heart, * Horace was at an entertainment, when a dispute began to inflame some of the company, already heated with wine. Instead of en- deavouring to restore peace by grave advice and sober reasoning, he makes them a gay proposal of drowning all quarrels in a bumper. It was cheerfully received, and probably the success of it made the poet think it worthy of being the subject of an ode.—San. + Athenzus tells us there were trvo kinds of Falernian wine: one, strong and heady ; the other, sm.coth and sweet. The poet therefore offers to drink a cup of the stronger kind, though he knew the strengtk of it, to show at what expeuse he would recover the good humour of the company.— Francis, ~ D2 36 THE ODES OF HORACE. By what dear wound he blissful dies, And whence the gentle arrow flies. What! does the bashful boy deny ? Then, if I drink it let me die. Whoe’er she be, a generous flame Can never know the blush of shame. Thy breast no slave-born Venus fires, But fair, ingenuous love inspires. Then safely whisper in my ear, For all such trusts are sacred here. Ah! worthy of a better flame! Unhappy youth! is she the dame ? Unhappy youth! how art thou lost, In what a sea of troubles tossed ! What drugs, what witchcraft, or what charms, What god can free thee from her arms ? Scarce Pegasus can disengage Thy heart from this Chimera’s rage. FRANCIS. ODE XXVIII. ARCHYTAS.* “ Te maris et terre.” Tue sea, the earth, the innumerable sand, Archytas, thou couldst measure ; how, alas! A little dust on Matine shore has spanned That soaring spirit ; vain it was to pass * Archytas was a celebrated mathematician and philosopher, and said to be the inventor of analytical geometry. He was a Greek of Tarentum, and is thought to have been contemporary with Plato.—Ep, BOOK I—ODE XXVIII, 37 The gates of heaven, and send thy soul in quest O’er air’s wide realms ; for thou hadst yet to die. Ay, dead is Pelops’ father, heaven’s own guest, And old Tithonus, wrapt from earth to sky, And Minos, made the council friend of Jove, And Panthus’ son * has yielded up his breath Once more, though down he plucked the shield to prove : His prowess under Troy, and bade grim death O’er skin and nerves alone exert its power, Not he, you grant, in nature meanly read. Yes, all ‘“‘ await the inevitable hour ; ” The downward journey all one day must tread. Some bleed to glut the war-god’s savage eyes ; Fate meets the sailor from the hungry brine ; Youth jostles age in funeral obsequies ; Each brow in turn is touched by Proserpine.t Me, too, Orion’s mate, the southern blast Whelmed in deep death beneath the Illyrian wave. But grudge not, sailor, of driven sand to cast A handful on my head, that owns no grave. So, though the Eastern tempests loudly threat Hesperia’s main, may green Venusia’s crown Be stripped, while you lie warm ; may blessings yet Stream from Tarentum’s guard, great Neptune, down, And gracious Jove, into your open lap ! What! shrink ye not from crime whose punishment Falls on your innocent children ? it may hap Imperious Fate will make yourself repent. * Euphorbus, a valiant Trojan ; but here meant for Pythagoras, who asserted that he had lived before in the form of Euphorbus.—Eb. + Who was believed to cut a lock of hair from the head of one dying.—Francis, 38 THE ODES OF HORACE. My prayers shall reach the avenger of all wrong; No expiations shall the curse unbind, Great though your haste, I would not task you long ; Thrice sprinkle dust, then scud before the wind. Joun Conineton, M.A. (By courteous permisston of Messrs. BELL.) ODE XXIX. LOMOCCIUS= “Tocr, beatis.” Icctus, the blessed Arabia’s gold Can you with envious eye behold ? Or will you boldly take the field, And teach Sabeea’s kings to yield, Or meditate the dreadful Mede In chains triumphantly to lead ? Should you her hapless lover slay, What captive maid shall own thy sway ? What courtly youth with essenced hair Shall at thy board the goblet bear, Skilful with his great father’s art To wing with death the pointed dart ? Who shall deny that streams ascend, And Tiber’s currents backward bend, When you have all our hopes betrayed ; You, that far other promise made ; * Tecius was a student of philosophy, but abandoned his studies to join an expedition into Arabia. He was afterwards steward of Agrippa’s Sicilian estates. BOOK I—ODEH XXXII. 39 When all your volumes, learned store! The treasures of Socratic lore, Once bought at mighty price, in vain, Are sent to purchase arms in Spain ? © FRANCIS. ODE XXX, TO VENUS. “O Venus, regina.” QUEEN of beauty, queen of smiles, Leave, oh! leave thy favourite isles: A temple rises to thy fame Where Glycera invokes thy name, And bids the fragrant incense flame. With thee bring thy love-warm son, The Graces bring with flowing zone, The nymphs, and jocund Mercury, And sprightly Youth, who without thee Is nought but savage liberty. FRANCIS.. f ODE XXXI ¥ TO APOLLO. “ Quid dedicatum.” Wuart gift of Phoebus have I prayed ?— The fresh libation duly made, What asks the bard ?—No fruitful stores, The harvest of Sardinian shores ; 40 THE ODES OF HORACE. No herds Calabrian hills supply, Nor gold, nor Indian ivory ; For rural meads no wish he knows, Where Liris, gentle river, flows. Let others prune Calenian vines For whom propitious fortune shines ; Let merchants at their board produce In golden cups the purple juice, Eixchanged for Syrian wares; who brave Thrice in each year the Atlantic wave, And safe in Heaven’s peculiar care The perils of the ocean bear. For me shall be the olive dressed, Mallows and endive be my feast. \ Son of Latona! grant me this — ‘) My destined lot to meet in bliss! Grant to my prayer, health unconfined ; And, oh, preserve my peace of mind! Let my old age unspotted prove And brightened by the Muse’s love. N. L. Torre. ODE XXXII. TO HIS LYRE. “ Poscimur—si quid.” WE are called! If e’en beneath the bower We've sung at leisure what may live Through this, and many a future hour, O lyre! a Latin measure give! BOOK L—ODE XXXII, 41 Toned first by Mitylene’s swain,* Who, fierce amid the clash of steel, Or, landing from the stormy main, On the wet sand he moored the keel, For Bacchus, and the Muses Nine, Oft did the joyous strain renew, Praised Venus and her boy divine, And Lycus, dark of eye and hue. O grace of Phebus! and delight Of Jove’s great festivals on high! Whene’er I thee invoke aright All cares depart and troubles fly. HERBERT GRANT. (By kind permission of Messrs, HARRISON.) ODE XXXIII. TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS.+ “ Albi, ne doleas.” No more in elegiac strain Of cruel Glycera complain, Though she resign her faithless charms To a new lover’s younger arms. The maid, for lovely forehead famed, With Cyrus’ beauties is inflamed ; While Pholoé, of haughty charms, The panting breast of Cyrus warms ; * Alceus. + The elegiac Latin poet, who was one of Horace’s most intimate friends. Four books of his elegies are still extant. THE ODES OF HORACE. But wolves and goats shall sooner prove The pleasures of forbidden love Than she her virgin honour stain, And not the hateful rake disdain. So Venus wills, whose power controls The fond affections of our souls: With sportive cruelty she binds Unequal forms, unequal minds. Thus, when a better Venus strove To warm my youthful breast to love, Yet could a slave-born maid detain My willing heart in pleasing chain, Though fiercer she than waves that roar Winding the rough Calabrian shore. Puinie FRANCIS. ODE XXXIV. TO HIMSELF. “ Parcus deorum.” I ruat have seldom worshipped heaven, As to a mad sect* too much given, My former ways am forced to balk, And after the old light to walk. For cloud-dividing-lightning Jove Through a clear firmament late drove His thundering horses and swift wheels ; With which supporting Atlas reels ; With which Earth, Seas, the Stygian lake And Hell (with all her Furies) quake. It shook me too. God pulls the proud From his high seat, and from their cloud * The Epicurean. BOOK I.—ODE XXXV. 43 Draws the obscure; levels the hills, And with their earth the valley fills. "Tis he does all, he does it all: Yet this, blind mortals, Fortune call. Sir R. FANSHAWE.* ODE XXXV TO FORTUNE. “O Diva, gratum.” Farr Antium’s Goddess! whose sweet smile or frown Can raise weak mortals from the depths of woe, Or bring the lofty pride of triumph down, And bid the bitter tear of funeral grief to flow. Thee the poor farmer courts with anxious prayer ; Thee, sovereign of the seas! does he implore Who in Bithynian bark will boldly steer Where wild Carpathia’s waves in vexed commotion roar. The Dacian fierce, rude Scythia’s wandering bands, And towns and nations, warlike Italy, Mother of kings who reign in barbarous lands, And purpled tyrants fear, and trembling kneel to thee. Let not thy wrath with scornful foot o’erthrow The column firm on which we rest our fate ; Nor let. wild discord work anew our woe, Or rouse to arms again, and overturn the state. * One of the earliest translators of Horace, 1652. 44 THE ODES OF HORACE. Before thee stalks stern Fate, who joys to bear In iron hand the wedge—the spikes so dire ; Nor wants the hook, to torture and to tear ; Nor molten lead that rolls its streams of liquid fire. Thee Hope, and white-robed Faith so seldom found, Attend to cheer; nor from thy presence fly, When those proud halls, for splendour long renowned, Thou leavest in angry haste and garb of poverty. But that false crew which flatters to betray— The perjured partner of Love’s wanton bower— Will drain the lowest dregs ; then shrink away, Nor bear the equal yoke in Friendship’s trying hour. O goddess! let great Cesar be thy care, Whose daring sail seeks Britain’s distant coast : Return his new-raised bands again to bear Our arms beyond the Hast—a gallant conquering host. But ah! what crimes are ours! what deeds of shame, Dishonest scars and blood by brothers spilt : Our iron age, well worthy of the name, What has it left undared !—when made a pause in guilt ! Whose altar spared, by piety restrained ! But, oh dread goddess! let thy powerful hand Our blunted swords, by kindred blood distained, New whet against our foes of Scythia’s barbarous land. T. Bourne. BOOK I.—ODE XXXVII, ODE XXXVI. ON NUMIDA’S RETURN FROM SPAIN. “ Bt thure.” WiIrTH incense now and grateful lay And votive calf the gods we'll pay, Whose guardian care from farthest Spain Safe brings our Numida again. Many a dear friend his kiss receives, But more to none, though dear, he gives Than Lamia, of his youth fond mate ; With whom on schoolboy’s bench he sat, And early manhood’s toga shared. This day in white be calendared, And wine from foaming pitchers flow, And trip, like Salian, many a toe. Nor Bassus now in bumpered glass_ Let rival Damalis surpass. Nor want there, crown of festal sheen, Brief lily, rose, and parsley green. On Damalis their gloating eyes Gazers shall rest ; but Damalis Shall her new love with closer grasp, —The elm, the wanton ivy—clasp. ARCHDEACON WRANGHAM. ODE XXXVIL “ TO HIS COMPANIONS.* “ Nune est bibendum.” Now let the bowl with wine be crowned, Now lighter dance the mazy round, * On the death of Cleopatra. 46. THE ODES OF HORACE. And let the sacred couch be stored With the rich dainties of a priestly board. Sooner to draw the mellowed wine, Pressed from the rich Ceecubian vine, Were impious mirth, while yet elate The queen breathed ruin to the Roman state. Surrounded by a tainted train, Wretches enervate and obscene, She raved of empire—nothing less— Vast in her hopes, and giddy with success. But, hardly rescued from the flames,* One lonely ship her fury tames ; While Cesar with impelling oar Pursued her flying from the Latian shore : Her,.with Egyptian wine inspired, With the full draught to madness fired, Augustus sobered into tears, And turned her visions into real fears. As darting sudden from above The hawk attacks a tender dove : Or sweeping huntsman drives the hare O’er wide Aimonia’s icy deserts drear ; So Cesar through the billows pressed To lead in chains the fatal pest : * The fleet of Antony, even after his flight, made such an obstinate resistance, as obliged Augustus to send for fire from his camp to destroy it.-—Dace. Cleopatra left Egypt with a numerous and formidable fleet, and sailed, as to a certain conquest, towards Italy, which, from being an object of her hopes, was now become a scene of terror, from which she fled, in the greatest disorder, with all the speed of sails and oars. —San. BOOK L—ODE XXAXVITILI. 47 But she a nobler fate explored, Nor woman-like beheld the deathful sword,* Nor with her navy fled dismayed, In distant realms to seek for aid, But saw unmoved her state destroyed, Her palace desolate, a lonely void ; With fearless hand she dared to grasp The writhings of the wrathful asp, _ And suck the poison through her veins, Resolved on death, and fiercer from its pains : Thus, scorning to be led the boast Of mighty Ceesar’s naval host, And armed with more than mortal spleen, Defrauds a triumph, and expires a queen. FRANCIS. ODE XXXVIII. TO HIS SERVANT. “ Persicos, odt.” Nay, nay, my boy—’tis not for me, This studious pomp of Eastern luxury ; Give me no various garlands—fine With linden twine, Nor seek, where latest lingering blows The solitary rose. * Octavius had given particular directions to Proculeius and Epaphroditus to take Cleopatra alive, that he might make himself master of her treasures and have the glory of leading her in triumph. Justly sensible of this ignominy, she had reserved a dagger for her last extremities, and when she saw Proculeius enter, she raised it to stab herself, but he dexterously wrenched it from her.—Lamb. 48 THE ODES OF HORACE. Earnest I beg—add not with toilsome pain, One far-sought blossom to the myrtle plain, For sure, the fragrant myrtle bough Looks seemliest on thy brow ; Nor me mis-seems, while, underneath the vine, Close interweaved, I quaff the rosy wine. HarTLEY COLERIDGE. $$$ ee BOOK IT. —_¢— ODE I. TO ASINIUS POLLIO.* | ** Motum ex Metello.”’ O Pottto, thou the great defence Of sad, impleaded innocence, t On whom, to weigh the grand debate, In deep consult the fathers wait : For whom the triumphs o’er Dalmatia spread Unfading honours round thy laurelled head, Of warm commotions, wrathful jars, The growing seeds of civil wars ; Of double fortune’s cruel games, The specious means, the private aims, And fatal friendships of the guilty great, (Alas ! how fatal to the Roman state !) * C. Asinius Pollio, since the year 715, lived in a private manner at Rome, and in his retirement had written several tragedies, which, in the judgment of Horace and Virgil, had equalled the stage of Rome to that of Athens. But a work better meriting his whole strength and attention was a history of the Civil Wars. It was already far advanced when the poet wrote this ode.—Francis. + Pollio was distinguished as an orator as well as a writer. He BOOK LI1.—ODE I. 49 Of mighty legions late subdued, And arms with Latian blood imbrued, Yet unatoned (a labour vast ! Doubtful the die, and dire the cast !) You treat adventurous, and incautious tread On fires, with faithless embers overspread : Retard a while thy glowing vein, — Nor swell the solemn, tragic scene ; And when thy sage, historic cares Have formed the train of Rome’s affairs, With lofty rapture reinflamed, infuse Heroic thoughts, and wake the buskined muse: Hark! the shrill clarion’s voice I hear, Its threatening murmurs pierce mine ear; And in thy lines, with brazen breath, The trumpet sounds the charge of death; While the strong splendours of the sword affright The flying steed, and mar the rider’s sight ! Panting with terror, I survey The martial host in dread array, The chiefs, how valiant and how just! Defiled with not inglorious dust, And all the world in chains, but Cato, see Of spirit unsubdued, and dying to be free. Imperial Juno, fraught with ire, And all the partial gods of Tyre, Who, feeble to revenge her cries, Retreated to their native skies, joined Octavius and Antony, and was Consul v.c. 714. He was after- wards commander in Illyria, where he defeated the Parthini, an Illyrian people, and was allowed a triumph, v.c. 715. E 50 THE ODES OF HORACE. Have in the victor’s bleeding race repaid Jugurtha’s* ruin, and appeased his shade. What plain, by mortals traversed o’er, Is not enriched with Roman gore ? Unnumbered sepulchres record The deathful harvest of the sword, And proud Hesperia, rushing into thrall, While distant Parthia heard the cumbrous fall.} What gulf, what rapid river flows Unconscious:of our wasteful woes ? What rolling sea’s unfathomed tide Have not the Daunian slaughters dyed ? What coast, encircled by the briny flood, Boasts not the shameful tribute of our blood ? But thou, my Muse, to whom belong The sportive jest, and jocund song, Beyond thy province céase to stray, Nor vain revive the plaintive lay: Seek humbler measures, indolently laid With me beneath some love-sequestered shade. FRANCIS. * Jugurtha was king of Numidia; he was taken prisoner by Sylla, and led in triumph by Marius. After the triumph he was put to death. + The poet no longer confines himself to the quarrel between Cesar and Pompey, but exposes in general the melancholy effects of the whole Civil War. The images of these two strophes are very nobly spirited. Rivers and gulfs appear animated and enlivened ; and Italy is represented as a vast body, the fall of which is heard to nations most distant.—San. Dace. nn a ren en BOOK JE ODS I. 51 ODE II. TO CRISPUS SALLUSTIUS CRISPUS.* “ Nullus argento.” YEs, you deservedly despise ‘The wealth that use ne’er taught to shine, That rusting in the coffer lies: Like ore yet buried in the mine; For gold, my friend, no lustre knows But what a wise well-tempered use bestows. Thee, Proculeius!t distant days Will bless, and make thy virtues known, Conspiring tongues will sound thy praise, A father’s love to brethren shown: Transcendent worth, like thine will fly On Fame’s unflagging pinions through the sky. A monarch far more potent he Who subject keeps his wayward soul ; Who lives from sordid avarice free, And dares each fiercer lust control, Than he whose universal sway Wide earth’s extremes, her Kast and West obey. That sensual self-indulgent wretch Whose skin the panting dropsy strains, Still must the watery languor stretch, And only Temperance ease his veins ; So growing wealth prompts new desire, And Fortune’s breeze but fans the wasting fire. * Crispus Sallustius Crispus was grand-nephew to Sallust the his- torian. + Proculeius generously divided his fortune with his brothers, who had lost their property in the Civil Wars. REZ, 52 THE ODES OF HORACE. The Persian hails the public voice Decked with the crown that Cyrus wore; But virtue sanctions not the choice ; She calls Phraates,* blessed no more: Can tyrant hands, defiled with sin, The fair, the spotless mind of virtue win ? Virtue, their rule perverse, shall own Which bliss to wealth and grandeur leaves, From virtue he and he alone, The wreath and diadem receives Who dares the glittering heap pass by With steadfast mien and unreverted eye. GILBERT WAKEFIELD. ODE II. TO QUINTUS DELLIUS.t “< Hquam memento.” WHEN dangers press, a mind sustain Unshaken by the storms of Fate; And when delight succeeds to pain, With no glad insolence elate ; Kor death wri end the-various tors Mortal alike, if sadly grave You pass life’s melancholy day, Or, in some green retiréd cave Wearing the idle hours away, Give to the Muses all your soul, And pledge them in the flowing bowl; * King of Persia. + Dellius had several times changed sides during the Civil Wars. He joined Cassius ; then Antony and Cleopatra ; and finally deserted them for Augustus. He was the most inconstant of adherents, a BOOK I73-ODE IIT. Where the broad pine, and poplar white, To join their hospitable shade With intertwisted boughs delight ; And, o’er its pebbly bed conveyed, Labours the winding stream to run, Trembling, and glittering to the sun. Thy generous wine, and rich perfume, And fragrant roses hither bring, That with the early zephyrs bloom, And wither with declining spring, While joy and youth not yet have fled, And Fate still holds the uncertain thread. You soon must leave your verdant bowers And groves, yourself had taught to grow; Your soft retreats from sultry hours, Where Tiber’s gentle waters flow, Soon leave; and all you call your own Be squandered by an heir unknown. _ Whether of wealth and lineage proud, A high patrician name you bear, / Or pass ignoble in the crowd \ Unsheltered from the midnight air, "Tis all alike ; no age or state Is spared by unrelenting Fate. y To the same port our barks are bound; / One final doom is fixed for all : / The universal wheel goes round, And, soon or late, each lot must fall, When all together shall be sent To one eternal banishment. JoHN Herman MERIVALE. a3 54 THE ODES OF HORACE. ODE IV. TO XANTHIAS PHOCEUS. “ Ne ste ancille.” Nay, if thou lov’st thy handmaid, Xanthias, blush not: Long since the slave Briseis, with white beauty O’ermastering him who ne’er before had yielded, Conquered Achilles ; So, too, the captive form of fair Tecmessa Conquered her captor Telamonian Ajax ; And a wronged maiden, in the midst of triumph, Fired Agamemnon, What time had fallen the barbarian forces ~ Before the might of the Thessalian victor, And Hector’s loss made easy to worn Hellas Troy’s mighty ruin. How dost thou know but what thy fair-haired Phyllis May make thee son-in-law to splendid parents ? Doubtless she mourns the wrong to race and hearth- gods Injured, but regal. Believe not thy beloved of birth plebeian ; A girl so faithful, so averse from lucre, Could not be born of an ignoble mother Whom thou wouldst. blush for. That lovely face, those arms, those tapering ankles— Nay, in my praises never doubt my honour: The virtuous man who rounds the age of forty Hold unsuspected. Lorp Lyrron. (By courteous permission of Messrs, BLACK Woor.) BOOK Il—ODE YJ, ODE V. “ Nondum subacta.” Sex, thy heifer’s yet unbroke To the labours of the yoke, Nor hath strength enough to prove Such impetuous weight of love. Round the fields her fancy strays, O’er the mead she sportive plays, Now beneath the sultry beam Cools her in the passing stream, Now with frisking steerlings young Sports the sallow groves among. Do not then commit a rape On the crude, unmellowed grape : Autumn soon, of various dyes, Shall with kinder warmth arise, Bid the livid clusters glow, And a riper purple show. Time to her shall count each day, Which from you it takes away, Till with bold and forward charms, She shall rush into your arms. Pholoé, the flying fair, Shall not then with her compare ; Nor the maid, of bosom bright, Like the moon’s unspotted light, O’er the waves, with silver rays, When its floating lustre plays ; Nor the Cnidian* fair and young, Who, the virgin choir among, Might deceive, in female guise, * Gyges. 55 06 THE ODES OF HORACE. Strangers, though extremely wise, With the difference between Sexes hardly to be seen, And his hair of flowing grace, And his boyish, girlish face. FRANCIS. ODE VI. TO SEPTIMIUS.* “ Septimt, Gades.” Come friend! with me to Gades’ remotest shores, Where fierce Cantabrians spurn the Roman chain ; To climes barbaric, where unceasing roars © Thro’ boiling sands the Mauritanian main. May I, in Tybur, rais’d by Argive bands, Close the calm scene of life’s eventful stage : There find these limbs, long tossed on seas and lands, A bed of comfort for reposing age ! Should Fate, unkind, deny that blissful seat, Thy wave, Galesus! and thou, rural reign Of bold Phalantus ! + rest my pilgrim feet, Where snow-white fleeces brighten all the plain. Ye streams delicious, and enchanting fields! Oh! may that spot of all the globe be mine! Hymettus’ self not purer honey yields ; Venafrian olives dare but rival thine. * A Roman knight, and lyric and tragic poet. He attended Tiberius in his Eastern expedition, 731, and was esteemed by Augustus. He was one of Horace’s companions at Athens, and a fellow soldier with him under Brutus and Cassius. He was pardoned by Augustus. + Phalanthus and the Parthenii were expelled from Sparta and colo- nised Tarentum. BOOK I,—ODE VII. 57 There from soft Zephyr of encroaching Springs, Stern Winter’s transient rigours melt away ; There grapes, mount Aulon from his full lap flings, Like thine, Falern! matures a warmer ray. There every grace that Nature’s hand can lend, Invite our steps, and all the clime endear: There pay the last sad office to thy friend, And quench his glowing ashes with a tear. GILBERT WAKEFIELD. ODE VII. TO POMPEIUS VARUS.* “O scepe mecum.” O, ort with me in troublous time Involved, when Brutus warred in Greeee, Who gives you back to your own clime And your own gods, a man of peace, Pompey, the earliest friend I knew, With whom I oft cut short the hours With wine, my hair bright bathed in dew Of Syrian oils, and wreathed with flowers ? With you I shared Philippi’s rout, Unseemly parted from my shield, When Valour fell, and warriors stout Were tumbled on the inglorious field : But I was saved by Mercury, Wrapped in thick mist, yet trembling sore, * An early friend who fought with Horace on the side of Brutus and Cassius at Philippi. When peace was concluded between Sextus Pompeius and the Triumvirate, a general amnesty was granted, and Varus was able to return to Rome.—Ep, 58 THE ODES OF HORACE. While you to that tempestuous sea Were swept by battle’s tide once more. Come, pay to Jove the feast you owe ; Lay down those limbs, with warfare spent, Beneath my laurel; nor be slow To drain my cask; for you ’twas meant. Lethe’s true draught is Massic wine ; Fill high the goblet ; pour out free Rich streams of unguent. Who will twine The hasty wreath from myrtle-tree Or parsley ? Whom will Venus seat Chairman of cups? Are Bacchants sane ? Then Ill be sober. O, ’tis sweet To fool, when friends come home again ! J. CONINGTON. ODE VIII. TO BARINE. “Ulla si juris.” Di any punishment attend Thy former perjuries, I should believe, a second time, Thy charming flatteries : Did but one wrinkle mark thy face Or hadst thou lost one single grace. No sooner hast thou, with false vows, Provoked the powers above ; But thou art fairer than before And we are more in love. Thus Heaven and Earth seem to declare They pardon falsehood in the fair. BOOK IT.—ODE IX, 59 Sure ’tis no crime vainly to swear By every power on high, And call our buried mother’s ghost A witness to the lie! Heaven at such perjury connives And Venus with a smile forgives. The nymphs and cruel Cupid too, Sharp’ning his pointed dart On an old hone besmeared with blood, Forbear thy perjured heart. Fresh youth grows up to wear thy chains And the old slave no freedom gains. Thee, mothers for their eldest sons, Thee, wretched misers fear, Lest thy prevailing beauty should Seduce the hopeful heir ; New married virgins fear thy charms - Should keep their bridegrooms from their arms. Sir CHARLES SEDLEY. ODE IX, LOM ea LOL SehUHUSSs © Non semper imbres.”’ Cxioups do not always veil the skies, Nor showers immerse the verdant plain ; Nor do the billows always rise, Nor storms afflict the troubled main. * Valgius was of consular rank, and much admired as an epic poet. He wrote also elegies, epigrams, &c. 60 THE ODES OF HORACE. Nor, Valgius, on the Armenian shores, Do the chained waters always freeze ; Nor always furious Boreas roars, Or bends with violent force the trees. But you are ever drowned in tears, For Mystes * dead you ever mourn ; No setting sun can ease your cares, But finds you sad at his return. The wise experienced Grecian sage Mourned not Antilochus so long: Nor did King Priam’s hoary age So much lament his slaughtered son. Leave off at length these woman’s sighs, Augustus’ number d trophies sing ; Repeat that prince’s victories To whom all nations tribute bring. Niphates rolls an humbler wave ; At length th’ undaunted Scythian yields, Content to live the Romans’ slave And scarce forsakes his native fields. Dr. JOHNSON. * Lord Lytton says ‘‘the Mystes, whose loss Valgius deplores, must have been a slave or of servile origin, as the name denotes—not as Dacier and Sanadon suppose, the son of Valgius.”—Ep, BOOK IL—ODE X. 61 ODE x TO LICINIUS -MURENA.* “* Rectius vives.” ReEcEIvVE, dear friend, the truths I teach ; So shalt thou live beyond the reach Of adverse Fortune’s power ; _ Not always tempt the distant deep, Nor always timorously creep . Along the treacherous shore. He that holds fast the golden mean, And lives contentedly between The little and the great, Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, Nor plagues that haunt the rich man’s door, Embittering all his state. ‘The tallest pines feel most the power Of wintry blasts; the loftiest tower Comes heaviest to the ground ; The bolts that spare the mountain’s side, His cloud-capt eminence divide, And spread the ruin round. The well-informed philosopher Rejoices with a wholesome fear, And hopes, in spite of pain ; If winter bellow from the north, Soon the sweet spring comes dancing forth, And Nature laughs again. * According to Dacier this Licinius Murena was the brother of Proculeius and Terentia, the wife of Mecenas. He entered into a con- spiracy against Augustus with Flavius Ccepio in v.c. 731, and was put to death. He would have been wiser had he accepted the counsel of this Ode. 62 THE ODES OF HORACE. What if thine heaven be overcast ? The dark appearance will not last ; Expect a brighter sky. The god, that strings the silver bow, Awakes sometimes the Muses too, And lays his arrows by. If hindrances obstruct thy way, Thy magnanimity display, And let thy strength be seen ; But oh! if Fortune fill thy sail With more than a propitious gale, Take half thy canvas in. W. Cowper. ODE XI. TO QUINTIUS HIRPINUS. “ Quid bellicosus.” Wuart the Cantabrian stout, or Scythian think Divided with opposed Adria’s brink, Quintius Hirpinus, do not thou enquire ; Nor for life’s use, which little doth desire, Be thou too careful : smooth-faced youth apace Doth backward fly, and with it beauty’s grace, Dry aged hoariness with furrows deep, Dispelling amorous fires, and gentle sleep. The summer flowers keep not their native grace, Nor shines the bright moon with a constant face. Why dost thou tire thy mind, subordinate Unto the counsels of eternal fate ? BOOK II.—ODE XII. 63 Why under this high plane, or pine-tree’s shade In discomposéd manner, careless laid, Our hoary hair perfumed with fragrant rose, And odours, which Assyria doth disclose, Do we, anointed, not to drink prepare ? Free Bacchus dissipates consuming care : But oh! what boy, Falernian wines’ hot rage Will soon for me, with gliding streams assuage ? Ah! who retiréd Lyde will require, Hither to come? Boy, with her ivory lyre: Bid her make haste, and hair to tie not shame, In careless knot, like a Laconian dame. Sir Tuomas Hawkins. ODE XII. TO MAICENAS. “ Nolis longa fere.” NuMANTIA’s wars for years maintained, Or Hannibal’s vindictive ire, Or seas with Punic gore distained, Suit not the softness of my feeble lyre ; * Nor savage Centaurs, mad with wine, Nor earth’s gigantic rebel brood, Who shook old Saturn’s seats divine, Till by the arm of Hercules subdued. * The poet does not mean, as some commentators understand him, that grave or tragic subjects do not agree with lyric poetry. This assertion would be absolutely false, and the odes of Pindar and Horace are a proof of the contrary. He only says that his own lyre has no other sounds but what are proper for love, and refuses all subjects of grandeur and sublimity.—J/rancis. 04 THE ODES OF HORACE. You in historic prose shall tell The mighty power of Ceesar’s war ; How kings beneath his battle fell, Or dragged indignant his triumphal car. Licymnia’s * dulcet voice, her eye, Bright-darting its resplendent ray, Her breast, where love and friendship lie, The muse commands me sing in softer lay ; In raillery the sportive jest, Graceful her mien in dancing charms, When playful at Diana’s feast To the bright virgin choir she winds her arms. Say, shall the wealth by kings possessed, Or the rich diadems they wear, Or all the treasures of the east, Purchase one lock of thy Licymnia’s hair ? While now her bending neck she plies Backward to meet the burning kiss, Then with an easy cruelty denies, Yet wishes you would snatch, not ask the bliss. FRANCIS. ODE XIII. TO A TREE, “ Tile et nefasto.” Sname of thy mother-soil! ill nurtured tree ! Set to the mischief of posterity. * By Licymnia, Horace is supposed to have meant Terentia, the beautiful but capricious wife of Mecenas. BOOK IT—ODE XIII. 65 That hand (whate’er it were) that was thy nurse Was sacrilegious sure, or something worse, Black, as the day was dismal in whose sight Thy rising top first stained the bashful light. That man—TI think—wrested the feeble life From his old father ; that man’s barbarous knife Conspired with darkness ’gainst the stranger’s throat ; (Whereof the blushing walls took bloody note) Huge high flown poisons, ev’n of Colchis’ breed, And whatsoe’er wild sins black thoughts do feed, His hands have paddled in; his hands that found Thy traitorous root a dwelling in my ground. Perfidious totterer! longing for the stains Of thy kind master’s well-deserving brains. Man’s daintiest care and caution cannot spy The subtile point of his coy destiny Which way it threats. With fear the merchant’s mind Is ploughed as deep as is the sea with wind Roused in an angry tempest. Oh, the sea! Oh, that’s his fear! there floats his destiny. While from another, unseen corner blows The storm of fate to which his life he owes. By Parthian bow the soldier looks to die (Whose hands are fighting while their feet do fly). The Parthian starts at Rome’s imperial name, Fledged with her eagle’s wing; the very shame Of his captivity rings in his ears. Thus, O thus fondly do we pitch our fears Far distant from our fates, our fates that mock Our giddy fears with an unlooked for shock. A little more and I had surely seen Thy grisly majesty, Hell’s blackest queen, _ And Eacus on his tribunal too, Sifting the souls of guilt; and you, ch you, 66 THE ODES OF HORACE. You ever blushing meads, where do the blest Far from dark horror’s home appeal to rest. There amorous Sappho plains upon her lute Her love’s cross fortune ; that the sad dispute Runs murmuring on the strings. Alceus there In high built numbers wakes his golden lyre, To tell the world how hard the matter went, How hard, by sea, by war, by banishment. There these brave souls deal to each wondering ear, Such words so precious, as they may not hear Without religious silence ; above all War’s rattling tumults, or some tyrant’s fall, The thronging clotted multitude doth feast, What wonder, when the hundred headed beast, Hangs his black lugs, stroaked with those heavenly lines ; The Furies’ curled snakes meet in gentle twines, And stretch their cold limbs in a pleasing fire ; Prometheus’ self, and Pelop’s starved sire Are cheated of their pains: Orion thinks Of lions now no more, or spotted lynx. Ricuarp CRASHAW. ODE XIV. TO POSTUMUS. “ Bheu, fugaces.” How swiftly glide our flying years ! Alas! nor piety, nor tears Can stop the fleeting day; Bie BOOK I1.—ODE XIV. 67 Deep-furrowed wrinkles, posting age, And death’s unconquerable rage, Are strangers to delay. Though every day a bull should bleed To Pluto, bootless were the deed, The monarch tearless reigns, Where vulture-tortured Tityus lies, And triple Geryon’s monstrous size The gloomy wave detains. Whoever tastes of earthly food Is doomed to pass the joyless flood, And hear the Stygian roar ; The sceptred king, who rules the earth, The labouring hind, of humbler birth, Must reach the distant shore. The broken surge of Adria’s main, Hoarse-sounding, we avoid in vain, And Mars in blood-stained arms; The southern blast in vain we fear, And autumn’s life-annoying air With idle fears alarms ; For all must see Cocytus flow, Whose gloomy water sadly slow Strays through the dreary soil. The guilty maids,* an ill-famed train ! And, Sisyphus, thy labours vain, Condemned to endless toil. Your pleasing consort must be left, And you of villas, lands, bereft, Must to the shades descend ; * The Danaides, 68 THE ODES OF HORACE. The cypress only, hated tree ! Of all thy much-loved groves, shall thee, Its short-lived lord, attend. Then shall your worthier heir discharge, And set th’ imprisoned casks at large, And dye the floor with wine, So rich and precious, not the feasts Of holy pontiffs cheer their guests With liquor more divine. FRANCIS. ODE XV. AGAINST THE LUXURY OF THE ROMANS. “ Jam pauca aratro.” GLEAMING on Baie’s golden shore, Yon marble domes their sunny wings expand ; And glittering villas crown the yellow strand : But ah! its wealthy harvests wave no more, The faithful ploughshare quits the encumbered land. Mark yon broad lakes their glittering bosoms spread, Wide, as the Lucrine wave, their waters sheen ; And lo! the solitary plane is seen, Spreading its broad and fruitless boughs of green, Where erst above the maple’s social head, Laden with grapes the tendrils wont to twine ; And thou thy purple clusters shed, Oh! Italy’s beloved vine ! How rich the balm Favonius breathes, From banks, with rose and spicy myrtle set! How fair his fragrant blossoms wreathes BOOK I1.—ODE XVI, 69 Of the dark-eyed violet. But ah! the sons of joy forget, (Who the fierce splendours of the summer sky, In the green depth of laurel-groves defy ;) How autumn’s ripening hand was wont to pour The orchard fruits from every golden tree, And o’er the ruddy fallows smiled to see The olive drop its fat and mellow shower. How stern old Cato’s shaggy brows would bend ; How darkly glare our founder’s angry look ; For ill could they, the conscript fathers, brook To see yon marble porticos extend Wooing the North his breezy shades to lend From many a mountain nook. The green turf was their humble bed, Their costliest canopy the wild-wood tree ; While its rich breast the marble quarry spread, And high the temple reared its stately head ~ In honour of the deity. Rev. J. Mrrrorp, we ODE XVI. TO POMPEIUS GROSPHUS.* “ Olium divos.” In storms when clouds the moon do hide, And no kind stars the pilot guide, Show me at sea the boldest there, Who does not wish for quiet here. * According to the Scholiast Pompeius Grosphus was a Sicilian of the Equestrian Order. 0 THE ODES OF HORACE. For quiet, friend, the soldier fights, Bears weary marches, sleepless nights, Yor this feeds hard, and lodges cold ; It can’t be bought with hills of gold. Since wealth and power too weak we find To quell the tumults of the mind ; Or from the monarch’s roofs of state Drive thence the cares that round him wait: Happy the man with little blessed Of what his father left, possessed ; No base desires corrupt his head, No fears disturb him in his bed. What then in life, which soon must end, Can all our vain designs intend ? Irom shore to shore why should we run, When none his tiresome self can shun ? For baneful Care will still prevail, And overtake us under sail ; Twill dodge the great man’s train behind, Outrun the roe, outfly the wind. If then thy soul rejoice to-day, Drive far to-morrow’s cares away. In laughter let them all be drowned, No perfect good is to be found : One mortal feels fate’s sudden blow,* Another’s ling’ring death comes slow ; t And what of life they take from thee, The gods may give to punish me. Thy portion is a wealthy stock, A fertile glebe, a fruitful flock, Horses and chariots for thy ease, Rich robes to deck and make thee please. * Achilles, + Tithonus. BOOK Il.—ODE XVII, 71 For me a little cell I choose, Fit for my mind, fit for my nsuse, Which soft content does best adorn, Shunning the knaves and fools I scorn. Orway, 1678. ———$_______. ODE XVII. TO MAICENAS. “Cur me querelis.” Way wilt thou kill me with thy boding fears ? Why, O Mecenas, why ? Before thee lies a train of happy years ; Yes, nor the gods nor I Could brook that thou should’st first be-laid in dust, Who art my stay, my glory, and my trust. _ Ah, if untimely Fate should snatch thee hence, Thee, of my soul a part, Why should I linger on, with deadened sense, And ever aching heart, A worthless fragment of a fallen shrine ? _ No, no, one day shall see thy death and mine! Think not that I have sworn a bootless oath ; Yes, we shall go, shall go, Hand lnked in hand, whene’er thou leadest, both The last sad road below ! Me neither the Chimera’s fiery breath, Nor Gyges, even could Gyges rise from death, With all his hundred hands from thee shall sever ; For in such sort it hath Pleased the dread Fates, and Justice potent ever, 72 THE ODES OF HORACE. To interweave our path. Beneath whatever aspect thou wert born, Libra, or Scorpion fierce, or Capricorn, The blustering tyrant of the western deep, This well I know, my friend, Our stars in wondrous wise one orbit keep, And in one radiance blend. From thee were Saturn’s baleful rays afar Averted by great Jove’s refulgent star, And his hand stayed Fate’s downward-swooping wing When thrice with glad acclaim The teeming theatre was heard to ring, And thine the honoured name: So had the falling timber laid me low But Pan in mercy warded off the blow. Pan who keeps watch o’er easy souls like mine. Remember then to rear In gratitude to Jove, a votive shrine, And slaughter many a steer ; While I, as fits, an humbler tribute pay, And a meek lamb upon his altar lay. Sir THEODORE Marrin, (By kind permission.) ODE XVIII. AGAINST AVARICE AND LUXURY. “ Non ebur neque aureum.” No walls with ivory inlaid Adorn my house; no colonnade BOOK I1.—ODE XJYIII. 73 Proudly supports my citron beams, Nor rich with gold my ceiling flames ; Nor have I, like an heir unknown, Seized upon Attalus’s throne ; Nor dames, to happier fortunes bred, Draw down for me the purple thread ; Yet with a firm and honest heart, Unknowing or of fraud or art, With liberal vein of genius blessed, I’m by the rich and great caressed. My patron’s gift, my Sabine field, Shall all its rural plenty yield ; And happy in that rural store, _ Of Heaven and him I ask no more. Day presses on the heels of day, And moons increase to their decay ; But you, with thoughtless pride elate, Unconscious of impending fate, Command the pillared dome to rise, When, lo! thy tomb forgotten lies ; And, though the waves indignant roar, Forward you urge the Baian shore; While earth’s too narrow bounds in vain Your guilty progress would restrain, The sacred landmark strives in vain Your impious avarice to restrain : You break into your neighbour’s grounds, And overleap your client’s bounds. Driven out by thee, to new abodes They carry their paternal gods : The wife her husband’s sorrow shares, And on her breast her squalid infant bears. Yet destined by unerring fate, Shall death this wealthy lord await: THE ODES OF HORACE. Then whither tend thy wide domains ? For Earth impartial entertains Her various sons, and in her breagt Princes and beggars equal rest. Nor gold could bribe, nor art deceive The gloomy life-guard of the grave, Backward to tread the shadowy way, And waft Prometheus into day. Yet he, who Tantalus detains, With all his haughty race in chains, Invoked or not, the wretch receives, And from the toils of life relieves. . FRANCIS. ODE XIX. TO BACCHUS. * Bacchum in remotis.” Baccuus on far rocks his lays Teaching—trust me, future days— Listening nymphs, and hushed by awe Satyrs with pricked ears I saw. Evoe! flutters still my soul: Through my god-thrilled bosom roll Tumults! Spare me, Bacchus, hear Dreadful with thine ivy spear ! Grant me Bacchantes wild to sing, Wines, and milk’s o’erflowing spring, And the treasures of the bee, Trickling from the hollow tree: Grant me, tuneful to declare Ariadne’s circlet star. BOOK II1-—ODE XX, 75 And with agony of pain, Pentheus* and Lycurgus slain. Rivers thou, and barbarous sea: Sway’st; on mountains tipsily, Thou with harmless vipers twined Dost the Thracians’ tresses bind. Thou, when impious Titans strove To invade the realms of Jove, Cheeked and pawed as lion fell, Didst their giant-chief repel ; Thou for dancing formed and wit, Thou for war wast deemed unfit : Yet in battle, and in peace, Equal were thine energies. Thee with golden horn arrayed, Calm, the three tongued Dog surveyed ; And to honour thy retreat, Wagged his tail, and licked thy feet. WRANGHAM. ODE XxX. TO MACENAS. “ Non usitata.” Wits strong unwonted wing I rise, A two-formed poet, through the skies. Far above envy will I soar, And tread this worthless earth no more: * Pentheus was a king of Thrace, who was torn in pieces by his mother and sisters for his intrusion on the rites of Bacchus. Lycurgus was king of the Edones in Thrace, and was punished with madness for driving the infant Bacchus from his dominions, 76 THE ODES OF HORACE. For know, ye rivals of my fame, Though lowly born, a vulgar name I will not condescend to die, Nor in the Stygian waters lie. A rougher skin now clothes my thighs, Into a swan’s fair form I rise, And feel the feathered plumage shed Its down, and o’er my shoulders spread. Swift as with Deedalean wing, Harmonious bird, Ill soaring sing, And in my flight the foamy shores Where Bosphorus tremendous roars, The regions bound by northern cold, -And Libya’s burning sands behold. Then to the learned sons of Spain ;* To him, who ploughs the Scythian main ; To him, who with dissembled fears, Conscious, the Roman arms reveres ; To him, who drinks the rapid Rhone, Shall Horace, deathless bard! be known. My friends, the funeral sorrow spare, The plaintive song, and tender tear ; Nor let the voice of grief profane With loud laments the solemn scene ; Nor o’er your poet’s empty urn With useless, idle sorrows mourn. FRANCIS. “ In thetime of Augustus learning and the sciences flourished in Spain, whither they were carried from Asia, and where the Roman colonies contributed greatly to their encouragement.—Dac, BOOK I11—ODE 1. BOOK III. a ODE I. “ Odi profanum vulgus.” Ye rabble rout, avaunt! Your vulgar din give o’er, Whilst I, the Muses’ own hierophant, To the pure ears of youths and virgins chant In strains unheard before ! Great kings, whose frown doth make Their crouching vassals quake, Themselves must own The mastering sway of Jove, imperial god, Who from the crash of giants overthrown Triumphant honours took, and by his nod Shakes all creation’s zone. Whate’er our rank may be, We all partake one common destiny ! In fair expanse of soil Teeming with rich returns of wine and oil, His neighbour one outvies ; Another claims to rise To civic dignities, Because of ancestry, and noble birth, Or fame, or proved pre-eminence of worth, Or troops of clients, clamorous in his cause ; Still Fate doth grimly stand, And with impartial hand The lots of lofty and of lowly draws From that capacious urn, Whence every name that lives is shaken in its turn. 17 78 THE ODES OF HORACE. To him, above whose guilty head, Suspended by a thread, The naked sword is hung for evermore, Not feasts Sicilian shall With all their cates recall That zest the simplest fare could once inspire ; Nor song of birds, nor music of the lyre Shall his lost sleep restore : But gentle sleep shuns not The rustic’s lowly cot, Nor mossy bank, o’ercanopied with trees Nor Tempe’s leafy vale stirred by the western breeze. The man who lives content with hateos'er Sufficeth for his needs, The storm-tossed ocean vexeth not with care, Nor the fierce tempest which Arcturus breeds When in the sky he sets, Nor that which Heedus, at his rise, begets : Nor will he grieve, although His vines be all laid low Beneath the driving hail, Nor though, by reason of the drenching rain, Or heat, that shrivels up his fields like fire, Or fierce extremities of winter’s ire, Blight shall o’erwhelm his fruit-trees and his erain And all his farm’s delusive promise fail. The fish are conscious that a narrower bound Is drawn the seas around By masses huge hurled down into the deep ; These, at the bidding of a lord, for whoin Not all the land he owns is ample room, BOOK I1l,—ODE I. Do the contractor and his labourers heap Vast piles of stone, the ocean back to sweep. But let him climb in pride, That lord of halls unblest, Up to his lordly nest ; Yet ever by his side Climb Terror and Unrest; Within the brazen galley’s sides Care, ever wakeful, flits, And at his back, when forth in state he rides, Her withering shadow sits. If thus it fare with all ; If neither marbles from the Phrygian mine, Nor star-bright robes of purple and of pall, Nor the Falernian vine Nor costliest balsams, fetched from furthest Ind, Can sooth the restless mind ; Why should I choose To rear on high, as modern spendthrifts use, A lofty hall, might be the home for kings, With portals vast, for Malice to abuse, Or Envy make her theme to point a tale ; Or why for wealth, which new-born trouble brings, Iixchange my Sabine vale ? Siz THropore Marri. (By kind permission, ) PARAPHRASE OF THE SAME ODE. “ Odi profanum vulgus.” Henog, ye profane! I hate you all; Both the great vulgar, and the small. 80 THE ODES OF HORACE. To virgin minds, which yet their native whiteness hold, Nor yet discoloured with the love of gold That jaundice of the soul, (Which makes it look so gilded and so foul), To you, ye very few, these truths I tell; The muse inspires my song; hark, and observe it well. We look on men and wonder at such odds "Twixt things that were the same by birth ; We look on kings as giants of the earth, These giants are but pigmies to the gods. The humblest bush and proudest oak Are but of equal proof against the thunder-stroke. Beauty and strength, and wit, and wealth, and power, Have their short flourishing hour; And love to see themselves, and smile, And joy in their pre-eminence awhile: Ev’n so in the same land, Poor weeds, rich corn, gay flowers, together stand ; Alas! death mows down all with an impartial hand: And all ye men, whom greatness does so please, Ye feast, I fear, like Damocles, If ye your eyes could upwards move, (But ye, I fear, think nothing is above,) Ye would perceive by what a little thread The sword still hangs over your head : No tide of wine would drown your cares ; No mirth or music over-noise your fears : The fear of death would you so watchful keep, As not t’ admit the image of it, Sleep. Sleep is a god too proud to wait in palaces, And yet so humble too, as not to scorn The meanest country cottages : ‘* His poppy grows among the corn.” BOOK I11,—ODE I. 81 The halcyon Sleep will never build his nest In any stormy breast. "Tis not enough that he does find Clouds and darkness in their mind ; Darkness but half his work will do: "Tis not enough ; he must find quiet too. The man, who in all wishes he does make, Does only Nature’s counsel take, That wise and happy man will never fear The evil aspects of the year ; Nor tremble, though two comets should appear ; He does not look in almanacs, to see Whether he fortunate shall be: Let Mars and Saturn in the heavens conjoin, And what they please against the world design, So Jupiter within him shine. If of your pleasures and desires no end be found, God to your cares and fears will set no bound. What would content you ? who can tell ? Ye fear so much to lose what. ye have got, As if ye liked it well: Ye strive for more, as if ye liked it not. Go, level hills, and fill up seas, Spare nought that may your wanton fancy please : But, trust me, when you have done all this, Much will be missing still, and much will be amiss. ABRAHAM COWLEY. 82 THE ODES OF HORACE. PART OF ODE IL “ TO HIS FRIENDS.* “ Angustam, amice, pauperium.” How blessed is he who for his country dies, Since death pursues the coward as he flies ! The youth in vain would fly from fate’s attack, With trembling knees and terror at his back ; Though fear should lend him pinions like the wind, Yet swifter fate will seize him from behind. Virtue repulsed, yet knows not to repine, But shall with unattainted honour shine ; Nor stoops to take the staff, nor lays it down, Just as the rabble please to smile or frown. Virtue, to crown her favourites, loves to try Some new unbeaten passage to the sky ; Where Jove a seat among the gods will give To those who die for meriting to live. Next, faithful silence hath a sure reward ; Within our breast be every secret barred ! He who betrays his friend, shall never be Under one roof, or in one ship, with me; * The first ten lines of this Ode are omitted, as it was addressed by Swift to Lord Oxford, then in the Tower and in danger of death from the malice of his political enemies. We give them here :— *¢ The Roman youth should learn to gladly bear The toils of war, sharp penury, and care, Should on his gallant steed with mighty spear | Bear, through the Parthian ranks, dismay and fear ; . That when from her high tower the foeman’s queen . Or some ripe maiden his brave deeds has seen, They both may tremble lest their love should dare To meet the lion-champion riding there, Who makes, mid carnage fell, his dreadful way Through the thick masses of the foes’ array.” — Anon. BOOK T11—ODE II. 83 For who with traitors would his safety trust, Lest, with the wicked, Heaven involve the just ? And though the villain ’scape awhile, he feels Slow vengeance, like a blood-hound, at his heels. Dean SwIFt. ODE Ill. TO DELLIUS. “ Justum et tenacem.” THE man resolved and steady to his trust, Inflexible to ill, and obstinately just, May the rude rabble’s insolence despise, Their senseless clamours and tumultuous cries ; The tyrant’s fierceness he beguiles, And the stern brow, and the harsh voice defies, And with superior greatness smiles. Not the rough whirlwind that deforms Adria’s black gulf, and vexes it with storms, The stubborn virtue of his soul can move ; Nor the red arm of angry Jove, That flings the thunder from the sky, And gives it rage to roar, and strength to fly. Should the whole frame of Nature round him break, In ruin and confusion hurled, He, unconcerned, would hear the mighty crack, And stand secure amidst a falling world. Such were the godlike arts that led Bright Pollux to the blessed abodes ; Such did for great Alcides plead, And gained a place amongst the gods ; G2 84 "HE ODES OF HORACE. Where now Augustus, mixed with heroes, lies, And to his lips the nectar bowl applies : His ruddy lips the purple tincture show, And with immortal stains divinely glow. By arts like these did young Lyeus rise : His tigers drew him to the skies ; Wild from the desert, and unbroke, In vain they foamed, in vain they stared, In vain their eyes with fury glared ; He tamed them to the lash, and bent them to the yoke. Such were the paths that Rome’s great founder trod, When in a whirlwind snatched on high, He shook off dull mortality, And lost the monarch in the god. Bright Juno then her awful silence broke, And thus th’ assembled deities bespoke : ‘* Troy,” says the goddess, ‘‘ perjured Troy has felt The dire effects of her proud tyrant’s guilt ; The towering pile, and soft abodes, Walled by the hand of servile gods, Now spreads its ruins all around, And lies inglorious on the ground. An umpire partial and unjust, And a lewd woman’s impious lust Lay heavy on her head, and sank her to the dust. Since false Laomedon’s tyrannic sway That durst defraud th’ immortals of their pay, Her guardian gods renounced their patronage, Nor would the fierce invading foe repel ; To my resentment, and Minerva’s rage, The guilty king and the whole people fell. And now the long-protracted wars are o’er, The soft adulterer shines no more ; No more does Hector’s force the Trojans shield, BOOK If.—ODE Iii. 85 That drove whole armies back, and singly cleared the field. My vengeance sated, I at length resign T’o Mars his offspring of the Trojan line : Advanced to godhead, let him rise, And take his station in the skies: There entertain his ravished sight With scenes of glory, fields of light : Quaff with the gods immortal wine, And see adoring nations crowd his shrine. The thin remains of Troy’s afflicted host In distant realms may seats unenvied find, And flourish on a foreign coast ; But far be Rome from Troy disjoined, Removed by seas from the disastrous shore, May endless billows rise between, and storms un- numbered roar. Still let the cursed detested place Where Priam lies, and Priam’s faithless race, Be covered o’er with weeds, and hid in grass. There let the wanton flocks unguarded stray ; Or, while the lonely shepherd sings, Amidst the mighty ruins play, | And frisk upon the tombs of kings. May tigers there, and all the savage kind Sad solitary haunts and deserts find ; In gloomy vaults and nooks of palaces, May th’ unmolested lioness Her brindled whelps securely lay, Or, couched, in dreadful slumbers waste the day. While Troy in heaps of ruins lies, Rome and the Roman Capitol shall rise ; Th’ illustrious exiles unconfined Shall triumph far and near, and rule mankind. 86 THE ODES OF HORACE. In vain the sea’s intruding tide _ Europe from Afric shall divide, And part the severed world in two: Through Afric’s sands their triumphs they shall spread, 7 And the long train of victories pursue To Nile’s yet undiscovered head. Riches the hardy soldiers shall despise, And look on gold with undesiring eyes, Nor the disbowelled earth explore In search of the forbidden ore ; Those glittering ills, concealed within the mine Shall lie untouched, and innocently shine. To the last bounds that nature sets The piercing colds and sultry heats, The godlike race shall spread their arms ; Now fill the polar circle with alarms, Till storms and tempests their pursuits confine ; Now sweat for conquest underneath the line. This only law the victor shall restrain ; On these conditions shall he reign : If none his guilty hand employ To build again a second Troy, If none the rash design pursue, Nor tempt the vengeance of the gods anew. A curse there cleaves to the devoted place, That shall the new foundations raze ; Greece shall in mutual leagues conspire To storm the rising town with fire, And at their armies’ head myself will show What Juno, urged to all her rage, can do. Thrice should Apollo’s self the city raise, And line it round with walls of brass ; Thrice should my favourite Greeks his works confound, BOOK I1I,—ODE IV. And hew the shining fabric to the ground : Thrice should her captive dames to Greece return, 87 And their dead sons and slaughtered husbands mourn.” But hold, my muse, forbear thy towering flight, Nor bring the secrets of the gods to light : In vain would thy presumptuous verse Th’ immortal rhetoric rehearse ; The mighty strains, in lyric numbers bound, Forget their majesty, and lose the sound. ADDISON. ODE IV. TO CALLIOPE. *¢ Descende celo.”” Come from heaven, come and sing Some many-linkéd melody ; If the glad voice loud and clear, Or the wood-reed please thine ear, Or Apollo’s cittern be more dear, O Queen Calliope! Do ye hear ? oh, can it be, A sweet deceiving ecstasy ! I seem to hear, I seem to roam Through some spirit-haunted home, Where beneath the leaves dark hushing, The pleasant winds, and streams are gushing! Alone upon the Vultur-mount, From fond Apulia’s threshold straying, The doves the dewy foliage wound The weary poet-child around, Worn out with sleep and playing. THE ODES OF HORACE. And wonder woke in every breast, On Acherontia’s crownéd crest, And through the Bantine fields, and where Tarentum looketh green and fair,— That I, untouched by prowling bear, Or viper black, should sleep, A spirit-guarded, gleeful boy, Upon that sacred myrtle heap ! Daughters of music! I am borne Into your towering Sabine hills, Or ‘mid Preeneste’s cooling leaves, Or where its path the Tiber weaves, Or Baia’s crystal rills. Dance beside me, and I go A sailor on the stormy sea, Or over Syria’s burning sands, A pilgrim journeying joyfully. I will see the Briton’s dwelling, The Spaniard banqueting on gore; I will behold the quivered Scythian, Wandering on the desert shore. When mighty Cesar, victory-crowned, A home among the towns hath found For his legions tired with fight, His grief-forgetting heart your songs In the Pierian cave delight. With gentle counsel, singers sweet, Rejoicing in your gifts, ye greet. A tale is in my memory : The Titans and the giant-band, Scattered by the thunder-hand, Whose sceptred might is over all— The earth, its towns, the wind-shook sea, And Fades with its agony. BOOK III.—ODE IV. 89 Alike that fearful hand doth fall On man, and immortality ! A thought the rebel-brothers woke Of terror in the monarch’s breast, As glorying in their arms, they strove to fling Pelion upon Olympus’ forky crest. Vain boasters !—Typhon, mighty Mimas, Porphyrion with the threatening form, Or Rheetus, or the demon-hurler Of trees uprooted, like a storm ; Feebly they rushed, untaught to yield, Against Minerva’s sounding shield. Here eager Vulcan stood, and there The matron Juno, proudly fair ; And he whose bow is ever on his back ; Who bathes his wild locks in the dew Of Castaly, and roameth through The Lycian plain, his native glen— Apollo, the many-named of men! Brute strength, if wisdom guide it not, By its own weight to earth is pressed ; But thought-restrained, the gods exalt Its weakness into power: they hate the breast Where sin abides, a busy guest. Bear witness to my story, thou, Gyas! the hundred-handed king ; And, thou,* whose tongue unchilled by fear, Hath whispered love in Dian’s ear,* Within thy soul the virgin’s dart is quivering ! Earth upon the monsters thrown, Sadly weepeth for her own, Mourning for her children sent Unto hell’s lurid element ; * Orion, 90 THE ODES OF HORACE. Not yet the rapid flame doth leap Through Etna’s fast upgathered heap. By Tityus’ heart the vulture sitteth, A watcher sleeping never ; And hell about the cloud-born lover * Hath bound its manacles for ever ! RoBerRT WILMort. ODE V. THE PRAISES OF AUGUSTUS. “ Calo tonantem credidimus.” JovE’s power the thunder peal proclaims : Britain’s and Parthia’s hated names, Inscribed mid Cesar’s victories - Exalt the hero to the skies. And has thy soldier, Crassus, wived With a barbarian, meanly lived ? Beneath a Median standard ranged, (O Senate shamed! O manners changed !) Mailed in a foreign sire’s array, Has the stern Marsian’s brow grown grey— Vesta, race, robe, and rites forgot, As if great Rome—Rome’s Jove were not ? This, patriot Regulus foreknew ; And spurned, (to home and honour true,) The terms whose chronicled disgrace Would paralyze each rising race, If they, who bore to live in chains, Pined not unwept. ‘‘In Punic fanes * Pirithous, BOOK I1I.—ODE JV. 91 Rome’s captive banner hung ”’ (he cried,) ‘* These eyes have witnessed ; from a side Gashed by no wound the sword resigned, And cords round Roman arms entwined ; Carthage flung open, and her field, (Erst our rich spoil) securely tilled ! Hope ye more brave a ransomed race ? Ye couple damage with disgrace. Alas! once tinctured for the loom, Ne’er will the fleece its snow resume ; Nor valour sullied by a stain Renew its fire, and glow again. If stag released will brave the fight, Then count upon that soldier’s might, Who once has trusted treacherous foe : Then deem he’ll strike heroic blow, Who once has felt the hostile cord, And quivered at a Punic sword. "Twas his, in wild despair of life, To crouch for peace ’mid battle’s strife O mighty Carthage, reared to fame, On ruin of the Roman name!” And thus, his wife’s chaste kiss declined, His infants’ clinging arms untwined, With eyes cast down, in sternest mood, The self-attainted warrior stood: Till he the wavering Senate bent With counsel beyond precedent. And midst his weeping friends’ dismay, Illustrious exile! hied away. Though well, alas! he knew what woes Were meant him by his savage foes ; Through kin, through crowds before him cast, “+ 92 THE ODES OF HORACE. With foot as firm the hero past As it each client’s petty broil Duly composed, from civil toil He turned to some Venaran dome Or for Tarentum’s quiet home. | WRANGHAM. ODE VI. Vv TO THE ROMANS. * Delicta majorum.” Toss ills your ancestors have done, Romans! are now become your own: And they will cost you dear, Unless you soon repair The falling temples, which the gods provoke, And statues, sullied yet with sacrilegious smoke. Propitious Heaven, that raised your fathers high For humble grateful piety, (As it rewarded their respect) Hath sharply punished your neglect. All empires on the gods depend, Begun by their command, at their command they end. Let Crassus’ ghost and Labienus tell How twice, by Jove’s revenge, our legions fell, And with insulting pride, Shining in Roman spoils, the Parthian victors ride. The Scythian and Egyptian scum Had almost ruined Rome, While our seditions took their part, Filled each Egyptian sail, and winged each Scythian dart. BOOK I1I,—ODE V1, 93 First these flagitious times (Pregnant with unknown crimes) Conspire to violate the nuptial bed, From which polluted head Infectious streams of crowding sins began, And through the spurious breed and guilty nation ran. Behold a fair and melting maid Bound ’prentice to a common trade: Ionian artists, at a mighty price, Instruct her in the mysteries of vice, What nets to spread, where subtle baits to lay, And, with an early hand, they form the tempered clay. Tis not the spawn of such as these, That dyed with Punic blood the conquered seas, And quashed the stern AXvacides ; Made the proud Asian monarch feel How weak his gold was against Europe’s steel ; Forced e’en dire Hannibal to yield, And won the long disputed world, at Zama’s fatal field. But soldiers of a rustic mould, Rough, ready, seasoned, manly, bold; Hither they dug the stubborn ground, Or, through hewn woods, their weighty strokes did sound ; And after the declining sun Had changed the shadows, and their task was done, Home with their weary team they took their way, And drowned in friendly bowls the labour of the day. Time sensibly all things impairs ; Our fathers have been worse than theirs ; And we than ours; next age will see A race more profligate that we, With all the pains we take, have skill enough to be. RoscoMMOoNn. 94 VHE ODES OF HORACE. ODE VII. TO ASTERIE. “‘ Quid fles, Asterie.” Wuy thus, Asterie, weep thy lord ? Him, with rich eastern cargo stored Spring’s earliest breeze across the main Will to thy fond arms waft again, His faith unstained. By tempests driven, (So mads the Goat the wintry heaven), The wretched youth with many a groan Spends the cold sleepless night alone. In vain to win him Chloé tries— His hostess—by love’s embassies ; Her crafty envoy plies each art ; Tells him how burns for him her heart ; How by false charges Proetus’ wife Perfidious dame, against the life Of chaste, too chaste—Bellerophon Urged her confiding husband on; How near to death great Peleus was Who fled Hippolyte’s embrace— And many a tale besides throws in Framed to beguile the youth to sin— In vain: untouched he listens he Deaf as a rock and roaring sea. Thou too, shun love’s entangling snare Of young Enipeus’ wiles beware, Though none so skilled the fiery steed To turn and wind on Mars’s mead ; Where Tuscan Tiber pours his waves, Though none so fleet the current cleaves, BOOK I1,—ODE VIII. 95 Close, close at early eve thy door, To list his strains cross not thy floor ; Call thee ‘‘ coy,” ‘‘ cruel” —what he will, Be coy, be cruel to him still. ARCHDEACON WRANGHAM. ODE VIII. TO MACENAS. * Martus celebs.” Tue Greek and Roman languages are thine, Their hallowed customs, and their rites divine, And well you might the flowery wreath admire,* The fragrant incense, and the sacred fire, Raised on the living turf to hail the day, To which the married world their homage pay.t When on my head a tree devoted fell, And almost crushed me to the shades of hell, Grateful I vowed to him, who rules the vine, A joyous banquet, while beneath his shrine A snow-white goat {| should bleed, and when the year Revolving bids this festal morn appear, We'll pierce a cask with mellow juice replete, Mellowed with smoke, since Tullus ruled the state. * Used in the sense of ‘‘ wonder at.” + A festival was observed by the Roman ladies with much religious pomp, on the first of March, in memory of the day when the Sabine women, having reconciled their husbands with their fathers, dedicated atemple to Juno. In this temple they offered sacrifices and flowers to the goddess, and waited at home the rest of the day to receive the presents which their friends and husbands made them, as if to thank them for that happy mediation. ~ The ancients usually sacrificed to the gods the beasts which they hated. Thus a goat is sacrificed to Bacchus, because it destroyed the vine. The victims of the celestial gods were white; those of the infernal deities were black. 96 THE ODES OF HORACE. Come then, Mecenas, and for friendship’s sake, A friend preserved, a hundred bumpers take. Come drink the watchful tapers up to day, While noise and quarrels shall be far away. No more let Rome your anxious thoughts engage,* The Dacian falls beneath the victor’s rage, The Medes in civil wars their arms employ, Inglorious wars! each other to destroy ; Our ancient foes, the haughty sons of Spain, At length, indignant, feel the Roman chain ; With bows unbent the hardy Scythians yield, + Resolved to quit the long-disputed field. No more the public claims thy pious fears, Be not too anxious then with private cares, But seize the gifts the present moment brings, Those fleeting gifts, and leave severer things. FRANCIS. ODE IX. THE RECONCILIATION, “ Donec gratus eram.” Hor. Whilst, Lydia, I was loved of thee, And ’bout thy ivory neck no youth did fling His arms, more acceptably free, I thought me richer than the Persian king. * Augustus was not yet returned from his eastern expedition ; and when Agrippa went to Spain, Pannonia, and Syria, Mecenas possessed alone the government of Rome and Italy, until September 738, when he resigned it to Statilius Taurus, that he might follow Augustus into. Gaul. + It was the custom of all the northern nations to hold their bows unstrung, when they offered proposals of peace or truce, and when they retired off the field of battle.— Francis. BOOK TWI—ODE X. 97 Lydia. Whilst Horace loved no mistress more, Nor after Chloe did his Lydia sound, In name I went all names before, The Roman Ilia was not more renowned. Hor. ’Tis true I’m Thracian Chloe’s,—I,— Who sings so sweet, and with such cunning plays, As, for her, I'll not fear to die, So Fate would give her life and longer days. Lydia. And I am mutually on fire With gentle Calais, Thurine-Ornith’s son, For whom I doubly would expire, So Fate would let the boy a long thread run. Hor. But say old love return should make And us disjoined force to her brazen yoke ; That I bright Chloe off should shake And to left Lydia now the door stand ope’ ? Lydia. Though he be fairer than a star, Thou lighter than the bark of any tree, And than rough Adria angrier far ; Yet would I wish to love, live, die with thee. Ben JONSON. ODE X. Ose Y Cis, “ Ketremum Tanain.” Lyce! Lyce! were thy charms Doomed to some barbarian’s arms; Didst thou quaff the Tanais waves; 98 THE ODES OF HORACE. Still should pity mourn his fate, Who, before thy cruel gate, Feels the blast, the tempest braves. Mark, oh mark! the hollow roar Fills the grove, thy rattling door Echoes to the passing winds! Whilst with purer air below, Jove congeals the spreading snow Snow that icy chillness binds. Quit that stern, that haughty mien, Hateful to love’s gentle queen ; Wheels once losed shall backward haste. Offspring of a Tuscan sire Canst thou frown on soft desire ? Thou Penelope the chaste! Though my prayers, the gifts I send Fail thy stubborn heart to bend ; Though my cheeks as violet pale ; Though no just resentment rise When thy lord to harlots flies, Hear, oh hear, love’s tender tale ! Hard as knotted oaks to break, Fiercer than the Moorish snake, Yet attend these parting strains ; Thinkest thou, this my wearied side Long thy threshold can abide, Pierced by cold and chilled by rains ? WituiAmM Boscawen. BOOK I1II,—ODE XI, 99 ODE XI. TO MERCURY. “ Mercurt, nam te.” O tHov, by whose harmonious aid, Amphion’s voice the listening stones could lead: And sweetest shell, of power to raise, On seven melodious strings, thy various lays ; Not vocal, when you first were found, But of a simple, and ungrateful sound ; Now tuned so sweetly to the ear, That gods and men with sacred rapture hear ; Oh! thou inspire the melting strain To charm my Lyde’s obstinate disdain, Who, like a filly o’er the field With playful spirit bounds, and fears to yield To hand of gentlest touch, or prove, Wild as she is, the joys of wedded love. "Tis yours, with all their beasts of prey, To bid the forests move, and powerful stay The rapid stream. The dog of hell, Immense of bulk, to thee soft-soothing fell, And suppliant bowed, though round his head His hundred snakes their guardian horrors spread ; Baleful his breath though fiery glowed, And from his three-tongued jaws fell poison flowed. Ixion, of his pains beguiled, And Tityus, with unwilling pleasure, smiled ; Dry stood their urn, while with soft strain You soothed the labours of the virgin train.* * The Danaides, H 2 100 THE ODES OF HORACE. Let Lyde hear, what pains, decreed, Though late, in death attend the direful deed. There doomed to fill, unceasing task ! With idle toil, an ever-streaming cask ; Impious, who in the hour of rest, Could plunge their daggers in a husband’s breast. Yet worthy of the nuptial flame, And nobly meriting a deathless name Of many, one untainted maid,* Gloriously false, her perjured sire betrayed. Thus to her youthful lord ** Arise ; Awake, lest sleep eternal close thine eyes ; Eternal sleep: and ah! from whom You little dreaded the relentless doom. Oh! fly, my lord, this wrathful sire ; Far from my sisters fly, those sisters dire, Who riot in their husbands’ blood, As lionesses rend their panting food ; While I, to such fell deeds a foe, Nor bind thee here, nor strike the fatal blow. Me let my father load with chains, Or banish to Numidia’s farthest plains ; My crime, that I a loyal wife, In mercy spared a wretched husband’s life. While Venus, and the shades of night Protect thee, speed, by sea or land, thy flight. May every happy omen wait To guide thee through this gloomy hour of fate. Yet not forgetful of my doom, Engrave thy grateful sorrow on my tomb.” FRANCIs. * Hypermnestra, one of the Danaides, who saved her husband Lynceus on the night when her sisters killed theirs, BOOK TI—ODE XIII. 101 ODE XII. TO NEOBULE. “ Miserarum est, neque.” Unuappy the maidens forbidden to prove The bumper’s full joy, or the raptures of love ; Unhappy the girls, who are destined to hear The tedious rebukes of old uncles severe.* Cytherza’s winged son now bids thee resign The toils of Minerva, the spinster divine ; For now, Neobule, with other desires The brightness of Hebrus thy bosom inspires; When he rises with vigour from Tiber’s rough waves, Where the oil of his labours athletic he laves, Like Bellerophon skilful to rein the fierce steed, At cuffs never conquered, nor outstripped in speed, And dextrous with darts never flying in vain, To wound the light stag, bounding over the plain, Or active and valiant the boar to surprise, Transfixed with his spear, as in covert he lies. FRANCIS. ODE. XI: TO THE FOUNTAIN BANDUSIA. “O fons Bandusie.” O rontT! with fair unruffled face, More clear than crystal and more bright than glass; To thee my only bowl shall pour * Among the Romans, uncles had a great power over their nephews ; and, as they were not usually so indulgent as fathers, their severity passed into a proverb. —Z'orr. 102 THE ODES OF HORACE. The sweet libation crowned with many a flower. To thee a sportive kid shall bleed, Proud of the spreading honours of his head; Who meditates the angry shock, For some first love the fairest of the flock. In vain! for Venus will not save— His youthful blood shall tinge thy azure wave. Not Phebus, with his summer beams, Can penetrate thy shade, and gild thy streams ; But ever from the dog-star’s heat The wearied herds require thy green retreat. Let other bards their fountains sing, A bard shall love and celebrate thy spring ; The secret shelter of thy wood, And bubbling rills that fall into thy flood. JoHN Cam HopsHovuseE. ODE XIV. TO THE ROMANS.* “ Herculis ritu.”’ Tuy prince, O Rome, who foreign realms Explored like Jove’s immortal son, Fearless to seek the laurel wreath By death and glorious daring won, Victorious comes from farthest Spain, To Rome and all his guardian gods again. Let her, who to her arms receives With joy her own, her laurelled spouse, Her private sacrifice performed, * On the return of Augustus from Spain. BOOK ll—ODE XIV. 103 Pay to just heaven her public vows, And let the fair Octavia lead The matron train in suppliant veils arrayed: The matron train, to whose glad arms Their sons, with conquest crowned, return ; And you, fair youth, whose pious tears Your slaughtered sires and husbands mourn, This day at least your griefs restrain, And luckless from ill-omened words abstain. This day, with truly festal joy, Shall drive all gloomy cares away, For while imperial Cesar holds O’er the glad earth his awful sway, Nor fear of death from foreign arms, Or civil rage my dauntless soul alarms. Boy, bring us essence, bring us crowns ; Pierce me a cask of ancient date, Big with the storied Marsian war, And with its glorious deeds replete, If yet one jovial cask remain, Since wandering Spartacus o’erswept the plain. Invite Nezra to the feast, Who sweetly charms the listening ear, And bid the fair one haste to bind In careless wreaths her essenced hair ; But should her porter bid you stay, Leave the rough, surly rogue, and come away. When hoary age upon our heads Pours down its chilling weight of snows, 104 THE ODES OF HORACE. No more the breast with anger burns, No more with amorous heat it glows: Such treatment Horace would not bear, When warm with youth, when Plancus filled the consul’s chair.* FRANCIS. ODE XV. TO CHLORIS. “ Tzxor pauperis [byct.” THovu poor man’s incumbrance, thou rake of a wife, At length put an end to this infamous life ; Now near thy long home, to be ranked with the shades, Give over to frisk 1t with buxom young maids, And, furrowed with wrinkles, profanely to shroud Those bright constellations with age’s dark cloud. What Pholoé well, with a decency free, Might practise, sits awkward, O Chloris, on thee. Like her, whom the timbrel of Bacchus arouses, Thy daughter may better lay siege to the houses Of youthful gallants, while she wantonly gambols, - Of Nothus enamoured, like a goat in its rambles ; The spindle, the distatt, and wool spinning thrifty, ‘Not musical instruments fit thee at fifty, Nor roses impurpled, enriching the breeze, Nor hogsheg¢ds of liquor, drunk down to the lees. FRANCIS. * Plancus was Consul in the year in which the battle of Philippi was fought. BOOK 1I—ODE XVI. 105 ODE XVI TO MAICENAS. “ Inclusam Danaén,”’ “Tue lone grey tower on Argo’s mountain shore, The faithful watchdog at the midnight door.” Safe in their guard imprisoned love had slept, Iter baffled suitors youthful Danaé wept. But with rich bribes the laughing gods betrayed _ The yielding guardian, and the enamoured maid. Through arméd satellites, and walls of stone Gold wings its Might, resistless though alone. Rees Ah! who the wiles of womankind hath tried ? By gold, the priest, the blameless augur* died. Mark Philip’s march ! the obedient cities fall, Ope the wide gates, and yields the embattled wall. To gold, each petty tyrant sank a prey, King after king confessed its powerful sway, On wisdom’s patriot voice the siren hung, And stayed the thunders of the Athenian tongue, The war-worn veteran oft his trophies sold, And venal navies owned the power of gold. Enlarging wealth increasing wishes share, The gods have cursed the miser’s hoard with care ; To modest worth are choicest blessings sent, €Heaven loves the humble virtues of content» Far from the rich thy poet loves to dwell, And share the silence of the hermit’s cell. * Amphiaraus. 106 THE ODES OF HORACE. The wild brook babbling down the mountain’s side, The chestnut copse that spreads its leafy pride, The garden-plot that asks but little room, The ripening corn-field, and the orchard’s bloom, These simple pleasures, trust me, are unknown To the rich palace, or the jewelled throne ; The wealthy lords of Afric’s wild domain Would spurn my lowly roof and bounded plain. Cold are the Sabine hills! hives not for me Its hoarded nectar the Calabrian bee. Here no rich vines their amber clusters rain, Not mine the fleece that decks Gallicia’s plain. Yet want, for once, avoids a poet’s door, Content, and grateful, can I ask for more ? But should thy bard seek ampler means to live, Patron and friend! thy liberal hand would give. What if increasing wealth withholds its shower, If the rich widow guards her jealous dower ; Then wiser learn the effect is still the same, From humbler wishes, and contracted aim. More wealthy thou, than if thy lands could join All Phrygia’s harvests to the Lydian mine: Not want alone surrounds the opening door, {For pride and avarice are ever poor ;} Delusive hope, and wild desire combined, Feed with vain thoughts the hunger of the mind. ~~ But blessed is he to whom indulgent Heaven \ Man’s happiest state—enough—not more, has given. Rev. J. Mirrorp. BOOK T1I,—ODE XVIII, 107 ODE XVII. TO ALIUS LAMIA. “ Ali, vetusto.” AAiIus, whose ancient lineage springs From Lamus* founder of the name, (From whom a sacred line of kings ' Shines through the long records of fame ; From whom th’ illustrious race arose Whao first possessed the F’ormian towers, And reigned where Liris smoothly flows To fair Marica’s marshy shores,) If the old shower-foretelling crow Croak not her boding note in vain, T'o-morrow’s eastern storm shall strow The woods with leaves, with weeds the main. Then pile the fuel while you may, And cheer your spirit high with wine. Give to your slaves one idle day, And feast upon the fatted swine. FRANCIS. ODE XVIII. LTO. A) FAUN. “ Faune, Nympharum.” WooeErR of young Nymphs who fly thee, Lightly o’er my sun-lit lawn, Trip and go, nor injured by thee Be my weanling herds, O Faun : * The son of Neptune. The Lamiz were famous for their royal and noble descent. 108 THE ODES OF HORACE. If the kid his doomed head bows, and Brims with wine the loving cup, When the year is full; and thousand Scents from altars hoar go up. Each flock in the rich grass gambols When the month comes which is thine ; And the happy village rambles Fieldward with the idle kine: Lambs play on, the wolf their neighbour : Wild woods deck thee with their spoil: And with glee the sons of labour Stamp upon their foe the soil. C. S. CALVERLEY. ODE XIX. TO. THLEPHUS.* “ Quantum distet ab Inacho.” Wuen Inachus reigned to thee is notorious, When slain for his country was Codrus the glorious ; When governed the monarchs from Peleus descended, When Troy was besieged, and so bravely defended ; But where the best Chian, or what it may cost ye, Or how we may warm the long winter and frosty, Or temper our water with embers so glowing, Ah! Telephus, here thou art strangely unknowing. Here’s a bumper to midnight; to Luna’s first shining ; A third to our friend in his post of divining. * This Ode was written in honour of Murena’s installation in the College of Augurs. Telephus was learned in ancient history. BOOK T1I.—ODE XX. 109 Come fill up the bowl, then fill up your bumpers, Let three, or thrice three, be the jovial of numbers. The poet, enraptured, sure never refuses His brimmers thrice three to his odd-numbered Muses; But the Graces, in naked simplicity cautious, Are afraid more than three might to quarrels debauch us. Gay frolic and mirth to madness shall fire us; Why breathes not the flute then with joy to inspire us? Why hangs on the wall, in silence dolorous, The soft-swelling pipe, and the hautboy sonorous ? I hate all the slaves who are sparing of labour ; Give us roses abundant, and let our old neighbour, With his damsel, ill suited to such an old fellow, Even burst with his envy to hear us so mellow. Poor Horace in flames, how slowly consuming! For Glycera burns, while Chloe the blooming _Her Telephus courts, whose tresses are beaming, As are the bright rays from Vesperus streaming. FRANCIS, ODE XX. TO PYRRHUS. “ Non vides quanto.” How great the danger, Pyrrhus, canst not see ? From Afric’s lioness her whelps to snatch ! Ere long, thou nerveless spoiler, shalt thou flee The unequal match. When stalks she through the youth’s opposing throng, Loud is the strife the beauteous prey to claim Whether Nearchus shall to thee belong Or to the dame; 110 THE ODES OF HORACE. Meantime, while thou dost point the feathered steel She whets her awful fangs; the palm he spurns, Though umpire of the fight, beneath his heel, And careless turns . His shapely shoulder to the cooling air That lifts his perfumed locks. Such was the grace Of him from watery Ida stolen: so fair Was Nireus’ face. G. J. Wuyte MELVILLE. ODE XXI. TO HIS CASK. “ O nata mecum.” GENTLE cask of mellow wine, And of equal age with mine; Whether you to broils or mirth, Or to madding love give birth; Or the toper’s temples steep Sweetly in ambrosial sleep ; For whatever various use You preserve the chosen juice, Worthy of some festal hour, Now the hoary vintage pour: Come—Corvinus, guest divine, Bids me draw the smoothest wine, Though with science deep imbued, He, not like a Cynic rude, Thee despises ; for of old Cato’s virtue, we are told, Often with a bumper glowed, And with social raptures flowed. BOOK III—ODE XXII. 111 You by gentle tortures oft Melt hard tempers into soft ; You strip off the grave disguise From the counsels of the wise, And with Bacchus, blithe and gay, Bring them to the face of day. Hope by thee, fair fugitive! Bids the wretched strive to live; To the beggar you dispense Heart and brow of confidence ; Warmed by thee he scorns to fear Tyrant’s frown, or soldier’s spear. Bacchus boon, and Venus fair. (If she come with cheerful air,) And the Graces, charming band! Ever dancing hand-in-hand ; And the living taper’s flame Shall prolong thy purple stream, Till returning Pheebus bright Puts the lazy stars to flight. FRANCIS. ODE XXII. TO DIANA. “ Montium custos.” CuasTE goddess of the radiant night Who loy’st the airy mountain’s height And guard’st the sylvan bower ; Who thrice invoked with pious prayers Reliev’st the teeming matron’s cares Saved by thy triple power : 112 THE ODES OF HORACE. Accept this vow! henceforth the pine That shades my humble roof is thine ; Where, menacing the sight Slain by my hand a boar shall stain Each year, thy consecrated fane, On this returning light. WILLIAM BoscawENn. ODE XXIII. TO PHIDYLE. “ Calo supinas.” Ir, rural Phidyle, at the moon’s arise To heaven thou lift thy hands in humble wise: If thou with sacrifice thy Lars wilt please, Or with new fruit or greedy swine appease, Thy fertile vineyard shall not suffer blast From pestilent south; nor parching dew be cast Upon thy corn, nor shall thy children dear Feel sickly fits in autumn of the year. It is the long vowed victim, which is fed ’Mongst holms and oaks on snowy Algid’s head, Or which in fat Albanian pastures grew That shall the priest’s sharp axe with blood imbrue. To thee, who petty gods dost magnify With myrtle branch and sprig of rosemary, It nothing appertains their feasts to keep, With frequent slaughters of the fattest sheep. BOOK Ill.—ODE XXIV. 113 If thy hand, free from ill, the altar touch Thou shalt the offended sods appease as much With gift of sparkling salt and pious meal As if thy vows more costly victims seal. Sir T. Hawkins. ODE XXIV. AGAINST MISERS. “ Intactis opulentior.” Txoveu of th’ unrifled gold possessed, Of gorgeous Ind, and Araby the blessed ; Though with hewn, massy rocks you raise Your haughty structures midst th’ indignant seas, Yet, soon as fate shall round your head, With adamantine strength, its terrors spread, Not the dictator’s power shall save Your soul from fear, your body from the grave. , Happy the Scythians, houseless train ! Who roll their vagrant dwellings o’er the plain Happy the Getes, fierce and brave, Whom no fixed laws of property enslave ! While open stands the golden grain, The freeborn fruitage of the unbounded plain, Succeeding yearly to the toil, They plough with equal tasks the public soil. Not there the guiltless stepdame knows _ The baleful draught for orphans to compose ; No wife high-portioned rules her spouse, Or trusts her essenced lover’s faithless vows ; 114 THE ODES OF HORACE. The lovers there for dowry claim The father’s virtue, and the mother’s fame, That dares not break the nuptial tie, Polluted crime! whose portion is to die. Oh! that some patriot, wise and good, Would stop this impious thirst of civil blood, And joy on statues to behold His name, the father of the state, enrolled ! Oh! let him quell our spreading shame, And live to latest times an honoured name. Though living Virtue we despise, We follow her, when dead, with envious eyes; But wherefore do we thus complain, © If Justice wear her awful sword in vain ? And what are laws, unless obeyed By the same moral virtues they were made ? If neither burning heats extreme, Where eastern Phoebus darts his fiercest beam, Nor where the northern tempest blows, And freezes down to earth th’ eternal snows, Nor the wild terrors of the main Can daunt the merchant, and his voyage restrain ; If want, ah dire disgrace! we fear, From thence with vigour act, with patience bear, While Virtue’s paths untrodden lie, Those paths that lead us upwards to the sky ? Oh! let us consecrate to Jove (Rome shall with shouts the pious deed approve) . Our gems, our gold, pernicious store ! Or plunge into the deep the baleful ore. If you indeed your crimes detest, Tear forth, uprooted from the youthful breast The seeds of each depraved desire, While manly toils a firmer soul inspire. BOOK III.—ODE XXYV. 115 Nor knows our youth, of noblest race, To mount the managed steed, or urge the chase ; More skilled in the mean arts of vice, The whirling troque,* or law-forbidden dice: t And yet his worthless heir to raise To hasty wealth, the perjured sire betrays His partners, coheirs, and his friends ; But, while in heaps his wicked wealth ascends, He is not of his wish possessed, There’s something wanting still to make him blessed. FRANCIS. ODE XXV. TO BACCHUS. “ Quo me, Bacche.”’ 9 WuereE dost thou drag me, son of Semele, Me who am lost in wine ? Through what lone groves, through what wild haunts of thine Am I, in this strange frenzy, forced to flee? From what deep caverns (as I meditate On peerless Cesar’s fame and deathless fate) Shall I be heard, when my exulting cries Proclaim him friend of Jove, and star in yon bright skies ? * The troque was a circle of iron or brass of five or six feet in dia- meter, set round with rings, and driven along by a rod as boys’ hoops are now. + All games of hazard were forbidden by several laws, except during the Saturnalia. Suetonius tells us, Augustus not only played in that, but in all other festivals. —Francis. ios 116 THE ODES OF HORACE. Something Pll shout—new—strange—as yet unsung By any other human tongue! Thus, stung by thee, the sleepless Bacchanals ever Grow mad whilst gazing on the Hebrus river, On snow-white Thrace, and Rhodope, whose crown Barbarian footsteps trample down. And oh! like them it joys my soul To wander where the rivers roll, To gaze upon the dark and desert groves. O thou great power, whom the Naiad loves And Bacchant women worship (who o’erthrow The mighty ash-trees as they go), Nothing little, nothing low, Nothing mortal will I sing. Tis risk, but pleasant risk, O king! To follow thus a god who loves to twine His temples with the green and curling vine. ProcTER (BARRY CORNWALL). ODE XXVI. TO VENUS. “ Viet puellis.” I natTeny with young virgins did comply, And was in Cupid’s camp renownéd high ; Now my engins * (wars at end) And lute I'll on this wall suspend, Bord’ring on sea-born Venus’s left hand Here, here let my enlightening taper stand, * Weapons. BOOK 117.—ODE XXVI1I1,. 117 With my levers and my bow, That barred up doors can open throw. Thou who dost o’er blest Cyprus Isle preside, And Memphis where no Thracian snow can bide, O Queen! with far-fetched stroke Once haughty Chloe’s ire revoke. ALEXANDER Bromn.* ODE XXVII. TO GALATEA. “ Impios parre.” Fierce from her cubs the ravening fox, Or wolf from steep Lanuvian rocks, Or pregnant bitch, or chattering jay, - Ill-omened, guide the wicked on their way ; Serpents, like arrows, sidelong thwart The road, and make their horses start. -For those I love, with anxious fear I view the doubtful skies, a prudent seer ; And bid the chanting raven rise When Pheebus gilds his orient skies ; Ere speeds the shower-boding crow To lakes, whose languid waters cease to flow. Happy may Galatea prove, Nor yet unmindful of our love ; For now no luckless pie prevails, Nor vagrant crow forbids the swelling sails. * Brome published the first complete translation of Horace. 118 THE ODES OF HORACE. Yet see what storms tumultuous rise, While prone Orion sweeps the skies. I know the Adriatic main,* And western winds, perfidiously serene. But may the rising tempest shake Our foes, and dreadful o’er them break ; For them the blackening ocean roar, And angry surges lash the trembling shore. When on her bull Europa rode, t Nor knew she pressed th’ imperial god, Bold as she was, th’ affrighted maid, The rolling monsters of the deep surveyed. Late for the rural nymphs she chose Kach flower, a garland to compose ; But now, beneath the gloom of night, Views nought but seas, and stars of feeble light. Soon as she touched the Cretan shore, ‘* My sire,”’ she cries; ‘‘ Ah! mine no more; For every pious tender name Is madly lost in this destructive flame. ‘‘ Where am I, wretched and undone ? And shall a single death atone A virgin’s crime ? or do my fears Deplore the guilty deed with waking tears ? * Horace knew the Adriatic sea in his voyage to Athens, when he went to study philosophy there ; and a second time in his return to Italy, after the battle of Philippi.—Francis. + Galatea was preparing to embark, because the skies were serene, and the seas calm ; but Horace tells her that Europa was deceived - by the same serenity of the skies and calmness of the seas ; that she soon had reason to repent of her boldness, when she saw nothing round her but stars and waves. Such is the force and justness of the com- parison. — Jorr. BOOK LI—ODHE XXVII. 119 “Or am I yet, ah! pure from shame, Mocked by a vain, delusive dream ? Could I my springing flow’rets leave To tempt through length of seas the faithless wave ? ‘‘ While thus with just revenge possessed, How could I tear that monstrous beast! How would I break, by rage inspired, Those horns, alas! too fondly once admired ? ‘‘ Shameless, my father’s gods I fly ; Shameless, and yet I fear to die. Hear me, some gracious heavenly power, Let lions fell this nuked corse devour. ‘* My cheeks ere hollow wrinkles seize ; Ere yet their rosy bloom decays ; While youth yet rolls its vital flood ; Let tigers fiercely riot in my blood. “ But hark! I hear my father cry, ‘Make haste, unhappy maid, to die; ‘And if a pendent fate you choose, Your faithful girdle gives the kindly noose ; ‘** Or if you lke a headlong death, Behold the pointed rocks beneath ; Or plunge into the rapid wave, Nor live on haughty tasks, a spinster-slave, *“* «Some rude barbarian’s concubine, Born as thou art of royal line’ ” Here the perfidious-smiling dame, And idle Cupid to the mourner came ; 120 THE ODES OF HORACE. Awhile she rallied with the fair, Then with a grave and serious air, ‘‘ Indulge,” she cries, “‘ thy rage no more, This odious bull shall yield him to thy power. “Yet sigh no more but think of love ; For know thou art the wife of Jove: Then learn to bear thy future fame When earth’s wide continent shall boast thy name.” FRANCIS. ODE XXVIII. TO LYDE. “ Festo quid potius.” Say, what shall I do on the festival day * Of Neptune ? Come, Lyde, without more delay, And broach the good creature, invaulted that lies ; Cast off all reserve, and be merry and wise. The evening approaches, you see, from you hill; And yet, as if Phebus, though wingéd, stood still, You dally to bring us a cup of the best, Condemned, like its consul, ignobly to rest. With voices alternative, the sea-potent king, And the Nereids with ringlets of azure, we’ll sing. From the sweet-sounding shell thy hand shall araise Latona’s, and swift-darting Cynthia’s praise. The gay-smiling goddess of love and delight, Who rules over Cnidus, and Cyclades bright, * Kept on the 28th of every month in Athens; 23rd of July iz. Rome. —franecis. BOOK l11.-—ODE XXIX. 121 And guiding her swans with a soft silken rein, Revisits her Paphos, shall crown the glad strain. Then to the good Night, while bumpers elate us, We'll sing a farewell, and a decent quietus. FRANCIS. ODE XXIX. TO MACENAS. “© Tyrrhena regu.” Mzcenas,—sprung from Tuscan kings—for thee, Mild wine in vessels never touched, I keep: Here roses and sweet odours be Whose dew thy hair shall steep. O stay not, let moist Tiber be disdained, And Aiésule’s declining fields and hills Where once T'elegonus remained— Whose hand his father kills. Forsake the height where loathsome plenty cloys, And towers which to the lofty clouds aspire ; The smoke of Rome, her wealth and noise Thou wilt not here admire. In pleasing change the rich man takes delight, And frugal meals in homely seats allows, Where hangings want, and purple bright, He clears his care-full brows. Now Cepheus plainly shows his hidden fire, The Dogstar now his furious heat displays, The Lion spreads his raging ire, The sun brings parching days. 122 THE ODES OF HORACE. The shepherd now his sickly flock restores With shades and rivers, and the thickets finds Of rough Silvanus ; silent shores Are free from playing winds. ‘T'o keep the state in order is thy care, Solicitous for Rome, thou fear’st the wars Which barbarous eastern troops prepare, And Tanais, used to jars. ‘The wise Creator from our knowledge hides The end of future times in darksome night ; False thoughts of mortals he derides When them vain toys affright. With mindful temper present hours compose, The rest are like a river, which with ease Sometimes within its channel flows Into Etrurian seas. Oft stones, trees, flocks, and houses it devours, With echoes from the hills and neighb’ring woods When some fierce deluge, raised by showers, Turns quiet brooks to floods. He, master of himself, in mirth may live Who saith, “I rest well pleased with former days, Let God from heaven to-morrow give Black clouds or sunny rays.” No force can make that void, which once is past, These things are never altered, or undone, Which from the instant rolling fast With flying moments run. BOOK ITII-—ODE XXIX. Proud Fortune, joyful sad affairs to find, Insulting in her sport, delights to change Uncertain honours: quickly kind, And straight again as strange. I praise her stay ; but if she stir her wings, Her gifts I leave, and to myself retire, Wrapt in my virtue: honest things In want no dower require. When Lybian storms the mast in pieces shake I never God with prayers and vows implore, Lest precious wares addition make To greedy Neptune’s store. Then I, contented with a little boat, Am through Avgean waves by winds conveyed, Where Pollux makes me safely float, And Castor’s friendly aid. 123 Sir JoHN Beaumont, 1608. PARAPHRASE OF THE SAME ODE. “ Tyrrhena regum.” DESCENDED of an ancient line, That long the Tuscan sceptre swayed, Make haste to meet the generous wine, Whose piercing is for thee delayed : The rosy wreath is ready made ; And artful hands prepare The fragrant Syrian oil, that shall perfume thy hair. When the wine sparkles from afar, And the well-natured friend cries, ‘‘ Come away!” Make haste, and leave thy business, and thy care, No mortal interest can be worth thy stay. 124 THE ODES OF HORACE. Leave for awhile, thy costly country seat ! And to be great indeed, forget The nauseous pleasures of the great. Make haste and come! Come and forsake thy cloying store! Thy turret that surveys from high, The smoke, and wealth, and noise of Rome, And all the busy pageantry, That wise men scorn, and fools adore. Come give thy soul a loose, and taste the pleasures of the poor! Sometimes ’tis grateful for the rich to try A short vicissitude, and fit of poverty : A savoury dish, a homely treat Where all is plain, where all is neat, Without the stately spacious room, The Persian carpet, or the Tyrian loom Clear up the cloudy foreheads of the great. The sun is in the Lion mounted high, The Syrian star barks from afar, And, with his sultry breath, infects the sky; The ground below is parched, the heavens above us fry; The shepherd drives his fainting flock Beneath the covert of a rock, And seeks refreshing rivulets nigh : The Sylvans to their shades retire, Those very shades and streams, new shades and streams require, And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the raging fire. Thou, what befits the new Lord Mayor, And what the City factions dare, BOOK III.—ODE XXIX. 125 And what the Gallic arms will do, And what the quiver-bearing foe, Art anxiously inquisitive to know: But God has wisely hid, from human sight, The dark decrees of future fate, And sown their seeds in depths of night. He laughs at all the giddy turns of State, Where mortals search too soon, and fear too late. Enjoy the present smiling hour, And put it out of Fortune’s power ; The tide of business, like the running stream, Is sometimes high and sometimes low, A quiet ebb, or a tempestuous flow, Aud always in extreme. Now with a noiseless gentle course, It keeps within the middle bed; Anon it lifts aloft its head, And bears down all before it, with impetuous force: And trunks of trees come rolling down, Sheep and their folds together drown ; Both house and homestead into seas are borne, And rocks are from their old foundations torn, And woods, made thin with winds, their scattered honours mourn. Happy the man, and happy he alone, He, who can call to-day his own : He who, secure within, can say To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived to-day ! Be fair or foul, or rain or shine, The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine. Not Heaven itself, upon the past has power, And what has been, has been, and I have had my hour. 126 THE ODES OF HORACE. Fortune that, with malicious joy, Does man, her slave, oppress, Proud of her office to destroy, Is seldom pleased to bless ; Still various, and inconstant still, But with an inclination to be ill, Promotes, degrades, delights in strife, And makes a lottery of life. I can enjoy her while she’s kind ; But when she dances in the wind, And shakes her wings, and will not stay, I puff the prostitute away : The little or the much she gave is quietly resigned, Content with poverty my soul I arm, And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm. What is’t to me, Who never sail in her unfaithful sea, If storms arise, and clouds grow black If the mast split, and threaten wreck ? Then let the greedy merchant fear _ For his ill-gotten gain, And pray to gods, that will not hear, While the debating winds and billows bear His wealth into the main. For me, secure from Fortune’s blows, Secure of what I cannot lose, In my small pinnace, I can sail, Contemning all the blustering roar; And, running with a merry gale, With friendly stars my safety seek, Within some little winding creek, And see the storm ashore. DRYDEN. BOOK II1—ODE XXX. 12 =~) ‘Le lL ODE XXX. TO MELPOMENE. “ Hxegt monumentum.” More durable than brass, in height Surpassing far the regal site Of pyramids I’ve raised a tower That shall defy the cankering shower, Nor northern blast, nor lapse of time Shall mar the beauties of its prime. T shall not wholly die, for still shall live My better part for aye, to give Freshness and vigour to the praise That I shall reap in after days. Long as the priest the Capitol ascends, And her chaste steps the silent vestal bends : Famous, though sprung of lowly birth, O’er thirsty Daunus’ sterile earth ; Where Aufidus’ hoarse waves resound There shall my name with fame be crowned As the first poet who had sung AMolian verse in Latin tongue. Melpomene! usurp thy sway, My temples wreathe with Delphic bay. HERBERT GRANT. (By curteous permission of Messrs. HARRISON. ) SS 128 THE ODES OF HORACE. BOOK IV. Qa ODE I. LOsWdNGS: 5 “ Intermissa, Venus, diu.” VENus, again thou mov’st a war Long intermitted, pray thee, pray thee spare! I am not such, as in the reign Of the good Cynara I was; refrain Sour mother of sweet Loves, forbear To bend a man, now at his fiftieth year Too stubborn for commands so slack : Go where youth’s soft entreaties call thee back. More timely hie thee to the house | (With thy bright swans) of Paulus Maximus: There jest and feast, make him thine host Tf a fit liver thou dost seek to toast. For he’s both noble, lovely, young, And for the troubled client fills his tongue: Child of a hundred arts, and far Will he display the ensigns of thy war. And when he, smiling, finds his grace With thee ’bove all his rivals’ gifts take place, He’ll thee a marble statue make, Beneath a sweet-wood roof, near Alba lake ; There shall thy dainty nostril take In many a gum, and for thy soft ear’s sake Shall verse be set to harp and Jute, And Phrygian haw’boy, not without the flute. There twice a day in sacred lays, The youths and tender maids shall sing thy praise! BOOK 1V.—ODE II. 129 And in the Salian manner meet Thrice ’bout thy altar, with their ivory feet. Me now, nor girl, nor wanton boy Delights, nor credulous hope of mutual joy; Nor care I now healths to propound Or with fresh flowers to girt my temples round. Eut why, oh why, my Ligurine, Flow my thin tears down these pale cheeks of mine ? Or why my well-graced words among, With an uncomely silence, fails my tongue? Hard-hearted, I dream every night I hold thee fast! but fled hence with the light, Whether in Mars his field thou be, Or Tiber’s winding streams, I follow thee. Bren JONSON. ODE Il. TO ANTONIUS IULUS.* “ Pindarum quisquis.” He, who to Pindar’s height attempts to rise, Like Icarus, with waxen pinions tries His pathless way, and from the venturous theme Falling shall leave to azure seas his name. As when a river, swollen by sudden showers, O’er its known banks from some steep mountain pours, So in profound, unmeasurable song The deep-mouthed Pindar, foaming, pours along. Well he deserves Apollo’s laurelled crown, Whether new words he rolls enraptured down * The son of Antony and Fulvia; he was brought up by Octavia, the sister of Augustus and widow of Antony. K 130 THE ODES OF HORACE. Impetuous through the Dithyrambic strains ; Free from all laws, but what himself ordains ; Whether in lofty tone sublime he sings The immortal gods, or god-descended kings, With death deserved who smote the Centaurs dire, And quenched the fierce Chimera’s breath of fire ; Or whom th’ Olympic palm, celestial prize ! Victorious crowns, and raises to the skies, Wrestler or steed—with honours, that outlive The mortal fame which thousand statues give ; Or mourns some hapless youth in plaintive lay, From his fond, weeping bride, ah! torn away ; His manners pure, his courage, and his name, Snatch’d from the grave, he vindicates to fame. Thus, when the Theban swan attempts the skies, A nobler gale of rapture bids him rise ; But like a bee, which through the breezy groves With feeble wing and idle murmurs roves, Sits on the bloom, and with unceasing toil From thyme sweet-breathing culls his flowery spoil; So I, weak bard! round Tiber’s lucid spring, Of humbler strain laborious verses sing. Tis thine with deeper hand to strike the lyre, When Cesar shall his raptured bard inspire, And crowned with laurel, well-earned meed of war, Drag the fierce Gaul at his triumphal car ; Than whom the gods ne’er gave, or bounteous Fate, To human kind a gift more good or great, Nor from their treasures shall again unfold, Though time roll backward to his ancient gold. Be thine the festal days, the city’s joys, The Forum silenced from litigious noise, The public games for Cesar safe restored, A blessing oft with pious vows implored. BOOK 1V.—ODE III. 131 Then, if my voice can reach the glorious theme ; Then will I sing, amid the loud acclaim— ‘* Hail, brightest sun ; in Rome’s fair annals shine ; Ceesar returns—eternal praise be thine.” As the procession awful moves along, Let shouts of triumph fill our joyful song ; Repeated shouts of triumph Rome shall raise, And to the bounteous gods our altars blaze. ‘Of thy fair herds twice ten shall grateful bleed, While I, with pious care, one steerling feed: Weaned from the dam, o’er pastures large he roves, And for my vows his rising youth he proves: His horns like Luna’s bending fires appear, When the third night she rises to her sphere ; And, yellow all the rest, one spot there glows Full in his front, and bright as winter snows. FRANCIS. ODETIiavee TO MELPOMENE. “ Quem tu, Melpomene.” He on whose birth the lyric Queen Of numbers smiled, shall never grace The Isthmian gauntlet, or be seen First in the famed Olympic race. He shall not, after toils of war, And humbling haughty monarchs’ pride, With laurelled brows, conspicuous far, To Jove’s Tarpeian Temple ride. But him, the streams that warbling flow, Rich Tibur’s fertile meads along, And shady groves, his haunts, shall know The master of th’ AXolian song. n 9 132 THE ODES OF HORACE. The sons of Rome, majestic Rome! Have placed me in the poets’ choir, And envy now, or dead or dumb, Forbears to blame what they admire. Goddess of the sweet-sounding lute ! Which thy harmonious touch obeys; Who canst the finny race, though mute, To cygnets’ dying accents raise ; Thy gift it is, that all, with ease, Me, prince of Roman lyrics, own; That while I live, my numbers please, If pleasing be thy gift alone. BisHop ATTERBURY. ODE IV. THE PRAISES OF DRUSUS. “ Qualem ministrum.” As the winged minister of thund’ring Jove T'o whom he gave his dreadful bolts to bear, Faithful assistant of his master’s love, King of the wand ’ring nations of the air, When balmy breezes fanned the vernal sky, On doubtful pinions left his parent nest, In slight essays his growing force to try, While inborn courage fired his generous breast ; Then, darting with impetuous fury down, The flocks he slaughtered, an unpractised foe ; Now his ripe valour to perfection grown, The scaly suake and crested dragon know ; BOOK IV.—ODE IV. 133 Or, as a lion’s youthful progeny, Weaned from his savage dam and milky food, _ The gazing kid beholds with fearful eye, Doomed first to stain his tender fangs in blood : Such Drusus, young in arms, his foes beheld, Lhe Alpine Rheti, long unmatched in fight: So were their hearts with abject terror quelled, So sunk their haughty spirit at the sight. ‘Tamed by a boy, the fierce barbarians find How guardian prudence guides the youthful flame ; And how great Ceesar’s fond paternal mind Each generous Nero forms to early fame ; A valiant son springs from a valiant sire : Their race by mettle sprightly coursers prove ; Nor can the warlike eagle’s active fire Degenerate to form the timorous dove. But education can the genius raise, And wise instructions native virtue aid ; Nobility without them is disgrace, And honour is by vice to shame betrayed. Let red Metaurus, stained with Punic blood, Let mighty Asdrubal subdued, confess How much of empire and of fame is owed By thee, O Rome, to the Neronian race. Of this be witness that auspicious day Which, after a long, black, tempestuous night, First smiled on Latium with a milder ray, And cheered our drooping hearts with dawning light. Since the dire African with wasteful ire Rode o’er the ravaged towns of Italy ; 134 THE ODES OF HORACE. As through the pine-trees flies the raging fire, Or Eurus o’er the vexed Sicilian sea. From this bright era, from this prosperous field, The Roman Glory dates her rising power ; “rom hence twas given her conquering sword to wield, staise her fallen gods, and ruined shrines restore. Thus Hannibal at length despairing spoke : ‘‘ Like stags, to ravenous wolves an easy prey, Our feeble arms a valiant foe provoke, Whom to elude and ’scape were victory : ‘‘A dauntless nation, that from Trojan fires, Hostile Ausonia, to thy destined shore Her gods, her infant sons, and aged sires, Through angry seas and adverse tempests bore : ** As on high Algidus the sturdy oak, Whose spreading boughs the axe’s sharpness feel, Improves by loss, and thriving with the stroke, Draws health and vigour from the wounding steel. ‘“ Not Hydra sprouting from her mangled head So tired the baffled force of Hercules ; Nor Thebes, nor Colchis, such a monster bred, Pregnant of hills, and famed for prodigies. ‘* Plunge her in ocean, like the morning sun, Brighter she rises from the depths below: To earth with unavailing ruin thrown, Recruits her strength, and foils the wond’ring foe. No more of victory the joyful fame Shall from my camp to haughty Carthage fly ; Lost, lost, are all the glories of her name ! With Asdrubal her hopes and fortune die!” BOOK IV.—ODE V. 135 What shall the Claudian valour not perform Which power divine guards with propitious care ; Which wisdom steers through all the dangerous storm, Through all the rocks and shoals of doubtful war ? Lorp LYTTLETON. ODE Y. TO AUGUSTUS. “ Dwwis orte bonis.” Great chieftain! Heav’n’s paternal care! Who wield’st the destinies of Rome ; And rul’st with sway propitious there, Speed, speed thy ling’ring steps, long absent, home. Haste to thy country, O! return ; Their prince beloved the people claim : For thee the people, senates burn, With hearts of fire, and breathe thy sacred name. When like the beams of rosy spring, Thy face its living lustre throws, The hours more vivid pleasures bring, And the glad sun with brighter splendour glows. As pensive on the winding shore The mother bends her lonely way, And listens to the distant roar Of sullen waves that wanton in the fray ; Then turns to heaven th’ imploring eye, And prays the gods her son to bless ; And safely to his native sky Restore whom love is ardent to caress. 136 THE ODES OF HORACE. Tis thus, e’en thus with strong desire, In steadfast faith the supplant hand Italia lifts: she asks her sire, Asks that, returned, he glad a grateful land. For ’mid the rich and flow’ry fields Disporting herds in quiet graze : J'he golden harvest Ceres yields, And smiling Fortune all her wealth displays. Safe on the wave from hostile arms The seaman steers: her guiltless course Firm Faith sustains, nor Virtue’s charms Are marred by darkling wiles or daring force. Stern Law with iron arm subdues Crimes whose foul blackness blots the skies: In each loved child the father views Himself: transgression wingéd vengeance flies. And who can now the Parthian fear, The wand’ring tribes of Scythian snows, The German fierce with lance and spear, Or shun the conflict with Iberian foes, "Neath Ceesar’s rule? The happy swain Weds to the trees his tender vine ; Then fills the bowl, and pours again To powers supreme the richly-flowing wine. To thee we breathe full many a pray’r, O’er costly goblets sound thy name : The feast the gods domestic share, And Greece thus celebrates her Castor’s fame, BOOK IV.—ODE VI. 137 Or great Alcides’: ‘‘ May’st thou bring To Latium oft such joys as these!” When cheerful morning blushes thus we sing, And when the lamp of day sinks in the western seas. Rev. S. SANDERSON. ODE VI. LOPAPROLEO: «“ Dive, quem proles.” O THov, who Niobe’s proud tongue Didst visit on her vaunted young ; Whose vengeance lustful Tityus struck, And him that Ilium all but took— Achilles, sea-born Thetis’ son— Second in fight to thee alone: Though, lord of the tremendous spear, He shook the Dardan towers with fear ; Like pine by biting axe cut down, Or cypress by fierce blasts o’erthrown, Low in Troy’s dust (vast fall!) his head Beneath thy conquering arm was laid. He would not, caged in Pallas’ horse, Base counterfeit, with midnight force Have burst on unsuspecting Troy, And Priam’s halls of fatal joy : But gaunt and grim in open day Seized, crushed, alas! his tender prey, And doomed in Grecian flames to «lie The embryo buds of infancy ; 138 THE ODES OF HORACE. Had not dread Jove, o’ercome by thee And Venus, issued his decree That happier, by Aineas planned, Elsewhere another Troy should stand. Thou who didst teach Thalia’s lyre, Bright God, its strains of living fire, Who lavest in Xanthus’ stream thy hair, O make the Daunian muse thy care! The glow, the art, the name of bard On me Apollo has conferred. Ye high-born virgins, fair and young, Ye boys of noblest lineage sprung (Object of Dian’s fond delight, Whose bow arrests the lynx’s flight,) Careful the Lesbian measure keep As o’er the chords my fingers sweep: And solemn sing Latona’s son— Night’s torch, who gives the plenteous year, And wheels the months in prone career. Married thow’lt say: ‘‘ That pious sound,” When time has rolled the century round, ‘“‘T chaunted on high festal day, And Horace taught the tuneful lay.” WRANGHAM. ODE VII. TO TORQUATUS. “ Diffugere nives.” THE snows are passed away, the field renews Its grassy robe, the trees with leaves are crowned ; All nature feels a change ; the streams unloose BOOK IV.—ODE VII. 139 Their bands of ice, and bathe the meads around ; The sister Graces with the Nymphs advance In light attire, weaving the joyous dance. Warned by the varying year and hast’ning day, Expect not thou, my friend, immortal joys : Spring’s zephyr melts the winter’s frost away, And spring the summer’s hotter breath destroys, Soon forced to wait on autumn’s mellow train, Till cold and sluggish winter rules again. The seasons’ difference rolling moons repair ; But we, if once to that sad shore conveyed Where the great manes of our fathers are, Shall be but empty ashes and a shade. Who knows if they that rule this mortal clime Will add to-morrow to our sum of time ? Thy generous soul can best improve the hours Of the short life allowed by partial Heaven ; Yet thee, Torquatus, in those gloomy bow’rs Where Minos’ last tremendous deom is given, Not all thy pride of honourable berth, Nor wit, nor virtue, can restore to earth ! Not e’en the huntress of the silver bow, Who made the chaste Hippolytus her care, Could bring his spirit from the realms below: Nor Theseus armed with forces immortal tear His loved Perithous from the triple chain Tkat bound his soul to that infernal plain. J. H. MerRIvare. 140 THE ODES OF HORACE. ODE VIII. TO CENSORINUS.* “ Donarem pateras.” WirH liberal heart to every friend A bowl or caldron would I send ; Or tripods, which the Grecians gave, As rich rewards, to heroes brave ; Nor should the meanest gift be thine, If the rich works of art were mine, By Scopas, or Parrhasius wrought, With animating skill who taught The shapeless stone with life to glow, Or bade the breathing colours flow, To imitate, in every line, The form or human or divine. But I nor boast the curious store, And you nor want, nor wish for more ; "Tis yours the joys of verse to know, Such joys as Horace can bestow, While I can vouch my present’s worth, And call its every virtue forth. Nor columns, which the public raise, Engraved with monumental praise, By which the breath of life returns To heroes, sleeping in their urns: Nor Hannibal, when swift he fled,+ His threats retorted on his head ; * This Ode was written either in the time of the Saturnalia (when it was customary among the Romans to send presents to their friends), or in return for something valuable, which Horace had received from Censorinus, and for which he sends him a copy of verses. Censorinus was of noble birth, and Consul in v.c. 746.—Francis. + The threats of Hannibal, driven back from Italy, when he was obliged to fly to the defence of Carthage. —Bond. BOOK IV.—ODE VIII, 141 Nor impious Carthage wrapt in flame, From whence great Scipio gained a name,* Such glories round him could diffuse As the Calabrian poet’s + muse; And should the bard his aid deny, Thy worth shall unrewarded die. Had envious silence left unsung The child from Mars and Ilia sprung, How had we known the hero’s fame, From whom the Roman empire came ? The poet’s favour, voice. and lays, Could Atacus from darkness raise, Snatched from the Stygian gulfs of hell, Among the blissful isles to dwell. The Muse forbids the brave to die, The Muse enthrones him in the sky ; Alcides, thus, in heaven is placed, And shares with Jove th’ immortal feast ; Thus the twin-stars have power to save The shattered vessel from the wave, And vine-crowned Bacchus with success His jovial votaries can bless. FRANCIS. * Scipio was the first of the Romans who was honoured with the name of a conquered country.—Francis. + Ennius, who celebrated the actions of this hero, was born in Calabria, from whence this expression, ‘‘the Calabrian muses.” We have some fragments of his works, which show a strong and masculine spirit, but rude and uncultivated.—Franeis. 142 THE ODES OF HORACE. ODE IX. TO MARCUS LOLLIUS.* “ Ne forte credas.” THtnk not those strains can e’er expire, Which, cradled ’mid the echoing roar Of Aufidus, to Latium’s lyre I sing with arts unknown before. Though Homer fill the foremost throne, Yet grave Stesichorus + still can please, And fierce Alcgeus holds his own With Pindar and Simonides. The songs of ‘T'eos are not mute, And Sappho’s love is breathing still ; She told her secret to the lute, And yet its chords with passion thrill. Not Sparta’s queen alone was fired By broidered robe and braided tress, And all the splendours that attired Her lover’s guilty loveliness : Not only Teucer to the field His arrows brought, nor Ilion Beneath a single conqueror reeled : Not Crete’s majestic lord alone, Or Sthenelus, earned the Muses’ crown : Not Hector first for child and wife, Or brave Deiphobus, laid down The burden of a manly hfe. Before Atrides men were brave : * Lollius was Consul with Q. Aimilius in the 732nd year of the city. He commanded the Roman legions in Germany, Thrace, and Galatia. + Of Himera in Sicily : he flourished about 610 years before Christ. BOOK IV.—ODE IX. 143 But ah! oblivion, dark and long, Has locked them in a tearless grave, For lack of consecrating song. *Twixt worth and baseness, lapped in death, What difference ? You shall ne’er be dumb, While strains of mine have voice and breath : The dull neglect of days to come Those hard-won honours shall not blight : No, Lollius, no: a soul is yours, Clear-sighted, keen, alike upright When fortune smiles, and when she lowers : To greed and rapine still severe, Spurning the gain men find so sweet: A consul, not of one brief year, But oft as on the judgment-seat You bend the expedient to the right, Turn haughty eyes from bribes away, Or bear your banners through the fight, Scattering the foeman’s firm array. The lord of boundless revenues, Salute not him as happy: no, Call him the happy, who can use The bounty that the gods bestow, Can bear the load of poverty, | And tremble not at death, but sin: No recreant he when called to die In cause of country or of kin. J. CONINGTON. (By courteous permission of Messrs. BELL. ) er 144 THE ODES OF HORACE. ODE X. TO LIGURINUS. “ O crudelis adhue.” O cRUEL still, and vain of beauty’s charms, When wintry age thy insolence disarms ; When fall those locks, that on thy shoulders play, And youth’s gay roses on thy cheeks decay ; When that smooth face shall manhood’s roughness wear, And in your glass another form appear, Ah! why, you'll say, do I now vainly burn, Or with my wishes not my youth return ? FRANCIS. ODE XI. VOSPHAYsLTS: “ Bst nuhi nonum.”’ Puyziuis! a cask I have of Alban wine Now more than nine years old; my garden shows Fresh parsley, chaplets for the feast to twine, And ivy grows In plenty ; gaily shall it deck thine hair ; Glitters the house with plate; chaste vervains round The altar, thirsting for its votive share Of blood, are bound; All hands are busy ; lads and lasses hie Now here, now there, each mingled task to claim ; While through the sullying smoke that rolls on high Leaps the bright flame. BOOK IV.—ODE XI, 145 But why we bid thee here I must explain, Our joys to share. We keep glad April’s Ides, The month of Venus, daughter of the main, This day divides. Right sacred ’tis to me, almost more dear Than birthday of my own; since from its light Mecenas reckons each revolving year In passing flight, Young Telephus another fair hath seized, Above thy rank, thou followest him in vain ; Wealthy and wanton is the lass, well pleased He hugs his chain. Scorched Phaéton bids ambitious minds beware ; From Pegasus the striking warning heed ! Mortal Bellerophon he scorned to bear That winged steed. Do thou desist from the degrading chase; Hopes that amount to guilt do thou resign ; Shun the unequal match, my home to grace — Last love of mine. Come thou with me! Ill woo no other fair. Come learn the strains shall suit that winning voice ; Lulled by soft music’s charm e’en gloomy Care Must needs rejoice. G. J. WuytTe-MELVILLE. 146 THE ODES OF HORACE, ODE XII TORVIRGIR. “ Jam veris comites.” Companions of the spring, that lull the sea,. Now the soft airs of Thrace the sails impel : Now, nor the meads are frozen, nor rivers swell, Loud with the snows of winter down the lea. Her nest she puts that ‘‘ Itys’”’ weeping cries The hapless bird, of the Cecropian name The sad reproach for ever, that ill she came To avenge barbarian kings’ impieties. Laid on the tender grass, at listless ease, The shepherds of fat flocks their music rear, And charm the god to whom the herd is dear, Whom the dark hills of his Arcadia please. The season hath brought thirst ; but if you think To quaif the generous wine at Cales pressed, O Virgil, by the noble youth caressed, Then purchase with sweet nard the pleasing drink. Of nard a little onyx shall prepare A cask, which in Sulpician barns is laid, Rich to produce new hope, and full of aid To wash away the bitterness of care. These joys if you delight in, quickly come With merchandise of price: I have no thought To steep you in my laughing cups for nought, As the rich man in his abundant home. But losing dreams of wealth, that poor deceit, Mindful of the dark fires, whilst yet you may, Mix a short folly with your studious day : To trifle as the fool in place is sweet. Lorp THuRLOoW. BOOK IV.—ODE XII. 147 ODE XIII. LOT LY OC: “ Audivere, Lyce.” My prayers are heard, O Lyce, now They’re heard ; years write thee aged, yet thou, Youthful and green in will, Putt’st in for handsome still, And shameless dost intrude among The sports and feastings of the young. There, thawed with wine, thy ragged throat To Cupid shakes some feeble note, To move unwilling fires, And rouse our lodged desires, When he still wakes in Chia’s face. Chia, that ’s fresh and sings with grace. For he, choice god, doth in his flight Skip sapless oaks, and will not light Upon thy cheek or brow, Because deep wrinkles now, Grey hairs, and teeth decayed and worn, Present thee foul, and fit for scorn, Neither thy Coan purple’s lay, Nor that thy jewel’s native day Can make thee backwards live, And those lost years retrieve Which wingéd time unto our known And public annals once hath thrown. Whither is now that softness flown ? Whither that blush, that motion gone ? Alas, what now in thee Ts left of all that she— 148 THE ODES OF HORACE. That she that loves did breathe and deal ? That Horace from himself did steal ? Thou wert awhile the cried-up face Of taking arts, and catching grace, My Cynara being dead ; But my fair Cynara’s thread Fates broke, intending thine to draw Till thou contest with the aged daw; That those young lovers once thy prey, Thy zealous eager servants, may Make thee their common sport, And to thy house resort | To see a torch that proudly burned Now into colder ashes turned. W. CARTWRIGHT, 1688. ODE XIV. TO AUGUSTUS. “Que cura Patrum.” How shall the Senate, how the people’s care, To faithful annals thy exploits consign, What worthy monuments prepare To make thy virtues shine, And to each future age thy spreading glory bear ? O greatest prince that in his annual round The sun surveys, whom late (though void of fear), The fierce Vindelici have found Invincible in war, And felt thee less by rumour than by deeds ere BOOK IV.—ODE XIV. 149 For Drusus led thy conquering legion on And oft the wild Genaunian nation broke; The nimble Breunians too o’erthrown Confess the Roman yoke And their strong Alpine forts his matchless courage won. Next elder Nero claims the like applause Who the huge Rheetians dreadful in the field, With slaughter tired in freedom’s cause Unknowing how to yield They, generous victims fell for their dear country’s laws. As furious Auster’s unresisting course Provokes the billows where the Pleiads glow Through parting clouds ; with equal force He, dauntless, charged the foe ; Or as horned Aufidus the bounds disdains Which guide him rolling through Apulia’s States When swelled with melting snow and rains He, rising, meditates Swift with his torrent floods to deluge all the plains ; So Claudius, rapid in his wide career Forced the barbarians cased in steel to yield And, with small loss, from front to rear Mowed down the standing field, While with thy counsel, arms, and gods he led the war ; For on the day when Egypt’s empty throne Hailed thee her lord, the Fates who love to bless And thy unrivalled title own By fifteen years’ success On that returning day they now thy glory crown. The fierce Cantabrian not to be o’ercome But by thy arms; the Indian and the Mede, 150 THE ODES OF HORACE. The Scythian lurking now at home, Justly thy prowess dread O tutelary god of Italy and Rome! The Nile’s mysterious springs thy grace implore, The rapid Tigris,—the wide Danube bends To thee, e’en to the British shore Thy awful sway extends Where tempests rage and monster-teeming billows roar! Thy name Iberia’s hardy sons alarms ; Alarms the Gauls, who death undaunted meet, The wild Sygambrian lays his arms Submissive at thy feet While thirst of blood no more his savage vengeance charms. W. Duncomse. ODE XY. TO AUGUSTUS.* “ Phebus volentem.”’ I woutp have sung of battles dire, And mighty cities overthrown, When Phcebus smote me with his lyre, And warned me with an angry tone, Not to unfold my little sail, or brave The boundless terrors of the Tyrrhene wave. Yet will I sing thy peaceful reign, Which crowns with fruits our happy fields, And rent from Parthia’s haughty fane, To Roman Jove his eagles yields ; * In the latter end of spring 744, Augustus shut the temple of Janus for the third and last time, which probably gave occasion to this ode. —San. BOOK IV.—-ODE XV. 151 Augustus bids the rage of war to cease, And shuts up Janus in eternal peace. Restrained by arts of ancient fame, Wild license walks at large no more, Those arts, by which the Latian name, The Roman strength, th’ imperial pow’r, With awful majesty unbounded spread To rising Phebus from his western bed. While watchful Cesar guards our age, Nor civil wrath, nor loud alarms Of foreign tumults, nor the rage, That joys to forge destructive arms, And ruined cities fills with hostile woes, Shall e’er disturb, O Rome, thy safe repose. Nations, who quaff the rapid stream, Where deep the Danube rolls his wave ; The Parthians, of perfidious fame, The Getz fierce, and Seres brave, And they, on T'anais who wide extend, Shall to the Julian laws reluctant bend. Our wives and children share our joy, With Bacchus’ jovial blessings gay ; Thus we the festal hours employ, Thus grateful hail the busy day ; But first, with solemn rites the gods adore, And, like our sires, their sacred aid implore ; Then vocal, with harmonious lays To Lydian flutes, of cheerful sound, Attempered sweetly, we shall raise The valiant deeds of chiefs renowned, Old Troy, Anchises, and the godlike race Of Venus, blooming with immortal grace. FRANCIS. THE SECULAR ODE.* TO, APOLLO; AND. DIANA. “ Phebe, silvarumque potens Diana.” Puapus, and thou, Diana, sylvan Power ! Blest pair—revered, and still to be revered— Bright gems of ether! grant the suit preferred At this fixed hour Of hallowed joy, when (as the Sibyl’s lays Ordained) chaste Youths and Virgins to the Powers That guard the city and her seven-hilled towers Pour songs of praise! Thou genial Sun! whose orb in heaven’s high dome Reveals and shrouds the day—still rising new And still the same —may nothing meet thy view, Greater than Rome! And thou, Lucina! lenient to disclose The ripened birth—whatever name best please Thine ear—Natalis! [lithyia !—ease Our matron’s throes! Grant large increase, and speed the Senate’s cause, Who strengthen (studious of their country’s good) Pure wedlock’s bands, and to recruit her brood Stamp nuptial laws : t * Composed at the request of the Emperor Augustus for the fifth regular celebration of the Ludi Sceculares in the year of the City 737. + Augustus made a law in U.c. 736, giving rewards to those who married and fining the celibates. THH SHCULAR ODE. 153 That oft as years, to decades full eleven Revolving, shall renew with solemn rite This Jubilee, glad anthems day and night May rise to heaven. And you, whose verdict, once declared, stands fast, Linked in Necessity’s eternal chain, Ye Destinies! with future blessings deign To crown the past! May Earth, boon parent, rich in flocks and fruit, Grace Ceres with a wreath of golden ears While the soft shower and gale salubrious rears Each budding shoot ! Placid and mild, thy shafts of vengeance sheathed, Hear thou the Youths, majestic Lord of light ! Hear thou the prayer, bicorned Queen of night, By Virgins breathed! Blest twain! if Rome from you derived her birth ;— If hither, led by you, the Trojan bands Urged a safe course, what time for distant lands They changed their hearth ; To whom, unscathed, thro’ Ilium wrapt in flame, The brave survivor of the land he lost Oped a free path, to found on Latium’s coast A nobler name ; Grant to our docile youth each virtuous grace ! To weary veterans grant serene repose ! Grant health, wealth, issue, all that Heaven bestows To Rome’s whole race! 154 THE SHCULAR ODE. And may the Prince, who at your shrine bids flow The milk-white heifer’s blood, Anchises’ heir, Long rule, to crush the rebel and to spare The prostrate foe ! The Mede, now quelled by land as on the wave, Has to our arms and Alban Axes bowed ; The Scythian hordes, and Indian (late so proud) Our mercy crave. Truth, Honour, generous Shame (repelled with scorn), Mild Peace, and Virtue that to heaven had flown, Dare to return, and Plenty hastes to crown Her brimming Horn. Be sure, the golden-quivered God, who sees Fate’s awful mysteries, whom the warbling Nine Hail as their leader, and whose arts benign Assuage disease, Will, if he smile on his own sacred towers, Prolong the Roman weal and Latium’s bliss From age to age, and still improve from this To happier hours : Nor less will She, so long on Aventine And Algidus enshrined, her votaries now Propitious heed, and to our youthful vow Kind ears incline. We, then, the band who jointly tune their praise, Bear home a sure and cheering hope, that Jove Lists and approves, with all the Host above, These choral lays. -Rev. Canon Howes. THE ‘EPODES OF HORACE. = THE EPODES OF HORACE. > -———- EPODE I. TO MAICENAS.* “This Liburnis.”’ Your light Liburnian bark shall skim the wave To dare the floating bulwark’s frown, Resolved for Cesar’s sake each risk to brave, And make his weal or woe your own. Meanwhile for us, Meecenas, what were meet ? What must a fond retainer do, To whom, while lives his patron, life is sweet— But owns no charm, bereaved of you? Should he at ease lag (as you bid) behind— Ease unenjoyed, while you’re afar ?— Or brook all toils and perils, with a mind Firm as befits the brave in war ? Yes, yes, he will, and trace with dauntless breast Your steps the Alpine summits o’er, Traverse the houseless Caucasus’ aie waste, Or seek the Atlantic’s utmost shore. Ask you, what aid this nerveless arm can lend, Which nought of martial strength may boast ? "Twill calm, at least, my fears for you, my friend ; Fears that still vex the absent most. Thus for her callow brood, when left, the dove More dreads the serpent’s ambush fell— * Mecenas was about to sail for the naval battle of Actiuin. 158 THE EPODES OF HORACE. Yet knows her wing too weak, though stretched above, His stealthy inroad to repel. Me to encounter this and many a toil Pure friendship would itself incline : Not that the groaning ox might ply the soil, ~ Yoked to more numerous ploughs of mine— Not that my Sabine lawns with ampler range Might stretch to Tusculum’s fair towers, Or flocks for cool Lucanian pastures change Calabrian drought, when Sirius lowers. Your bounty every want and wish has crowned; "Tis well: 'To seek superfluous gain— But (Chremes-like) to hide it underground, Or waste (like roystering heirs)—were vain ! Canon Howes. EPODE IT. THE PRAISES OF A COUNTRY LIFE. “ Beatus ille.” ‘* How happy in his low degree, How rich in humbie poverty is he- Who leads a quiet country life, Discharged of business, void of strife, And from the griping scrivener free. Thus ere the seeds of vice were sown Lived men in better ages born, Who ploughed with oxen of their own Their small paternal field of corn. Nor trumpets summon him to war, Nor drums disturb his morning sleep, EPODE II. 159 Nor knows he merchants’ gainful care, Nor fears the dangers of the deep. The clamours of contentious law, And Court and State he wisely shuns, Nor bribed with hopes, nor dazed with awe To servile salutations runs. But either to the clasping vine Does the superior poplar wed, Or, with his pruning hook disjoin Unbearing branches from their head, And grafts more happy in their stead. Or climbing to a hilly steep, He views his herds in fields afar, Or shears his overburdened sheep, Or mead for cooling drink prepares Of virgin honey in the jars ; Or in the now declining year, When bounteous Autumn rears his head, He joys to pull the ripened pear And clust’ring grapes with purple spread. The fairest of his fruit he serves, Priapus ! thy rewards Sylvanus, tuo, his part deserves, Whose care the fences guards. Sometimes beneath an ancient oak Or on the matted grass he hes ; No god of sleep he need invoke, The stream that o’er the pebbles flies With gentle slumber crowns his eyes ; The wind that whistles through the sprays Maintains the concert of the song, And hidden birds with native lays The golden sleep prolong. 160 THE EPODES OF HORACE. But when the blast of winter blows, And hoary frost inverts the year Into the naked woods he goes And seeks the tusky boar to rear With well-mouthed hounds and pointed spear : Or spreads his subtle nets from sight With twinkling glasses to betray The larks that in the meshes light; . Or make the fearful hare his prey. Amidst his harmless easy joys, No anxious care invades his health, Nor love his peace of mind destroys, Nor wicked avarice of wealth. But if a chaste and pleasing wife, To ease the business of his life, Divides with him his household care, Such as the Sabine matrons were, Such as the swift Apulian’s bride, (Sunburnt and swarthy though she be), Will fire for winter nights provide, And, without noise, will oversee His children and his family, And order all things till he come, Sweaty and over-laboured, home: If she in pens his flock will fold, And then produce her dairy store, With wine to drive away the cold, And unbought dainties of the poor; Not oysters from the Lucrine lake My sober appetite would wish, Nor turbot, nor the foreign fish That rolling tempests overtake And hither waft the costly dish. Not heathpout or the rare1 birds EPODE III. 16] Which Phasis or Ionia yields More pleasing morsels could afford Than the fat olives of my fields ; Than shards and mallows for the pot That keep the loosened body sound ; Or than the lamb that falls by lot To the just guardian of my ground. Amidst this feast of happy swains, The jolly shepherd smiles to see His flock returning from the plains; The farmer is as pleased as he To view his oxen, sweating smoke, Bear on their necks the loosened yoke ; To look upon his menial crew That sit around his cheerful hearth And bodies spent in toil renew With wholesome food and country mirth.” This Morecraft * said within himself. Resolved to leave the wicked town, And live retired upon his own He called his money in ; ‘But the prevailing love of pelf Soon split him on the former shelf ; He put it out again! DRYDEN. BEPOP He LE TO MACENAS ON BATTING ‘GARLIC, ‘© Parentis olim.” Ir ever a son a parent's aged throat With impious hand has strangled, * Alphius. 162 THE EPODES OF HORACE. His food be garlic,—worse than aconite ; O stubborn-bowelled reapers ! What poison here within my vitals boils ? Has viper’s blood deceived me, Brewed with these herbs ? or in the unlucky mess Has old Canidia dabbled ? When ‘mid the Argonauts their brilliant chief Medéa’s gaze attracted, With this besmeared she him, in unknown yokes That he the bulls might harness : With this she drenched the gifts—her rival’s bane ;— And fled with wingéd serpents. Not, on Apulia’s thirsty soil, so fierce The star-born vapour settles, Nor clung more burningly the fatal boon On huge Alcides’ shoulders. But, O Meecenas, sportive friend ! if e’er So foul desire possess thee, I pray thy lass may give thee hand for lip, And choose the seat most distant. PROFESSOR NEWMAN. (By kind permission. ) EPODE IV. TO MENAS.* Lupis et agnis.” Deep as th’ aversion fixed by fate’s decree ’T'wixt wolf and lamb, is mine to thee, * Sextus Menas was a freed-man of Cneius Pompey. He fought on Pompey’s side at first, but afterwards betrayed him to Cesar. Menas is a character in Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra.—Act 2, Scenes 1, 6. EPODE J. 163 Whose furrowed loins and ancles galled retain Marks of the penal thong and chain! Strut as thou may’st, and vaunt thy ill-got pelf— Fortune can never alter Self. Pacing the Sacred Street with pompous stride, Robed in a mantle six ells wide, See’st thou not, pictured in the indignant eye, The thoughts of every passer-by ?— ** Yon wretch, who once Triumv’ral whippings bore, Till ev’n the Beadle’s arm grew sore, Now ploughs his thousand acres—scours each day With prancing steeds the Appian way— And at the public shows, in Otho’s* spite, Flaunts in front seats a swaggering knight ! What boots it, launching to dispatch afar So many strong-beaked ships of war, To put down pirates and a servile host, While he—he fills the Tribune’s post ?” CANON HowsEs. -EPODE V. THE WITCH CANIDIA. “At, O Deorum.” ** Bur oh—whoever of celestial birth Directs the mortal race of earth, What means this tumult ?—why on me alone Are all these savage glances thrown ? * A law of L. Roscius Otho, A.v.c. 686, fixed the places of the knights in the theatre. They were over the orchestra, and Menas had no right to sit there. M 2 164 THE EPODES OF HORACE. Ah! by your children, if Lucina’s aid Thee ever a true parent made, By this vain purple honour,* and by Jove, Who will not e’er such deeds approve, Why look you on me with a stepdame’s glance, Or beast struck by the iron lance ?” While thus with trembling voice the boy forlorn Deplored his ravished honours + torn, He stood; his body’s fresh and blooming youth Might soften Thracian breasts to ruth ; Canidia with short vipers overspread Around her lock-dishevelled head | Commands wild fig-trees plucked from open graves, And cypress o’er the tomb that waves, Eggs and the plumage of nocturnal owl, With frogs’ ensanguined entrails foul, Herbs which Ioleos and Iberia’s plain, Fertile in venomed stores, contain, And ravished bones the fasting bitch’s prey, In Colchian flames to melt away. But Sagana swift from Avernal spring Around the waters scattering, With horrent hair like porcupine upreared, Or a Laurentian boar, appeared. While Veia, whom no conscience e’er could wound, With rugged spade dug out the ground, In act to bury, groaning o’er her toil, Lhe stripling deep beneath the soil ; That for the food changed twice or thrice a day His longing soul should pine away. * Patrician children wore a robe bordered with purple till they were fifteen years old. The Romans called this robe majestas puecritie, the majesty of childhood. Both childhood and its robe were held sacred. + His robe and bulla—which was of gold or silver in the shape of a heart. EPODE Y. When, as a swimmer plunged the wave within, He might extend his upraised chin ; That marrow parched and liver dry should prove A medicated draught of love. While to the interdicted food inclined With fixed desire his eyeballs pined. That Ariminian Folia joined the rites (Whose heart in vigorous lust delights) Naples resigned to indolence believed, And every neighb’ring town received : To whom by her 'Thessalian voice ’tis given To charm the stars and moon from heaven. Here while her mangled thumb with livid jaws Implacable Canidia gnaws, 165 What accents through her silence broke ?—‘‘ Oh! ye, True arbiters of destiny, Night and Diana, whose o’erruling power The orgies guides at this still hour, Now, now approach ; your vengeful anger show Turned on the mansions of the foe. While languid beasts in gentle sleep are laid Beneath their forest’s dreadful shade, Let curs Suburran drive with barkings loud This dotard through the laughing crowd ; Smeared o’er with spikenard, which these hands of mine Could once in perfect art combine. But what hath chanced, that now these venoms dire Less potent influence should inspire, When barbarous Medea to the grave Proud Creon’s haughty daughter gave ; What time the robe in poisoned juices dyed With flames destroyed the recent bride, 166 THE EPODES OF HORACE. And yet no herb or latent root that strays In the rough soil escapes my gaze. He sleeps in every damsel’s essenced bed, While I am from his memory fled. Ah! ah !—he wanders, by the strain set free Of one more skilled in sorcery. Drugged by new draughts, O doomed in tears to mourn, Varus, to me thou shalt return. Nor will thy mind, howe’er by Marsian strain Recalled, turn back to thee again. A drink of greater potency my art Shall mix for thy disdainful heart : Sooner will heaven beneath the sea remain, While stretched above is earth’s long plain, Than you not burn for me with fierce desire, As pitch dissolves in murky fire.” The boy with tender words no longer strove The unrelenting hags to move, But doubtful whence to break the silence dread, These imprecations uttered. ** Poisons may change the course of good and ill, But human chance continues still. With curses will I urge you—direful hate No victim e’er shall expiate. Soon as I shall expire by your command, A nightly fury will I stand, Your countenance with crooked talons rend (Such powers the spectral race attend), And clinging close to your unquiet heart, Bid sleep, by terror chased, depart. You, hags obscene, the village streets around, Indignant crowds with stones shall wound ; EPODE JI, 167 Then wolves on your unburied members prey, And birds funereal bear away ; This shall my parents view with vengeful joy, Who must, alas! survive their boy.’ Rev. C. A. WHEELWRIGHT, Prebendary of Lincoln. EPODE VI. TO CASSIUS SEVERUS.* ** Quid immerentes.” You dog, that fearful to provoke The wolf, attack offenceless folk ! ‘Turn hither, if you dare, your spite, And bark at me, prepared to bite ; For like a hound, or mastiff keen, That guards the shepherd’s flocky green, Through the deep snows I boldly chase, With ears erect, the savage race ; But you, when with your hideous yelling You fill the grove, at crusts are smelling. Fierce as Archilochus + I glow, Like Hipponax { a deadly foe. If any mongrel shall assail My character with tooth and nail ; What! lke a truant boy, shall I Do nothing in revenge—but cry ?—FRancts. * The MSS. and Scholiasts agree that this Ode was written against Cassius Severus, a man of base birth and scandalous life, but of con- siderable abilities . . . . as an orator and satirist.—/rancis. This assertion has since been thought erroneous. + A satirist, who having been refused when he offered to marry the daughter of Lycambes, wrote such bitter satire against her father, that Lycambes hanged himself. ~ Hipponax, who had been ridiculed by the sculptor Bupalus, wrote some satirical verses, which caused the satirist to commit suicide. 168 THE EPODES OF HORACE. EPODE VII. TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE. “ Quo, qua scelesti ruitis 2” WuereE do ye rush, ye impious trains ? Why gleams afar the late-sheathed sword ? Is it believed that Roman veins Their crimson tides have sparely poured ? Ts not our scorn of safety, health, and ease, Shown by devasted climes, and blood-stained seas ? Those scowling brows, those lifted spears, Bend they against the threat’ning towers Proud Carthage emulously rears ? Or Britain’s still unconquered shores ? That her fierce sons, yet free from hostile sway, May pass in chains along our Sacred Way ? No !—but that warring Parthia’s curse May quickly blast these far-famed walls ; Accomplished when, with direful force, By her own strength, the city falls ; When foes no more her might resistless feel, But Roman bosoms bleed by Roman steel. O! worse than wolves, or lions fierce, Who ne’er, like you, assault their kind! By what wild frenzy would ye pierce Each other’s breast, in fury blind ?— Silent, and pale ye stand, with conscious sighs, Your struck soul louring in your down-cast eyes! Per OUTIL L 169 The blood our rising walls that stained, Shed by the ruthless fratricide,* High Heaven’s avenging power ordained Should spread the rage of discord wide, Bid kindred blood in dread profusion flow Thro’ darkened years of expiatory woe. A. SEWARD. EPODE IX. TO MAICENAS.+ “ Quando repostum.” WHEN shall I, seated at the sumptuous board, The flask for festive mirth long stored ‘With you, Mecenas! drain, rejoiced to learn (So Jove hath willed) the safe return Of conquering Cesar, while shrill pipes conspire Attempered to the warbling lyre ? As late, when he, mock-ruler of the waves, Who chains knocked off from rebel slaves, Would fain upon our free-born necks have bound, Saw his fleet burnt—his followers drowned. Lo! Roman troops (alas! a future age Will scarcely credit history’s page) Have marched and counter marched at woman’s call, Nay—brooked some shrivelled eunuch’s thrall, And ’mid war’s bannered pomp the sun has seen (Oh shame !) the netted palanquin ! * Romulus, who slew his brother Remus. + The Ode was written by Horace on first receiving the news of the victory at Actium. 170 THE EPODES OF HORACE. At this, two-thousand Gallic horse turn heel, Change sides, and shout for Cresar’s weal,— While half their navy, panic struck, tack short To larboard, or he hid in port! All hail to Cesar’s triumph! what delays, In celebration of his praise, The heifer yet unyoked—the gilded car— The milk-white steeds—and pomp of war ? Not, from Jugurtha’s overthrow returned, Has chief more glorious laurels earned ;— Not he, surnamed from Africa, to whom Valour o’er Carthage reared a tomb. Vanquished by sea and land, the baffled foe Doffs the red scarf for weeds of woe ; While, borne by breezes not its own, his fleet Sneaks oft to hundred-citied Crete, Or foundering on vexed quicksands toils in vain, Or drifts at random o’er the main. Fill to the brim, boys! speed the goblet round, With Chian or with Lesbian crowned ; Or mete the mellower Cecuban, whose balm May check betimes the rising qualm ! All fear and care on Cesar’s score, to day Let sparkling cups chase far away ! Rey. Canon F. Howes. EPODE X. 171 EPODE X. AGAINST MA‘VIUS. “ Mala soluta navis.” Wrru omens ill the ship her anchor weighs, Which loathsome Mevius hence conveys. Wake, Southern blast! and with the swelling tide Lash fore-and-aft her trembling side ! Rise, Kurus! and with rattling peals of thunder Break down her mast—her cordage sunder ! Her beams let Boreas shiver, with a stroke Rude as uproots the mountain oak ! And let Orion, as he sinks below, Dark horror o’er the waters throw, That not a star may lend its twinkling light, To cheer the gloomy brow of night ! Nor let him quit in calmer seas the strand, Than did the conquering Grecian band, When Pallas turned from Ihum wrapt in fire On Ajax’ impious bark her ire ! Gods! what alarm awaits the sweltering crew, And oh! what ashy paleness you, With many a womanly lament and tear, And prayers to Jove averse to hear— When murky clouds th’ Ionian gulf deform, The surge rebellowing to the storm, And o’er the foundered keel the big wave roars, Her timbers cracked—dispersed her oars! But, should your carcase on the beach at last (Rich prey for cormorants) be cast, A goat (fit victim) to the Tempests slain Shall, with a lamb, Jove’s altar stain. Rey, Canon F’. Howes. 172 THE EKPODES OF HORACE. EPODE XI. SHOR Arai tl tal 3 Be “ Petti, nihil me.” SincE cruel love, O Pettius! pierced my heart, How have I lost my once-loved lyric art ! Thrice have the woods their leafy honour mourned Since for Inachia’s beauties Horace burned. How was I then (for I confess my shame) Of every idle tale the laughing theme ! Oh! that I ne’er had known the jovial feast, Where the deep sigh, that rends the labouring breast, Where languor, and a gentle silence shows To every curious eye the lover’s woes. Pettius, how often o’er the flowing bowl, When the gay liquor warmed my opening soul, When Bacchus, jovial god, no more restrained The modest secret, how have I complained, That wealthy blockheads, in a female’s eyes, From a poor poet’s genius bear the prize ; But if a generous rage my breast should warm, I swore—no vain amusements e’er shall charm My aching wounds. Ye vagrant winds receive The sighs, that soothe the pains they should relieve ; Here, shall my shame of being conquered end, Nor with such rivals will I more contend. When thus, with solemn air, I vaunting said, Inspired by thy advice, I homeward sped ; But ah! my feet in wonted wanderings stray, And to no friendly doors my steps betray ; There I forget my vows, forget my pride, And at her threshold lay my tortured side. FRANCIS. EPODE XIII. 173 EPODE XII. TO A FRIEND. “ Horrida Tempestas.” SEE gathering clouds obscure the sky, The air seems melting from on high In fleecy snow, or showers of rain: What howling tempests sweep the main And shake the woods! While in our power, My friend, we'll seize the present hour ; While youth yet revels in our veins, And unimpaired our strength remains. The cares of age to age resign, But hither bring the generous wine Laid up in my Torquatus’ year,* When first I breathed the vital air. No more of adverse fate complain, Perhaps the gods may smile again. Let Achzemenian essence shed Its spicy odours round your head, And the Cyllenian lyre compose, With soft melodious strains your woes. Thus Chiron to his pupil sung : “Great hero from a goddess sprung, Fame calls thee to the Trojan plain To old Assaracus’s reign, Where small Scamander slowly ghdes, And Simois rolls his rapid tides, There must thou fall by Fates’ decree, Nor shall thy Mother + of the Sea, * The Romans named their years by their Consuls. The one who lad the greatest number of votes at his election was named first. { Thetis—the words are addressed to Achilles. 174 THE HPODES OF HORACE. Her short-lived son again receive. Then every anxious thought relieve By wine or music’s charms, for they Can best the cares of life allay.” DuncomBE. EPODE XIV. TO MACENAS. ‘© Mollis inertia cur.” You ask—‘‘ What means this torpid indolence That in oblivion every sense Has steeped, as if my thirsty lips had quaffed At Lethe’s spring a copious draught ?’— And kill me by remonstrance without end : A God—a God denies, my friend, All power the promised stanzas to compose, And bring my fragment to a close ; Love, mighty Love the vein of song has marred ! So glowed of old the Teian bard— So in wild measures to the plaintive shell, Mourned the coy jilt he loved so well. Yourself, no stranger to the pleasing pain, Are caught, like me, in Cupid’s chain. But, if a fairer flame beleaguered not Troy’s towers, commend your happy lot! My thoughts on humble Phryne now are bent, A freed-girl—nor with one content. CANon Howes. EPODE XY. 175 EPODE XV. TO NEARA. “ Nox erat, et colo.” *Twas night, and ’mid her starry train was seen The moon’s pale orb in heaven’s serene, When, with fond arms (as ivy twines the oak) Clasping my neck, thou didst invoke The gods to seal our plighted faith ;—nay more, Thy tongue (their power insulting) swore, That, long as prowling wolves infest the sheep, Or north-winds vex the wintry deep, Or Phebus waves his tresses to the gale, This love between us should not fail. Beware, false girl! the day may yet ensue, When thou my stubborn pride shalt rue: For, if one spark of manhood still remains T’o fire thy slighted Flaccus’ veins, He will not brook for ever, that those charms Should bless a favoured rival’s arms— But seek some other mistress, who may prove More prone to render love for love ; Nor shall this bosom, which just vengeance sieeled, To beauty’s spell (once broken) yield. And thou, proud youth! usurper of my place, Triumphant now in my disgrace, Whoe’er thou be—tho’ rich in herds and lands, Lord of Pactolus’ golden sands, Well-skilled to sound the depths of Samian lore, Nor Nireus boast his beauty more— Yet—wait awhile—the jilt thy suit shall spurn, And I deride thy plaints in turn ! Howes. 176 THE HPODES OF HORACE. EPODE XVI. TO THE ROMANS.* “« Altera jam teritur bellis civilibus cetas.” ALREADY lengthened to another age, Foul discord reigns and civil rage ; And Rome, with whom no foreign power competes, From her own hand her death-blow meets ! She, who the neighbouring Marsian could withstand— Foiled proud Porsenna’s 'Tuscan band— Fierce Spartacus and rival Capua quelled, With Gaul that oft in vain rebelled— Whom not Germania’s blue-eyed sons coerced, Nor Carthage by fond matrons curst— Must fall by us, a lost, polluted race, And wild-beasts re-usurp her place. Oh shame! a barbarous victor, flushed with pride, Shall o’er her smoking ruins stride— Her founder’s bones, long pent in hallowed urn, Uptorn, insulting foes shall spurn— And o’er yon bulwarks, levelled to the ground, The trooper’s clattering hoof resound! Here all, perhaps,—at least the generous few — May ask, what course we must pursue,— What means adopt, such dire distress to shun ? My voice is this—I know but one— To act as the Phoceans did of yore, And (as they left their native shore, Resigning all they loved—their fields, their homes, Paternal hearths and sacred domes— * This Ode is supposed to have been written the year following the battle of Philippi. EPODE XVI. 177 To be the wild boar’s and gaunt wolf’s sojourn, Pledged homewards never to return) To quit our Latium, and at random go Where tides may drift or breezes blow. Is this your will ?—Should any disapprove, Some fitter counsel let them move! Else—with propitious omens why delay To launch the bark and speed away ? But first swear duly—that, till ocean show The millstone buoyant from below, Return is barred—that then (and not till then) The winds shall waft us back again, When mounting from his oozy bed the Po Shall o’er Matinus’ summit flow— Or Apennine his cloud-enveloped steep Bow down and plunge beneath the deep— When brutes shall couple in unnatural love, Tiger with deer, and kite with dove— Lambs unappalled the lion’s ravin brave, And goats with dolphins skim the wave ! This oath (with aught that else may loose the band That links us to our parent land) Swear all, and then depart—if not the whole, Yet those that own a nobler soul! At home let drooping hearts and drowsy heads Still press their fate-devoted beds ! But you, ye brave! unmanly wails give o’er, And fly beyond the Tuscan shore. To distant plains of ambient ocean bound, That lave the central earth around ! There let us seek the Isles—the Happy Isles, Sweet bowers of bliss, where Nature smiles— Where annual harvests crown uncultured fields— The vine unpruned her cluster yields— N 178 THE EPODES OF HORACE. The olive sprouts with never-failing gem— The ripe fig loads its native stem— Each oak drops honey—down the mountain’s side Soft rills with tinkling murmurs glide— The ewes at night-fall haste uncalled, nor fail To bring full udders to the pail— No growling bear skulks round the evening fold, Nor viper’s nest upheaves the mould ! Nay—(more to move our rapture)—there no rains With sweeping deluge lash the plains, Nor sultry droughts forbid the grain to teem— Kind Heaven tempering each extreme! Here venturous Argo touched not—hither came With unblest drugs no Colchian dame— Nor Tyrians, nor Ulysses’ toil-worn band E’er anchored on this quiet strand— No murrain taints the herd—no noxious pest Or dogstar’s maddening heats molest ; Jove for the just reserved these seats of old, When he alloyed Time’s pristine gold With brass. ‘That ore, by viler since displaced, Is now to cankerous dross debased— An age of woe: whence (if their bard be right) The good may wing an easy flight. Howrs. EPODE XVII. TO CANIDIA. AN IRONICAL ENTREATY FOR PARDON. “« Jam, jam, efficaci do manus scientie.” CanrpiA, to thy matchless art Vanquished I yield a suppliant heart ; EPODE XVII, 179 But oh! by hell’s extended plains, Where Pluto’s gloomy consort reigns ; By bright Diana’s vengeful rage, Which prayers, nor hecatombs assuage, And by the books, of power to call The charméd stars, and bid them fall, No more pronounce the sacred scroll, But back the magic circle roll.* Even stern Achilles could forgive The Mysian king,+t and bid him live, Though proud he ranged the ranks of fight, And hurled the spear with daring might : Thus, when the murderous Hector lay, Condemned to dogs, and birds of prey, Yet when his royal father kneeled, The fierce Achilles knew to yield, And Troy’s unhappy matrons paid Their sorrows to their Hector’s shade. Ulysses’ friends, in labours tried, So Circe willed, threw off their hide, Assumed the human form divine, And dropped the voice and sense of swine. O thou, whom tars and merchants love, Too deep thy vengeful rage I prove, * Propertius and Martial mention a magical machine called Rhombus. Theocritus and Lucian tell us that it was made of brass, and Ovid says it was turned round by straps of leather, with which it was bound. This is probably the machine which Horace calls Twrbo, and he beseeches Canidia to turn it backward, as if to correct the fatal effects it produced in its natural course.— Torr. + Telephus was king of Mysia. When the Greeks entered his country, in their passage to Troy, he opposed them vigorously ; but being wounded by Achilles, he was told by the oracle that he could only be cured by the weapon with which he was wounded. He applied to Achilles, who, scraping his lance, poured the filings into his wound. Pliny ag a picture in which Achilles was painted performing the cure.—Lamb. N 2 180 THE EPODES OF HORACE. Reduced, alas! to skin and bone, My vigour fied, my colour gone. Thy fragrant odours on my head More than the snows of age have shed. Days press on nights, and nights on days, Yet never bring an hour of ease, While, gasping in the pangs of death, I stretch my lungs in vain for breath. Thy charms have power (’tis now confessed) To split the head, and tear the breast. What would you more, all-charming dame ? O seas, and earth! this scorching flame ! Not such the fire Alcides bore When the black-venomed shirt he wore: Nor such the flames that to the skies From At‘tna’s burning entrails rise ; And yet, thou shop of poisons dire, You glow with unrelenting fire, Till by the rapid heat calcined, Vagrant I drive before the wind. How long ?—What ransom shall I pay ? Speak—I the stern command obey. To expiate the guilty deed, Say, shall an hundred bullocks bleed ? Or shall I to the lying string Thy fame and spotless virtue sing ? Teach thee, a golden star, to rise, ‘And deathless walk the spangled skies ? When Helen’s virtue was defamed, Her brothers, though with rage enflamed, Yet to the bard his eyes restored, When suppliant he their grace implored. Oh! calm this madness of my brain, For you can heal this raging pain. EHPODE XVII. 181 You never knew the birth of shame, Nor by thy hand, all-skilful dame, The poor man’s ashes are upturned, Though they be thrice three days inurned. Thy bosom’s bounteous and humane, Thy hand from blood and murder clean ; And with a blooming race of boys Lucina crowns thy mother-joys. CANIDIA’S ANSWER. Pru hear no more. Thy prayers are vain: Not rocks, amid the wintry main, Less heed the shipwrecked sailor’s cries, When Neptune bids the tempest rise. Shall you Cotytto’s * feast deride, Yet safely triumph in thy pride ? Or impious, to the glare of day The sacred joys of love betray ? Or fill the city with my name, And pontiff-like our rites defame ? Did I with wealth in vain enrich, Of potent spells each charming witch, Or mix the speedy drugs in vain ? No—through a lingering length of pain, Reluctant shalt thou drag thy days, While every hour new pangs shall raise. Gazing on the delusive feast, Which charms his eye, yet flies his taste, * Cotys, or Cotytto, was the goddess of impurity, and although she did not preside over assemblies of witches, yet as there were many vile and infamous ceremonies practised in them, the poet satirically makes Canidia call them the feasts of Cotys.—Politian. 182 THE EPODES OF HORACE. Perfidious Tantalus implores, For rest, for rest, the vengeful powers ; Prometheus, while the vulture preys Upon his liver, longs for ease ; And Sisyphus, with many a groan, Uprolls, with ceaseless toil, his stone, To fix it on the topmost hill, In vain, for Jove’s all-ruling will Forbids. When thus in black despair Down from some castle, high in air, You seek a headlong fate below, Or try the dagger’s pointed blow, Or if the left-eared knot you tie, Yet death your vain attempts shall fly; Then on your shoulders will I ride, And earth shall shake beneath my pride. Could I with life an image warm (Impertinent, you saw the charm), Or tear down Luna from her skies, Or bid the dead, though burned, arise, Or mix the draught inspiring love, And shall my art on thee successless prove ? FRANCIS. fe S = am = ae Fy 2) SATIRES THE SATIRES OF HORACE. eee nee BOOK I. SATIRE I. TO MAICENAS. “ Oui fit, Maecenas, ut nemo, quam sibi sortem.” _ WuHENCE comes it, dear Maecenas, that we find Each to applaud aul Lig neighbour’s. s lot. inclined— Each to répine at that which chance has thrown Into his his lap, or choice ordained his own ? ‘ Blest is the merchant’s fate,’ the soldier cries, As bowed with years the toilsome march he ples: Again, the merchant tossed by storms at sea Exclaims,—‘‘ The soldier’s is the life for me ; For why—the trumpet summons to the fray, And death or glory quickly crowns the day.” The lawyer, when ere cock-crow at his gate Loud clients knock, applauds the peasant’s fate : Dragged from the country by a writ, the clown Swears none are blest but those that dwell in town. So many like examples wait our call, Scarce prating Fabius could recount them all. But (not to tire myself and you) ’twere best At once to bring the matter to the test. 4 186 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Suppose some god should ery, “‘ Lo, it shall be Kv’n as ye list: you, soldier, off to sea! You, lawyer, go and plough! advance, retire, Change sides, and be at last what ye desire ! ” Why all draw back !—Was ever whim like this ?— > Retract their wishes, and renounce their bliss ! What hinders but that Jove, with burly scowl (As limners paint him) and inflated jowl, In vengeance swear, that never will he deign A patient hearing to such suits again ? But, not to treat my subject as in jest— » (Albeit why may not truth in smiles be drest, As gentle teachers lure the child to come PB And learn his horn-book, with a sugar plum ?)— / Joking apart—he that with restless toil Urges his ploughshare through the stubborn soil, This tapster-like retailer of the laws, This veteran champion of his country’s cause, And this stout seaman who in quest of gain Unfurls his sail and braves the boisterous main, All with one view profess to labour on— —~ That, when at last the spring of life is gone nN And strength declines, of ample stores possest\, They may retire to competence and rest. 9 —— So the small ant (the precedent they plead), Patient of toil and provident of need, Drags in her mouth whatever spoil she meets, And adds it to her stock of hoarded sweets. Yet that same ant, when wintry clouds appear, And grim December’s blasts deform the year, Creeps not from home; but temperately wise Unlocks her hoard and feeds on her supplies : While you nor summer’s heat nor winter’s cold Can tear asunder from the search of gold ; BOOK I.—SATIRE I. 187 Fire, water, steel must yield to sordid pelf, Till not a wretch is wealthier than yourself. Say, what avails it thus to drudge and sweat For all the gold and silver you can get,— And, when the silver and the gold are found, To delve a pit and hide them underground ? ‘The heap, once touched, soon dwindles to an end.”’ But wherefore was it heaped, unless to spend ? Ten thousand coombs are threshed upon your floor ;*— What follows ? not that you can eat the more. Thus, were it yours to bear upon your head Amid a train of slaves the sack of bread, Not one loaf more would to your portion fall Than to the rest who carried none at all. Whoe’er to nature’s wants conforms his will, Say, what imports it whether that man till Ten—or ten thousand—rood ?—‘ A pleasure lies In drawing what one wants from large supplhes—”’ This we can draw, too, from our humbler store ; And what can all your granaries do more ? As if you should of water clear and sweet Need but a pitcher-full (while at your feet Bubbled a spring) and say, “‘ My cup I'll fill From yon deep river, not from this poor rill.” So shall the slippery bank your foot betray, And you by Aufidus be swept away ; While he, who wisely studies to confine His wishes there, where nature draws the line, \ Quaffs pure his beverage from the fountain’s side, Nor tempts the perils of the boisterous tide. VA Yet thousands, duped by avarice in disguise, Intrench themselves in maxims sage and wise. “Go on,” say they, ‘‘ and hoard up all you can; For wealth is worth, and money makes the man! ”’ 188 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. What shall we say to such ? Since ’tis their will Still to be wretched, let them be so still ;— Self-curst as that same miser must have been, Who lived at Athens, rich as he was mean,— Who, when the people hissed, would turn about And drily thus accost the rabble-rout : ‘‘ Hiss on; I heed you not, ye saucy wags, ~. While self-applauses greet me o’er my bags.” ' Poor Tantalus attempts in vain to sip The flattering stream that mocks his thirsty lip. You smile, as if the story were not true ! Change but the name, and it applies to you. O’er countless heaps in nicest order stored You pore agape, and gaze upon the hoard, As relics to be laid with reverence by, Or pictures only meant to please the eye. With all your cash, you seem not yet to know Its proper use, or what it can bestow! “¢ "Twill buy me herbs, a loaf, a pint of wine,— All, which denied her, Nature would repine.”’ But what are your indulgencies ? All day, All night, to watch and shudder with dismay, Lest ruffians fire your house, or slaves by stealth Rifle your coffers, and abstract your wealth ? If this be affluence—this her boasted fruit, ~ Of all such joys may I live destitute ! “Yet if a cold” (you urge) “ or aching head Or other ill confine you to your bed, With wealth you'll never want some faithful friend Or civil neighbour, zealous to attend, Sit by you, mix your cordials, and request The doctor to beware and do his best,— Your precious health, if possible, restore, And give you to your weeping friends once more.” BOOK I.—SATIRE I. 189 Vain thought! for you nor daughter, son, nor wife, Puts up the prayer, or cares about your life. Relations and acquaintance, great and small, Female and male, despise—detest you—all. > Nor wonder if, while gold 1s all your care, That love you feel not, neither must you share. \\ But if you think to win, by wealth alone, | The love of them whom nature made your own} ’Tis labour lost,—as if one strove to train \ The ass to prance and curvet to the rein. / Push not your wishes then to this excess ; But, as you have the more, fear want the less. You are what once you wished .—then wisely cease » All further trouble, and repose in peace : Lest the same doom be yours, which, as we’re told, Befel a rich curmudgeon once of old, Possessed (my tale is short) of so much treasure That he could count it only by the measure ; And yet withal so eager still to save, He dressed, he fared, scarce better than a slave,— Nay, to his death was haunted with the dread Of want and beggary hanging o’er his head. At last a wench of true ‘T'yndarid * vein Took up an axe and clave the churl in twain. ‘‘ But must I waste, like Nevius, my estate ? Like Nomentanus, live a profligate ?—” Why deal in such extremes ? what need to place These opposite excesses face to face ? \ I blame the niggard ; but it follows not \ That I commend the rake-hell and the sot. Much as they differ, Tanais I admire As little as I do Visellius’ fire. * Clytemnestra’s character. 190 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Some bound there ever is, some rule of right, Which parts each error from its opposite : Folly and vice on either side are seen, While justice, truth, and virtue lie betwe en. Thus—(to revert to what was said at first)— All view their own condition as the worst ; \ And, meanly envious of another's lot, Scorn what they have and praise what they have not. If but some luckier neighbour’s ewes or kine Yield more than theirs, they murmur and repine : And, while insatiate avarice bids them pant First one and then another to supplant, However rich, some richer still they find, Toil after them, nor heed the poor behind. So in the race, when starting from the bar The furious coursers urge the rapid car, To pass the next on speeds the charioteer, Disdaining him that lingers in the rear. -Hence few are found, who dying can declare y That theirs was comfort unalloyed with care ; < -Or, rising from life’s banquet, quit their seat, \\ Hit cheerful guests, contented with the treat, But hold !—You’ll think I’ve pillaged the scrutoir Of blear Crispinus :—Not one word then more ! CANON HowEs. SATIRE II, TO MACENAS. “ Ambubaiarum collegia pharmacopole.” Tue tribes of minstrels, strolling priests and players, Perfumers, and buffoons, are all in tears; BOOK I.—SATIRE TI. For ah! Tigellius, sweetest songster, ’s dead, And sure the soul of bounty with him fled. Behold a wretch, in opposite extreme, So fearful of a spendthrift’s odious name, He dare not evn a sordid pittance give To raise a worthy friend, and bid him live. Or ask another, why in thankless feasts The wealth of ali his frugal sires he wastes ; Then the luxurious treat profuse supplies 191 With borrowed sums: ‘‘ Because I scorn,” he cries, “To be a wretch of narrow spirit deemed.”—— By some condemned, by others he’s esteemed. Fufidius, rich in lands, and large increase Of growing usury, dreads the foul disgrace To be called rake ; and, ere the money’s lent, He prudently deducts his cent. per cent. _ Then, as he finds the borrower distrest, Cruel demands a higher interest, But lends profusely to the lavish heir, Whose guardians prove too frugally severe. All-powerful Jove, th’ indignant reader cries, ‘** But his expenses, with his income, rise.”’ No—’tis amazing, that this man of pelf Hath yet so little friendship for himself, That ev’n the Self-tormentor * in the play, Cruel who drove his much-loved son away, Amidst the willing tortures of despair Could not with wretchedness like his compare. But say, at what this tedious preface aims— That fools are ever vicious in extremes. While soft Malthinus trails a length of train, See that short robe ridiculously obscene. * A character in a play of Terence’s. 192 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Rufillus with perfumes distracts your head : With his own scents Gorgonius strikes you dead. There are, all other passions who disclaim, Except th’ impurpled robe, and wedded dame: Others their safer, cheaper pleasures choose, And take a willing mistress from the stews. When awful Cato saw a noted spark From a night-cellar stealing in the dark, ‘* Well done, my friend: if love thy breast inflame, Indulge it here, and spare the married dame.” Be mine the silken veil, Cupiennius cries, Such vulgar praise and pleasure I despise. All ye, who wish some dire mishap may wait This horning tribe, attend while I relate What dangers and disasters they sustain, How few their pleasures, and how mixed with pain. A desperate leap orie luckless caitiff tries ; Torn by the fragrant lash another dies : Some are by robbers plunder’d as they fly ; Others with gold a wretched safety buy. Such various woes pursue these sons of lust, And all, but Galba, own the sentence just. Far safer they, who venture their estate, And trade with females of the second rate. ‘‘ Yet Sallust rages here with wild desires, As mad as those which lawless love inspires.” But had he been with less profusion kind, Had common sense his lavish hand confined, He had not now been wholly lost to shame, In fortune ruined, as undone in fame. But here’s the joy and comfort of his life, ‘T'o swear, he never touched his neighbour’s wife. Thus, to an actress when with lavish hand Marseeus gave his mansion-house and land, BOOK I—SATIRE I. 193 “‘ My soul, thank heaven,” he cries, ‘from guilt is free ; The wedded dames are vestal maids for me.” Actress or not, the crime is still the same, Equal the ruin of estate and fame ; Equal the folly, whether in pursuit Of wife, or slave, or loose-robed prostitute ; Unless you mean, content to be undone, To hate the person, not the vice to shun. Of Sylla’s wanton daughter when possest, Villius believed himself supremely blest : To a dictator thus to be allied, Dazzled his senses, and indulged his pride: But sure, if vanity were fairly rated, Methinks poor Villius was full hardly treated, When buffeted and stabbed the coxcomb dies, While in the wanton’s arms a scoundrel lies. But Nature, rich in her own proper wealth Of youth and beauty, cheerfulness and health, In her pursuit of happiness disclaims The pride of titles, and the pomp of names. Be thine her wise economy to learn, And real from affected bliss discern. Then, lest repentance punish such a life, Never, ah! never kiss your neighbour’s wife ; For see, what thousand mischiefs round you rise, And few the pleasures, though you gain the prize. What though Cerinthus dotes upon the girl, Who flames with emerald green, or snowy pearl, Is she beyond a common mistress blest With leg more taper, or a softer breast ? Besides, the public nymph no varnish knows, But all her venal beauties frankly shows, Nor boasts some happier charm with conscious pride, Nor strives a vile deformity to hide. oO 194 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. When skilful jockeys would a courser buy, They strip him naked to the curious eye ; For oft an eager chapman is betrayed To buy a foundered or a spavined jade, While he admires a thin, light-shouldered chest, A little head, broad back, and rising crest. Th’ example’s good: then keep it in thy mind, Nor to the fair one’s faults be over-blind, Nor gaze with idle rapture on her charms : Oh! what a taper leg! what snowy arms! ” For she may hide, whate’er she vainly shows, Low hips, short waist, splay feet, and hideous length of nose. But if you still pursue this dangerous game (Perhaps the dangers your desires inflame) What formidable works around her rise ! Maids, chairmen, footmen, flatterers, guard the prize. The flowing robe, and closely muffled veil With envious folds the precious thing conceal ; But what from nature’s commoners you buy, Through the thin robe stands naked to your eye: Or, if you will be cheated, pay the fair, With foolish fondness, ere she shows her ware. As when a sportsman through the snowy waste Pursues a hare, which he disdains to taste, ‘* So (sings the rake) my passion can despise An easy prey, but follow when it flies.” Yet can these idle versicles remove The griefs and tortures of this guilty love ? Were it not better wisdom to inquire How Nature bounds each impotent desire ; What she with ease resigns, or wants with pain, And thus divide the solid from the vain ? Say, should your jaws with thirst severely burn, BOOK I.—SATIRE LILI. 195 Would you a cleanly earthen pitcher spurn ? Should hunger on your gnawing entrails seize, Will turbot only or a peacock please ? Let her be straight and fair; nor wish to have Or height or colour Nature never gave : Then, while with joy I woo the pleasing fair, What nymph, what goddess, can with mine compare ? No terrors rise to interrupt my joys, No jealous husband, nor the fearful noise Of bursting doors, nor the loud hideous yelling Of barking dogs, that shakes the matron’s dwelling When the pale wanton leaps from off her bed, The conscious chamber-maid screams out her dread Of horrid tortures ; loudly cries the wife, «My jointure’s lost,”—TI tremble for my life: Unbuttoned, without shoes, I speed away, Lest in my person, purse, or fame, I pay. To be surprised is, sure, a wretched tale, And for the truth to Fabius I appeal. FRANCIS. SATIRE III. TO MAICENAS. “ Omnibus hoc vitium est cantoribus inter amicos.” Aut singers have this fault—that if you try To make them sing, they never will comply: But leave them to themselves, and unrequired They'll sing till all the company are tired. Tigellius had, we know, this whim so strong That Cesar’s self who might enforce a song, 0 2 196 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Though he conjured him in a friendly tone By all his father’s favours and his own, Could not prevail. But, if the fit took place, Now in shrill treble—now in thundering bass Twas, “Bacchus, hail!” when first the banquet came, And down to the last course ’twas still the same. Such was the man: Impelled by vain caprice His life had nothing in it of a piece. One day you saw him hurrying to and fro, As if he fled from some pursuing foe: Anon, as if great Juno’s pomp to grace, Marching along with slow and solemn pace. Sometimes he kept two hundred slaves ;— and then, Wait but a day or two, he had but ten. Now in big phrase he'd talk of mighty things, Of foreign courts, of Tetrarchs and of Kings: And now ’twas—‘‘ Grant me, Heaven! (’tis all I wish) ‘“‘ A three-legged table and an earthen dish ; ‘* A cleanly scollop-shell my salt shall hold ; ‘A coat, however coarse, may fence the cold.” Yet, had you given amid his frugal plan Five thousand pounds to this abstemious man, Thus void of pride, thus easily content, Within five days ‘twas every penny spent. While others were awake, he snoring lay, Then sat up all the night till break of day ;— Ever at variance with himself.—But here Methinks some reader whispers in my ear: Have you no faults yourself? I answer, Yes; Faults of a different hue, and haply less. When Meenius dared a brother-knave attack And jeered at Novius once behind his back, ‘* Art thou,”’ cries one, “‘ blind to thyself alone, Or would’st thou vapour as to us unknown; BOOK I.—SATIRE Il. 197 Look o’er thine own past follies.” —‘‘ So I do,” Retorts the wag, ‘‘ and overlook them too.” This partial self-indulgence, void of shame As well as sense, deserves the strongest blame. At your own failings while you leer askance With half-closed eye, why dart this eagle glance At others’ faults ? since others, it is plain, Will cast as sharp a gaze at yours again. What tho’ your friend be hasty now and then, — Too rough for the nice taste of modern men ? What tho’ his beard oft ask the barber’s skill, His coat look shabby, or his boots fit ill ? Yet, you might add, he is a man of parts, His bosom holds the very best of hearts ; And in this rude exterior lurk enshrined A generous temper and gigantic mind. Sift then your soul; explore each secret sin By nature or worse habit sown within : For oft through long neglect the noxious weed Towers o’er the crop and chokes the rising seed. Mark how affection blinds the lover’s eyes! He in his mistress not a fault espies : In her each blemish seems to him a grace, And none but beauty-spots adorn her face. Balbinus, blind with love, enamoured grows Ev’n of the polypus in Agna’s nose. In friendship would our weakness were the same, And dignified with Candour’s nobler name ! As parents in their offspring, so should we Seek to extenuate ev’n the fault we see. Is the child squint-eyed ?—‘‘ Oh, the pretty deax !” The father lisps, “‘ it has a roguish leer.”’ Is it a dwarfish cub, scarce two feet high, Like Sisyphus ?—‘‘ Sweet poppet!” is the ery. 198 THK SATIRES OF HORACE. Varus ’tis called, if bandy-legged and Jame : For why—great Varus thence derived his name: Or is the darling ricketty ?—If kissed And hailed a Scaurus, who observes the twist ? Thus, if your friend pursue the saving plan, Commend him for a prudent thrifty man. Is he a pert officlous coxcomb ?—Say, The fellow has a lively pleasant way. _ If blunt, ’tis frankness all. If choleric, His temper, to be sure, is warm and quick! Such is the way, methinks, to banish strife, To make men friends and keep them so for life. But we invert the rule, and magic spite Transforms ev’n virtues to their opposite. Have we a modest friend ? We call him shy: Is he reserved ? The wretch is dull and dry. Or is he prompt to turn off every blow, Still on his guard against the latent foe ?— (Since life’s a path where snares are spread around And ambushed envy deals the treacherous wound)— For knowledge of the world and care discreet, We term it arrant knavery and deceit. Does he at times unwittingly intrude, With idle prattle innocently rude, Or on our busy or our thinking hours— (As I, sir, oft securely have on yours,) Teased we exclaim, “‘ What, rank impertinence ! The blundering booby sure wants common sense.’ Alas! thus unconcerned we one and all Pronounce the law by which ourselves must fall. For who by birth is faultless ? and the best— What means it but less faulty than the rest ? Let then the man, that would be called my friend, Whene’er he weighs my worth, in mercy bend BOCK Le — SAlT REY Lit, 199 To merit’s side (if merit’s side prevail), And kindly favour virtue’s sinking scale. Slow to condemn and willing to esteem, Let sweet good-nature poise the trembling beam. Let him, I say, to these fair terms agree ; And the same favour shall be shown by me. He (says the proverb) who would hide a wen, At least shculd spare the warts of other men: Apply the maxim ; and in justice you, Who claim indulgence, must bestow it too. But, since this vice of anger, like the rest, Can ne’er be rooted from the’ untutored breast, At least adjust your wrath by Reason’s laws Nor let the consequence outrun the cause. The slave, who, ordered to remove a dish, Sips the warm sauce or licks the savoury fish, His master well may chide—and so should I :— ~ But if he hang the knave or crucify, More mad than Labeo he must surely be In all men’s eyes that were not mad as he. Now, how much worse and more devoid of sense Is this ?—Your friend commits some slight offence, Such as the man who would not soon forgive Were a barbarian churl unfit to live : For this you scout him as a pest, and shun Like Ruso’s debtors when they meet their dun! Ruso—who, when the dismal month’s expired, Unless the wretch can raise the sum required, Bids his poor prisoner stretch the listening head, And with some long citation reads him dead. My friend perhaps on some convivial day Has stained with wine the couch on which he lay ; Has thrown a chalice down of curious mould, That graced Evander’s royal hands of old; 200 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Or, urged by hunger, reached across the dish To seize the fattest fowl or finest fish :— For such small faults to hate him were absurd. What shall I do then, if he break his word ? What, if he prove perfidious or unjust,— Forswear a contract, or betray a trust ? Some hold, ’tis true, that crimes are equal all; But press their sophistry with facts, ’twul fall : Jt contravenes all custom, feeling, sense, And that great test of right—expedience. What time amid the brutes at Nature’s birth Man crawled to being from his parent-earth, Soon for the sheltering cave or sylvan food Fierce discord rose among the savage brood. At first with fists—with cudgels next they fought, And arms at length ingenious malice wrought. Then followed speech, and names to things assigned Stamped by the voice the motions of the mind. By slow degrees they ceased their brutal strife To woo the gentler arts of social life,— To build the town; with ramparts to enclose ;— Till for the common welfare laws arose; Laws, to deter the bad, protect the just, And curb the rage of rapine and of lust, For oft, ere Helen, had weak woman’s charms Unsheathed the sword and set the world in arms. But then, when just as random passion drove They snatched the pleasures of promiscuous love, (As to the stoutest bull the rest will yield, Till one yet stouter drive him from the field) Untutored strength would soon the fray decide, And thus unknown they fought—unsung they died. Trace in the records of the historic page The world’s vast annals back from age to age, BOOK I—SATIRE ITI, -201 This inference from the search you needs must draw— That fear of outrage first engendered law. Pleasure from pain, an evil from a good Instinct discerns,—but never understood In what just actions differ from unjust, Till use had shown the need of mutual trust. Thus right or wrong is that which more or less Promotes cr mars the general happiness : And ne’er can he be proved by logic sound Who snaps a cabbage from his neighbour’s ground, Equal in guilt with him, who, leaping o’er Ali shame, purloins the altar’s sacred store. Let then some rule be fixed, which may dispense Proportioned penalties to each offence : Nor him, whose crime a ferule might atone, Cut with your bastinade to the bone. For, that you e’er will err on mercy’s side, And when the furious knout should be applied, Wave the light rod, quitting the too severe For the too mild,—I see but little fear: While sacrilege and petty theft you say Are equal, and (had you the sovereign sway) Be men’s misdeeds however great or small, The self-same vengeance should await them all. Had you the sway !——Why if the Sage alone Can boast all wit, worth, beauty, as his own,— If he be first and best in every thing, A shoemaker and “ every inch a king,” — Do you not reign already ?—“‘ Prithee, fool!” The stoic cries, ‘‘ mistake not thus the rule. Consult Chrysippus—he shall end the strife : Perhaps the wise-man never in his life Made either shoe or sandal; yet we know He’s still a first-rate shoemaker.” —‘‘ How so ?”’— 202 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Was not Tigellius, when he held his tongue, A singer just as much as when he sung ? Was not Alfenus, when he closed his stall, Packed off his lasts, and laid aside his awl, Justly considered as a cobbler still ? So then the Sage, by virtue of his skill, Though exercising none, may yet be said To be a perfect master of each trade: He.centres all things in himself alone, And reigns a monarch though without a throne. But after all, methinks, great king of kings! You sometimes suffer most unroyal things. A troop of dirty boys, that form your suite, Twitch your long beard and hoot you through the street. In vain you lift your staff: the saucy throng Still mock your growlings as you mope along. In short—while you, dread sire! among the many Bathe your illustrious person for a penny ;— And none, to swell the pageantry of state, Save dull Crispinus, on your levee wait ;— Permit a fool like me, when he offends, To claim indulgence from his candid friends ; And in his turn o’erlooking their defects To show to them that mercy he expects. Thus on your power, though mean, I may look down, And, though a Subject, envy not your Crown. Howes. SATIRE IV. ** Fupolis atque Cratinus Aristophanesque.” Cratinus, Eupolis, with some few more Who trod the comic stage in days of yore, BOOK I.—SATIRE IV. Was there a knave or scoundrel of their time, Rake, ruffian, thief—whatever were his crime, On him their honest indignation hurled, And lashed with freedom a licentious world. Close to their steps and studious of their fame, His numbers different—but his scope the same, Lucilius followed, skilled in taunts severe To point at trembling vice the caustic jeer. Yet, with address and pleasantry enough, His style was awkward and bis verses rough. For all his pride unhappily was placed In this—that what he wrote, he wrote with haste ; And had, while standing on one foot, the power To spin his lines two hundred in the hour. No wonder sure, if such arapid flood . Bore in its current no small share of mud : - No wonder if the hand which only cared For writing fast, wrote much that might be spared. The toil of writing well is death to such : Yet, if not well, what matters it how much? See, bold Crispinus boasts such fluent ease, He’ll write a race with me for what I please ! “Come on! Take you your tablets,” he will say, ‘And I'll take mine ; appoint your place and day: Let umpires watch us both; and let us try Which can compose the faster, you or I.” Thanks to my stars that made me of a mind To brawls and babbling never much inclined,— Patient and poor in spirit, slow to boast And oft, when most contemned, contented most ! Go on then, ye that list, to give free vent To every thought within your bosoms pent! Go, ape the blacksmith’s leathern lungs that blow Till the fused mass in ruddy current flow. 203 204 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Blest Fannius, whose kind friends, unasked, combine To bear his bust and books to Phoebus’ shrine, The world applauding !—while, whate’er I write, Before that world I tremble to recite,— Aware that satire suits not gentle ears, And each man hates it—because each man fears. Pick me a man at random from the throng ;— My life upon’t, there’s something in him wrong: Base envy sours him, or ambition fires : He burns with lawless love or worse desires ; Or pines the sculptured silver to amass, Or dotes with Albius on Corinthian brass ; Or traffics from the climes of orient day J’o realms that glow beneath the setting ray: See how from port to port, from shore to shore, Urged headlong by the restless thirst of more,— And, tho’ still saving, eager still to save,— Like dust before the wind, he skims the wave ! No wonder sure if these and such as these The poet and his verse alike displease. Like a mad bull, they shun him thro’ the streets ; ** Beware,” they cry; ‘‘ he butts at all he meets ! And if he can but let his spleen o’erflow, The spiteful creature spares nor friend nor foe: Besides, whate’er he once has written down, He’s wretched till ’tis known to half the town, And at the baker’s shop or public well Men—women—boys the witty slander tell.” A few plain words in my defence I claim: First from the list of Poets strike my name. For not the merely smooth and flowing line— Much less such loose pedestrian verse as mine— Confers that title. No—the Bard is he Who boasts a genius bold, creative, free ; BOOK I.—SATIRE IV. Whose fancy, when diviner thoughts inspire, Springs up aloft to soar on wings of fire ; Whose words in more than mortal accents roll, And echo back the greatness of his soul. Hence some have doubted if ’twere right to call The Comic Drama poetry at all ; Since nor its style nor matter is imprest With that fine rage which fills the poet’s breast,— And, save that all in measured cadence flows, Its diction differs not from simple prose. *“* Yet,” you object, “the father stamps the stage And rates his son with more than prose-lke rage, When the gay stripling, deaf to wisdom’s lore, Slights the rich heiress for the thriftless w : Or staggering forth, ’ere night obscures the sky, Waves in the open street his torch on high.” But, were Pomponius’ sire his son to see, Would he not rave and scold as loud as he? Tis not enough then merely to inclose Plain sense in numbers,—which if you transpose, The words were such as any man might say, Just like the ranting father in the play. Take but from mine or old Lucilius’ rhyme This regular return of measured time,— Let every line’s arrangement be reversed, And place the first word last—the last word first ; What’s the result ?—’ Tis poetry no more, And therefore was not poetry before. Not so—‘‘ When discord brake the ponderous bar And oped the adamantine gates of War:”’ Here dislocate—distort him, as you will ;— Tho’ piecemeal torn, you see the Poet still. How far this kind of writing forms or no A proper poem, we may elsewhere show: 205 206 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Proceed we now to that more serious head— How far it forms an object of just dread. Caprius and Sulcius with their bags and books, Writs in their hands and gibbets in their looks, Walk forth and strike, wherever they appear, The felon and the thief with conscious fear. Yet he whose hands are pure, who keeps his oath, Nor wrongs his neighbour, may despise them both. Now tho’ a rogue, like Ccelius, you may be, It follows not that Caprius is like me. My books on no vile stall or column stand, Soiled by Tigellius’ and each vulgar hand. When I recite them (which I seldom do), "Tis but in private to a friend or two,— At their request, not of my own free grace,— Not before all, nor yet in every place. I grant that some less delicate there are, Who spout their poems in the public square,— Or in the bath, where sweetly floats the sound Re-echoed by the vaulted roof around. Coxcombs, thus eager to obtrude their rhyme, Feel little scruple about place and time. I write (you tell me) with a base design, And spiteful rancour dictates every line. Whence and from whom do these foul charges flow ? Can any, that have known me, tell you so ? The wretch who can revile an absent friend, Or, when reviled, is backward to defend ;— Who thinks ill-nature wit; and, poorly proud To catch the laughter of a grinning crowd, Bids from his lips the hallowed secret fly, Or, when truth fails him, coins the blackening lie: If such there be, ham, Romans! it were well To mark: his touch is death, his heart is hell ! BOOK I.—SATIRE IV. 207 Go, scan a party but of twelve, reclined Around the genial board, and you shall find That some more pert and overbearing guest With saucy jokes bespatters all the rest ;— All but his host,—and him too, when the bow] Gives licence to the tongue and bares the soul. Yet he’s a boon companion, frank and free ; While every jest is blasphemy in me: And if perchance I smiling say—The fop Rufillus breathes of perfumes from the shop, Gorgonius glories in a goat-like smell,— Oh! ‘tis such scandal as no tongue can tell! Mention perhaps is in your presence made Of him who filched the crown from Jove’s own head. Now hear the censor of the envenomed page! Now see him glow with friendship’s generous rage ! - Not so; he damns, while seeming to defend :— ** Petillius was my very worthy friend ; From early youth I’ve been his frequent guest, And many has he served at my request : So after all he lives, and lives at large ;— Well, ’troth, I’m glad; but ’twas an ugly charge.” Here is the honeyed lip and heart of coal, The canker-juice and night-shade of the soul. Now, spite like this, I'll venture to engage, Ne’er stained my heart, nor e’er shall stain my page. But if I jest more freely now and then, And give a larger licence to my pen, Some early habits wrought into my frame Plead. my excuse—if not support my claim. A tender father taught my youthful breast To mark the vice he wished me to detest, And warned me what to shun and what pursue By holding apt examples to my view. 208 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. If he would have me frugally inclined, Content with what himself could leave behind. ‘* Look,”’ he would say, ‘‘ at Albius’ ruined son; See Barrus by his own excess undone! A useful lesson this to all young heirs To guard against extravagance like theirs.” If he would arm me ’gainst the wanton’s eye, ‘‘'Take warning from Sectanus,” he would cry; And that I might not woo the wedded dame, While safety recommends a sanctioned flame, ‘“*Trebonius,” he would hint, “‘ kicked out of doors, Gained little credit by his loose amours. The lectures of the wise, my son, ’ere long Will point you out the grounds of right and wrong. Enough for me if my poor art inspires Plain rules of life transmitted from our sires, Which, while you need a guardian, may secure Your morals chaste, your reputation pure : When manhood gives your mind a firmer tone, You'll drop these corks and stem the tide alone.” With such monitions providently kind He moulded to his will my youthful mind : And if he urged me to a virtue, ‘‘ See, ‘* For this you’ve good authority,” said he ; “ Copy that man’s example,”—holding forth Some judge or statesman of acknowledged worth. If he would frighten me from something base, "Twas then—‘ That such things lead but to disgrace Henceforth you cannot doubt; for mark, my son, The bad repute of such, or such a one.” Just as a neighbour’s funeral passing near Strikes the sick glutton with a wholesome fear, So, when it meets the tender stripling’s eyes, Another’s shame oft warns him to be wise. BOOK I—SATIRE VJ. 209 Well, thanks then to a parent’s timely care, Such crimes as tend to ruin and despair Taint not my soul. To some small faults indeed, Some venial frailties, guilty still I plead. And haply these too may in time be brought To yield to friendly counsel and sage thought : For, whether on my couch supinely laid Or sauntering in the public colonnade, Still to myself some lesson I impart, And thus in secret commune with my heart: Here duty points ;—this path to comfort tends ;— Thus I may win th’ affections of my friends ;— This or that folly be it mine to shun Taught by the fate of such or such a one. Such are my dumb soliloquies: when time Permits, I pen them down in sportive rhyme ; A practice to be numbered, [ allow, Among those lighter faults I named just now. But if, extreme to mark what is amiss, You stoop to censure such a fault as this, A host of verse-men to my aid I'll call, (And trust my word, our forces are not small) Who, like the Jews, if still our sect you slight, Shall drag you off a trembling proselyte. | Howes. SATIRE V. JOURNEY TO BRUNDUSIUM. “ Egressum magna me excepit Arica Roma.” Twas a long journey lay before us, When I and honest Heliodorus, 210 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. (Who far in point of rhetoric Surpasses every living Greek,) Each leaving our respective home Together sallied forth from Rome. First at Aricia we alight, And there refresh and pass the night, Our entertainment rather coarse Than sumptuous, but I’ve met with worse. Thence o’er the causeway soft and fair To Appi-forum we repair. But as this road is well supplied (Temptation strong !) on either side With inns commodious, snug, and warm, We split the journey, and perform In two days’ time what’s often done By brisker travellers in one. Here rather choosing not to sup Than with bad water mix my cup, After a warm debate in spite Of a provoking appetite, I sturdily resolved at last To balk it, and pronounce a fast, And in a moody humour wait, While my less dainty comrades bait. Now o’er the spangled hemisphere Diffused the starry train appear, When there arose a desperate brawl ; The slaves and bargemen, one and all, Rending their throats (have mercy on us !) As if they were resolved to stun us. ‘Steer the barge this way to the shore! I tell you we'll admit no more! Plague! will you never be content ?” Thus a whole hour at least is spent, BOOK I.—SATIRE VJ. While they receive the several fares, And kick the mule into his gears. Happy, these difficulties past, Could we have fallen asleep at last ! But, what with humming, croaking, biting, Gnats, frogs, and all their plagues uniting, These tuneful natives of the lake Conspired to keep us broad awake. Besides, to make the concert full, Two maudlin wights, exceeding dull, The bargeman and a passenger, Each in his turn, essayed an air In honour of his absent fair. At length the passenger, oppressed With wine, left off, and snored the rest. The weary bargeman too gave o’er, And hearing his companion snore, Seized the occasion, fixed the barge, Turned out his mule to graze at large, And slept forgetful of his charge. And now the sun o’er eastern hill, Discovered that our barge stood still ; When one, whose anger vexed him sore, With malice fraught, leaps quick on shore, Plucks up a stake, with many a thwack Assails the mule and driver's back. Then slowly moving on with pain, At ten Feronia’s stream we gain, And in her pure and glassy wave Our hands and faces gladly lave. Climbing three miles, fair Anxur’s height We reach, with stony quarries white. While here, as was agreed, we wait, Till, charged with business of the state, P 2 21] 212 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Mecenas and Cocceius come, The messengers of peace from Rome. » My eyes, by watery humours blear And sore, I with black balsam smear. At length they join us, and with them Our worthy friend Fonteius came; A man of such complete desert, Antony loved him at his heart. At Fundi we refused to bait, And laughed at vain Aufidius’ state, A preetor now, a scribe before, The purple-bordered robe he wore, His slave the smoking censer bore. Tired, at Murena’s we repose, At Formia sup at Capito’s. With smiles the rising morn we greet, At Sinuessa pleased to meet With Plotius, Varius, and the bard Whom Mantua first with wonder heard. The world no purer spirits knows ; For none my heart more warmly glows. Oh! what embraces we bestowed, And with what joy our breasts o’erflowed ! Sure while my sense is sound and clear, Long as I live, I shall prefer A gay, good-natured, easy friend, To every blessing Heaven can send. ’ At a small village, the next night, _ Near the Volturnus we alight ; Where, as employed on state affairs, We were supplied by the purveyors Frankly at once, and without hire, With food for man and horse, and fire. BOOK I.—SATIRE VJ. 213 Capua next day betimes we reach, Where Virgil and myself, who each CZaborved with different maladies, His such a stomach,—mine such eyes,— As would not bear strong exercise, In drowsy mood to sleep resort ; Mecenas to the tennis-court. Next at Cocceius’s farm we’re treated, Above the Caudian tavern seated ; His kind and hospitable board With choice of wholesome food was stored. Now, O ye Nine, inspire my lays! To nobler themes my fancy raise! Two combatants, who scorn to yield The noisy, tongue-disputed field, Sarmentus and Cicirrus, claim A poet’s tribute to their fame ; Cicirrus of true Oscian breed, Sarmentus, who was never freed, But ran away. We won't defame him ; His lady lives, and still may claim him. Thus dignified, in harder fray These champions their keen wit display, And first Sarmentus led the way. **'Thy locks,’ quoth he, ‘‘ so rough and coarse, Look like the mane of some wild horse.” We laugh: Cicirrus undismayed— ‘“* Have at you!’’—cries, and shakes his head. *©Tis well,’ Sarmentus says, ‘‘ you’ve lost That horn your forehead once could boast; Since maimed and mangled as you are, You seem to butt.’’ A hideous scar Improved (’tis true) with double grace The native horro*s of his face. 214 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Well. After much jocosely said Of his grim front, so fiery red, (For carbuncles had blotched it o’er, As usual on Campania’s shore, ) ‘“‘ Give us,” he cried, “‘ since you’re so big, A sample of the Cyclops jig ! Your shanks, methinks, no buskins ask, Nor does your phiz require a mask.” To this Cicirrus: ‘‘ In return Of you, sir, now I fain would learn, When ’twas, no longer deemed a slave, Your chains you to the Lares gave. For though a scrivener’s right you claim, Your lady’s title is the same. But what could make you run away, Since, pigmy as you are, each day A single pound of bread would quite O’erpower your puny appetite ?”’ Thus joked the champions, while we laughed, And many a cheerful bumper quaffed. To Beneyentum next we steer ; » Where our good host, by over care In roasting thrushes lean as mice, Had almost fallen a sacrifice. The kitchen soon was all on fire, And to the roof the flames aspire. . There might you see each man and master < Striving, amidst this sad disaster, To save the supper. Then they came With speed enough to quench the flame. From hence we first at distance see The Apulian hills, well known to me, Parched by the sultry western blast ; And which we never should have passed, BOOK I.—SATIRE VY. 215 Had not Trivicus by the way Received us at the close of day. But each was forced at entering here To pay the tribute of a tear, For more of smoke than fire was seen ; The hearth was piled with logs so green. From hence in chaises we were carried Miles twenty-four, and gladly tarried At a small town, whose name my verse (So barbarous is it) can’t rehearse. Know it you may by many a sign, Water is dearer far than wine. There bread is deemed such dainty fare, That every prudent traveller His wallet loads with many a crust ; For at Canusium, you might just As well attempt to gnaw a stone As think to get a morsel down. That too with scanty streams is fed ; Tts founder was brave Diomed. Good Varius (ah, that friends must part !) Here left us all with aching heart. At Rubi we arrived that day, Well jaded by the length of way, And sure poor mortals ne’er were wetter. Next day no weather could be better ; No roads so bad; we scarce could crawl Along to fishy Barium’s wall. The Kegnatians next, who by the rules Of common sense are knaves or fools, Made all our sides with laughter heave, Since we with them must needs believe, That incense in their temples burns, ! And without fire to ashes turns. 216 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. To circumcision’s bigots tell Such tales! for me, I know full well, That in high heaven, unmoved by care, The gods eternal quiet share : * Nor can I deem their spleen the cause Why fickle Nature breaks her laws. Brundusium + last we reach ; and there Stop short the muse and traveller. CowPER. a SATIRE VI. TO MAICENAS. * Non, quia Mecenas, Lydorum quidqud Etruscos.” THouGH, since the Lydians filled the Tuscan coasts, No richer blood than yours Etruria boasts ; Though your great ancestors have armies led, You don’t, as many do, with scorn upbraid The man of birth unknown, or turn the nose On me, who from a race of slaves arose : While you regard not from what low degree A man’s descended, if his mind be free ; Convinced, that long before th’ ignoble reign And power of Tullius, from a servile train Full many rose for virtue hich renowned, By worth ennobled, and with honours crowned ; While he, who boasts that ancient race his own Which drove the haughty Tarquin from the throne, * The opinion of Epicurus. | + Brundusium was three hundred and sixty miles from Rome. They performed the journey in fourteen days and a night.—Francis. BOOK I.—SATIRE VI, 217 Is vile and worthless in the poet’s eyes : The people, who, you know, bestow the prize To men most worthless, and, like slaves to faine, With foolish reverence hail a titled name ; And, rapt with awe-struck admiration, gaze When the long race its images displays. But how shall we, who differ far and wide From the mere vulgar, this great point decide ? For grant, the crowd some high-birthed scoundrel choose, And to the low-born man of worth refuse (Because low-born) the honours of the state, Shall we from thence their vice or virtue rate ? Were I expelled the senate-house with scorn, Justly, perhaps, because thus meanly born, I fondly wandered from my native sphere ; Yet shall I with less real worth appear ? Chained to her beamy car Fame drags along The mean, the great; an undistinguished throng. Poor Tullius, when compelled in luckless hour To quit your purple robe and tribune’s power, A larger share of envy was thy fate, Which had been lessened in a private state ; For in black sandals, when a coxcomb’s dressed, When floats the robe impurpled down his breast, Instant, ‘‘ What man is this ?”’ he round him hears ; ‘* And who his father ?’’ As when one appears Sick of your fever, Barrus, to desire That all the world his beauty should admire, Anxious our girls inquire, ‘‘ What mien and air, What leg and foot he has, what teeth and hair?” So he, who promises to guard the state, The gods, the temples, and th’ imperial seat, Makes every mortal ask his father’s name, And not less curious of his mother’s fame. 218 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. ‘* And shall a Syrian’s son, like you, presume To hurl the freeborn citizens of Rome From the ‘Tarpeian rock’s tremendous height, Or to the hangman Cadmus give their fate ?”’ Tillius. My colleague sits below me one degree, For Novius, like my father, was made free. Horace. Shall you for this a true Messala seem, And rise a Paulus in your own esteem ? But when two hundred waggons crowd the street, And three long funerals in procession meet, Beyond the fifes and horns his voice he raises, And sure such strength of lungs a wondrous praise is. As for myself, a freedman’s son confessed ; A freedman’s son, the public scorn and jest, That now with you I joy the social hour, —That once a Roman legion owned my power; But though they envied my command in war, Justly perhaps, yet sure ’tis different far To gain your friendship, where no servile art, Where only men of merit claim a part. Nor yet to chance this happiness I owe ; Friendship like yours it had not to bestow. First, my best Virgil, then my Varius told, Among my friends what character I hold ; When introduced, in few and faltering words (Such as an infant modesty affords) I did not tell you my descent was great, Or that I wandered round my country seat On a proud steed in richer pastures bred : But what I really was, I frankly said. Short was your answer, in your usual strain ; I take my leave, nor wait on you again, Till, nine months past, engaged and bid to hold A place among your nearer friends enrolled. BOOK I— SATIRE VI. 219 An honour this, methinks, of nobler kind, That innocent of heart and pure of mind, Though with no titled birth, I gained his love, Whose judgment can discern, whose choice approve. If some few venial faults deform my soul, (Like a fair face when spotted with a mole,) If none with avarice justly brand my fame, With sordidness, or deeds too vile to name : If pure and innocent: if dear (forgive These little praises) to my friends I live, My father was the cause, who, though maintained By a lean farm but poorly, yet disdained The country schoolmaster, to whose low care The mighty captain sent his high-born heir, With satchel, copy-book, and pelf to pay The wretched teacher on th’ appointed day. To Rome by this bold father was I brought, To learn those arts which well-born youth are taught ; So dressed and so attended, you would swear I was some senator’s expensive heir ; Himself my guardian, of unblemished truth, Among my tutors would attend my youth, And thus preserved my chastity of mind (That prime of virtue in its highest kind) Not only pure from guilt, but even the shame That might with vile suspicion hurt my fame ; Nor feared to be reproached, although my fate Should fix my fortune in some meaner state, From which some trivial perquisites arise, Or make me, like himself, collector of excise. For this my heart, far from complaining, pays A larger debt of gratitude and praise ; Nor, while my senses hold, shall I repent Of such a father, nor with pride resent, 220 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. As many do, th’ involuntary disgrace Not to be born of an illustrious race. But not with theirs my sentiments agree, Or language ; for if Nature should decree That we from any stated point might live Our former years, and to our choice should give The sires, to whom we wished to be allied, Let others choose to gratify their pride : While I, contented with my own, resign The titled honours of an ancient line. This may be madness in the people’s eyes, But in your judgment not, perhaps, unwise 3 That I refuse to bear a pomp of state, Unused and much unequal to the weight. Instant a larger fortune must be made ; To purchase votes, my low addresses paid ; Whether a jaunt or journey I propose, With me a crowd of new companions goes ; While, anxious to complete a length of train, Domestics, horses, chariots, I maintain. But now, as chance or pleasure is my guide, Upon my bob-tailed mule alone I ride. Galled is his crupper with my wallet’s weight ; His shoulder shows his rider’s awkward seat. Yet no penurious vileness e’er shall stain My name; as when, great Preetor, with your train Of five poor slaves, you carry where you dine Your travelling kitchen, and your flask of wine. Thus have I greater blessings in my power Than you, proud Senator, and thousands more. Alone I wander, as by fancy led, I cheapen herbs, or ask the price of bread ; [ listen, while diviners tell their tale, ‘Then homeward hasten to my frugal meal, ae BOOK i.—SATIRE VI. 221 Herbs, pulse, and pancakes ; each a separate plate ; While three domestics at my supper wait. A bowl on a white marble table stands, Two goblets, and an ewer to wash my hands; A hallowed cup of true Campanian clay My pure libations to the gods to pay. I then retire to rest, nor anxious fear Before dread Marsyas* early to appear, Whose very statue swears it cannot brook The meanness of that slave-born judge’s look. I sleep till ten ; then take a walk, or choose A book perhaps, or trifle with the muse: For cheerful exercise and manly toil Anoint my body with the plant oil, But not with such as Natta’s, when he vamps His filthy limbs, and robs the public lamps. But when the sun pours down his fiercer fire, And bids me from the toilsome sport retire, I haste to bathe, then decently regale My craving stomach with a frugal meal, Enough to nourish nature for a day, Then trifle my domestic hours away. Such is the life from bad ambition free ; Such comfort has the man low-born like me; With which I feel myself more truly blessed - Than if my sires the questor’s power possessed. F'RANCIs. * A satyr, who, challenging Apollo to a trial of skill in music, was overcome and flayed alive by the god. A statue was erected to him in the forum, opposite to the rostra, where the judges determined causes ; and the poet pleasantly says it stood in such an attitude, as showed its indignation to behold a man who had been a slave now sitting among the magistrates of Rome. The satyr, in his resentment of such a sight, forgets the pain of being flayed alive.— Torr. 222 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. SATIRE VII. “ Proscripti Regis Rupili pus atque venenum.” How half-bred Persius clipped the venomed sting Of that pert outlaw hight Rupilius King, Gagged his foul mouth and put his rancour down— Is known through all the barbers’ shops in town. Much wealth by usury had this Persius made And still in Asia drove a thriving trade ; With King too now he urged a teasing ne Sturdy as he and keenly resolute, With slang so glib as left on wings o’ th’ wind Sisenna, Barrus, many a length behind. But to my tale :—When neither would concede And each resolved to conquer or to bleed— For warriors still are least disposed to yield Who most have proved their prowess in the field, As Hector and Achilles wont to swell With mutual rage that death alone could quell— Why but because for feats of valour known Each claimed the prize of glory for his own ?— While cowards, when they quarrel, soon retreat ; And, when unequal champions chance to meet, The weak with proffered gifts redeems his head, As whilome Glaucus did to Diomed— Bent then on law, what time great Brutus bore Pretorian sway on Asia’s fertile shore, Forth step the combatants, a doughty pair ; And here Rupilius stands, and Persius there. Never did nobler spectacle engage The eye, or stouter champions mount the stage. Persius first states the case, till all around Loud peals of laughter through the court resound. BOOK I.—SATIRE VII. 223 Brutus and all his suite he loads with praise,— Calls him a Sun which sheds its kindly rays On Asia’s coast; and all the rest, save King, Planets that rise with healing in their wing: Him a vile Dog-star, hateful to the swain, That carries death and famine in its train. Thus rolled his tide of eloquence along ; The wintry torrent not more bold and strong, Which sweeps its way through forests of high oak That never echoed to the woodman’s stroke ! Preeneste’s son now rises and replies With biting taunts and foul scurrilities, Rank as vine-dressers fling, when perched on high They hear the cuckoo* in each passer-by. Nettled with these home gibes, uprose the Greek With brief rejoinder: ‘‘ Brutus! hear me speak ; Thy sires were patriots in Rome’s earlier day, Nor thou a patriot less renowned than they: Since then from regicide thy glory springs, Speak—strike—redress, and trounce this worst of kings!” Canon Howes. SATIRE VIII. _- COMPLAINT OF PRIAPUS. “ Olim truncus eram ficulnus, inutile lgnum.” In days of yore our godship stood, A very worthless log of wood, * “Cuckoo” meant a lazy fellow : one who leaves the care of his family to others. The passengers called ‘‘Cuckoo” to a late vine- dresser as they passed, —F7ancis. bo THE SATIRES OF HORACE The joiner doubting, or to shape us Into a stool, or a Priapus, At length resolved, for reasons wise, Into a god to bid me rise; And now to birds and thieves I stand A terror great. With ponderous hand, And something else as red as scarlet, I fright away each filching varlet. The birds, that view with awful dread The reeds, fast stuck into my head, Far from the garden take their flight, Nor on the trees presume to light. In coffins vile the herd of slaves Were hither brought to crowd their graves ; And once in this detested ground A common tomb the vulgar found ; Buffoons and spendthrifts, vile and base, Together rotted here in peace. A thousand feet the front extends, Three hundred deep in rear it bends, And yonder column plainly shows No more unto its heirs it goes. But now we breathe a purer air, And walk the sunny terrace fair, Where once the ground with bones was white, —With human bones, a ghastly sight! But, oh! nor thief, nor savage beast, That used these gardens to infest, H’er gave me half such cares and pains As they, who turn poor people’s brains With venomed drugs and magic lay These I can never fright away ; For when the beauteous queen of night Uplifts her head adorned with light, BOOK I.—SATIRE VIII. 225 Hither they come, pernicious crones! To gather poisonous herbs and bones. Canidia with dishevelled hair (Black was her robe, her feet were bare), With Sagana, infernal dame! Her elder sister, hither came. With yellings dire they filled the place, And hideous pale was either’s face. Soon with their nails they scraped the ground, And filled a magic trench profound With a black lamb’s thick-streaming gore, Whose members with their teeth they tore, That they: may charm the sprites to tell Some curious anecdotes from hell. The beldams then two figures brought ; Of wool and wax the forms were wrought : The woollen was erect and tall, And scourged the waxen image small, Which in a suppliant, servile mood With dying air just gasping stood. On Hecate one beldam calls ; The other to the Furies bawls, While serpents crawl along the ground, And Stygian she-dogs howl around. The blushing moon, to shun the sight, Behind a tomb withdrew her light. Oh! if I lie, may ravens shed Their ordure on my sacred head! Not to be tedious, or repeat How flats and sharps in concert meet, With which the ghosts and hags maintain A dialogue of passing strain ; Or how, to hide the tooth of snake And beard of wolf, the ground they break : Q (226 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Or how the fire of magic seized The waxen form, and how it blazed; Mark how my vengeance J pursued For all I heard, for all I viewed. Loud as a bladder bursts its wind, Dreadful it thundered from behind. To town they scampered, struck with fear, This lost her teeth, and that her hair. They dropped the bracelets from their arms, Their incantations, herbs and charms; Whoe’er had seen them in their flight Had burst with laughing at the sight. FRANCIS. SATIRE IX, THE BORE. “ Tham forte Via Sacra, sicut meus est mos.” Aone the Sacred Street I chanced to stray Musing I know not what, as is my way, And wholly wrapt in thought—when up there came A fellow scarcely known to me by name: Grasping my hand, ‘‘ My dear friend, how d’ye do ? ‘‘ And pray,” he cried, “how wags the world with you?” ‘**] thank you, passing well, as times go now; Your servant :”»—And with that I made my bow. But finding him still dangle at my sleeve Without the slightest sign of taking leave, I turn with cold civility and say— * Anything further, Sir, with me to-day ?” BOOK L—SATIRE 1X. 227 —‘‘ Nay, truce with this reserve! it is but fit We two were friends, since I’m a brother-wit.” Here some dull compliment I stammered out, As, ‘‘ That, Sir, recommends you much no doubt. Vexed to the soul and dying to be gone, I slacken now my pace, now hurry on ; And sometimes halt at once in full career, Whispering some trifle in my lackey’s ear. But when he still stuck by me as before,— Sweating with ward spleen at every pore, Oh! how I longed to let my passion pass, And sighed, Bolanus, for thy front of brass! Meanwhile he keeps up one incessant chat About the streets, the houses, and all that : Marking at last my silence—‘‘ Well,” said he, “Tis pretty plain you’re anxious to get free: ‘But patience, darling Sir! so lately met— Odslife ! I cannot think of parting yet. Inform me, whither are your footsteps bound ‘* To see (but pray don’t let me drag you round) A friend of mine, who lies extremely ill A mile beyond the bridge, or further still.”— “‘ Nay then, come on! I’ve nothing else to do; And as to distance, what is that—with you!” On hearing this, quite driven to despair, Guess what my looks and what my feelings were! Never did ass upon the public road, When on his back he felt a double load, Hang both his ears so dismal and so blank. **In me, Sir,” he continues, “ to be frank, You know not what a friend you have in store: Viscus * and Varius will not charm you more. $9 * Viscus was distinguished for his literary talent. He was of senatorial rank. Varius was the poet. QaEZ 228 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. For as to dancing, who with me can vie ? Or who can scribble verse so fast as I ? Again, in powers of voice so much I shine Hermogenes himself might envy mine.” Here for a moment, puffed with self-applause, He stopped; I took advantage of the pause : ‘‘'These toils will shorten, sure, your precious life ; Have you no loving mother, friend, or wife ; Who takes an interest in your fate ?’’—‘‘ Oh, no; Thank heaven! they’re all disposed of long ago.” “ Good luck (thought I), by thee no longer vexed!” So I, it seems, must be disposed of next: Well, let me but at once resign my breath ; To die by inches thus were worse than death. Now, now I see the doom approaching near, Which once was told me by a gossip seer : While yet a boy, the wrinkled beldam shook Her urn, and, eyeing me with piteous look, ‘* Poor lad!” she cried, ‘‘ no mischief shalt thou feel Or from the poisoned bowl or hostile steel ; Nor pricking pleurisy, nor hectic cough, Nor slow-consuming gout shall take thee off: "Tis thy sad lot, when grown to man’s estate, To fall the victim of a puppy’s prate : Go, treasure in thy mind the truths I’ve sung, And shun, if thou art wise, a.chattermrg-tongue.”” At Vesta’s temple we arrived at last ; And now one quarter of the day was past— When by the greatest luck he had, I found, To stand a suit, and by the law was bound Hither to answer to the charges brought, Or else to suffer judgment by default. *‘T’m sorry to detain you here,” he cried ; “ But might T ask you just to step aside ?”’ BOOK I.—SATIRE IX. 229 “You must excuse me; legs so cramped with gout As mine, I fear, could never stand it out: Then, may I perish if I’ve skill or taste For law; besides, you know I am in haste.” — ** Faith, now you make me doubtful what to do; Whether to sacrifice my cause or you.” ‘‘ Me, by all means, Sir!—me, I beg and pray.”’ ‘“‘ Not for the world,” cried he, and led the way. Convinced all further struggle was but vain, I follow like a captive in his train. ‘“* Well ’—he begins afresh—‘‘ how stand you, Sir, In the good graces of our Minister ? ’— * His favourites are but few, and those select: Never was one more nice and circumspect.” ** Hnough—In all such cases I’m the man To work my way! In short, to crown your plan, You need some second, master of his art, To act, d’ye see, a sort of under-part. Now what is easier ?—Do but recommend _Your humble servant to this noble friend ;— And, take my word, the coast we soon should clear, And you erelong monopolize his ear.” — ‘Tush! matters go not there as you suppose; No roof is purer from intrigues like those : Think not, if such and such surpass myself In wealth or wit, I’m laid upon the shelf: Each has his place assigned.” —‘‘ Why, this is new And passing strange! ”’-—‘‘ Yet not more strange than true.’ — ‘Gods! how you whet my wishes! well, I vow, I long to know him more than ever now.” — —‘** Assail him then; the will is all you need; With prowess such as yours, you must succeed ; 230 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. He’s not impregnable; but (what is worst) He knows it, and is therefore shy at first.” ‘“‘ Tf that’s his humour, trust me, I shall spare No kind of pains to win admittance there: I'll bribe his porter ; if denied to-day, T’ll not desist, but try some other way: I'll watch occasions—linger in his suite, Waylay, salute, huzzah him through the street. Nothing of consequence beneath the sun Without great labour ever yet was done.” Thus he proceeded prattling without end, When—who should meet us but my worthy friend, Aristius Fuscus,* one who knew the fop And all his humours: up he comes—vwe stop. ‘“Whence now, good Sir, and whither bound?” he cries, And to like questions, put in turn, replies. In hopes he’d take the hint and draw me off, I twitch his listless sleeve—nod—wink—and cough. He, feigning ignorance what my signals mean, With cruel waggery smiles :—I burn with spleen. ‘“‘ Fuscus (said I), you mentioned t’other day Something particular you wished to say Betwixt ourselves.” —‘‘ Perhaps I might: ’tis true: But never mind; some other time will do: This is the Jews’ grand feast ; and I suspect You'd hardly like to spurn that holy sect.””— ‘‘ Nay, for such scruples, ‘troth I feel not any.” — ‘* Well, but I do, and, like the vulgar many, Am rather tender in such points as these : So by and bye of that, Sir, if you please.” — Ah me! that e’er so dark a sun should rise! Away the pitiless barbarian flies, * A grammarian, poet and orator.—See Ode XXII. Book I, and Epistle X. Book L BOOK I.—SATIRE X. 231 And leaves me baffled, half bereft of life, All at the mercy of the ruthless knife. With hue and cry the plaintiff comes at last; *¢ Soho there, sirrah! whither now so fast ? ‘“‘Sir’’—he addressed me—“‘ You'll bear witness here?” ‘ Aye, that I will,” quoth I, and turned my ear.* Anon he’s dragged to court ; on either side Loud shouts ensue, and uproar lords it wide : While I, amid the hurly-burly riot, Thanks to Apollo’s care! walk off in quiet. Canon Howes. SATIRE X, « Tucili, quam sis mendosus, teste Catone.” Ys, I did say that old Lucilius’ song In rough unmeasured numbers halts along: __And who so blindly partial to his verse, That dares to call Lucilius smooth and terse ? Yet that with ridicule’s keen gibe he knew To lash the town, I gave him honour due. Let then his humorous talent stand confest ; Still granting this, I must withhold the rest: For, if mere wit all excellence combine, The farces of Laberius t were divine. ’Tis not sufficient with broad mirth to win The laugh convulsive and distended grin ; And, though to set an audience in a roar Be something, still we look for something more. * That is, to be pinched, which was the regular form of consenting to be bound over to appear as a witness. —Howes. + A Roman knight, who composed mimes or dramas, in which mimetic gestures were the chief point. 232 THK SATIRES OF HORACE. *Mid other needfuls, brevity we place, That all your thoughts may flow with ease and grace; Not wildly rambling, but compact and clear, Not clogged with words that load the labouring ear. The style must vary too from grave to gay, Just as the varying subject points the way ; Now rouse the poet’s fire, the speaker’s art— Now stoop to act the humorist’s lighter part, Like one who, to give play, retreating cowers, And purposely puts forth but half his powers: For oft a smile beyond a frown prevails, And raillery triumphs where invective fails. In this the earlier comic bards excel, In this deserve our imitation well ;— Those wits whom nor Hermogenes the fair Nor that pert jackanapes* e’er made his care, Who only knows Catullus’ strains to sing And troll soft Calvus + to the warbling string. But ’tis alleged, “‘ that old Lucilius shines In mingling Greek with Latin in his lines.” Ye puny pedants! seems it strange to you What ev’n Pitholeon of Rhodes could do ?— “‘Yet there’s a sweetness in this blended speech Which neither tongue ” (say they) ‘‘ apart can reach, Like that rich zest which nicer tastes discern In mellow Chian mixed with rough Falern.” Talk you of verse alone? Or (let me ask) Were you engaged in the more arduous task Of pleading for Petillius, would you speak A motley brogue, half Latin and half Greek ? And, while our Pedius and Messala { toil * Said to refer to Demetrius, who was dwarfish and deformed, + A distinguished orator and poet. t Two celebrated lawyers. BOOK I—SATIRE X. 233 In the pure idiom of their native soil, Spurning your birthright, would you at the Bar Mix terms outlandish with vernacular,— And, like Canusium’s amphibious sons, Jabber a brace of languages at once ? In early youth, when strong was my desire With Latian hand to smite the Attic lyre, Rome’s founder, at the hour when dreams are true, Rose in a vision to my wondering view : ‘* Horace !’’—-said he in accents deep and slow, ‘Horace! the fruitless enterprise forego : To swell the host of Grecians were as vain As adding water to the boundless main.” Hence, while Alpinus * in bombastic line Lays Memnon low and mars the head of Rhine, These sportive lays, I sing, ne’er meant to vie - For ivy crowns ‘neath Tarpa’s + critic eye, Nor fraught with ribald mirth or tragic rage Night after night to figure on the stage. To paint the lavish stripling’s crafty girl Plotting with Davus { to outwit the churl— This is a branch of art, Fundanius, known Of modern wits to you and you alone, Whose pencil to the prattling scene can give That air of truth which bids the picture live; In stately trimeters proud Pollio sings The tragic fates of heroes and of kings : * ‘ Alpinus”’ was said by the Scholiast to be M. Funius Bibaculus, a poet, born at Cremona B.c. 104. He is represented as ‘‘murdering”’ Memnon, the son of Tithonus and Aurora, from the wretched way in which he described Memnon’s combat with Achilles at Troy. + Tarpa was one of the five judges appointed by Augustus to decide what plays should be acted, &c., &c. t{ Davus is the name of a crafty slave of Chremes, a miser in the Andria of Terence. 234 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Varius in matchless numbers full and grand Pours his bold epic with a master’s hand ; While every muse than haunts the sylvan plain Breathes grace and elegance in Virgil’s strain. In Satire only, which with some few more Varro had tried (but vainly tried) before, Could I succeed; though sure that no success Of mine could make its first inventor less: For never from his brows would Horace tear The wreath he wears and well deserves to wear, "Tis true I said that hke a rapid flood He carries in his course a train of mud, And that his happier lines are few compared With those loose stragglers that might well be spared. And do not you, ye critics! now and then Peck at the foibles ev’n of Homer’s pen ? Dares not your loved Lucilius to correct In older Accius many a gross defect ? Of Ennius does he not with laughter speak, Where’er his verse is lame—his language weak ? Talks he not of himself, when self he names, As one inferior far to those he blames ? What then forbids us, when we con him o’er, To use that freedom which he used before ?— Ask if his ruggedness of numbers seem Due to the slov’nly pen or stubborn theme ?— And doubt if patience may not give the strain A smoother flow than that man can attain, Who (deeming that his lines, however rough, While each contain six feet, run smooth enough) Scribbles before his supper twice five score, And after supper scribbles twice five more ;— Like Tuscan Cassius whose exuberant song Swift as a mountain torrent sweeps along ; BOOK IL—SATIRE X. 239 Of whom fame tells, so rapid was his style, That his own volumes formed his funeral pile ? But grant Lucilius is polite and chaste ;— Grant that he took more pains and shows more taste Than that rude bard * who by a lucky hit First dared a path unknown to Grecian wit, Or than our older minstrels :—Yet, could fate To times more modern have prolonged his date, How would he toil each roughness to refine, To nerve the weak and point the lageing hne! Hach crude excrescence, each redundant spray, As false luxuriance, he would prune away, Nor amid fancy’s wildest raptures fail To scratch the brow and gnaw the bleeding nail. Spare not erasion, ye that wish your strain, When once perused, to be perused again ; Nor court the mob,—contented if those few Can praise, whose judgment speaks their praises true. Let others more ambitious joy to see Their works the school-boy’s task! Hnough for me If Knights applaud, as once with saucy pride, ‘l'o hissing crowds Arbuscula + replied. What—shall the bug Pantilius move my spleen ? Or shall I fret because unheard, unseen, Demetrius aims his pitiful attack And spurts his venomed slime behind my back ? Shall sneers from Fannius, or his dangling guest, The pert Hermogenes, disturb my rest ? No—let Meecenas smile upon my lays,— Let Plotius, Varius, Valgius, Virgil praise,— * Ennius. + A freed-woman mime-actress. When hissed once by the people she declared that she did not value their opinion ; she cared only to please the knights, 7.e., the educated class. —Francis., 236 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Let Fuscus and the good Octavius deign With either Viscus to approve the strain ;— And, far from idle dreams of vulgar fame, You, Pollio! you, Messala! let me name, Nor, less your brother ; candid Furnius too, And you, my Bibulus! and Servius! you: Such, with some others whom I here omit, Such are the friends whose taste I fain would hit ; Mine be the boast to win the smiles of these, Nor e’er to please them less than now I please! But you, Demetrius, and your stupid gang— I bid you, with Tigellius all go hang And scribble tasks for school-girls !—Boy, pen down These lines, and let them know I scorn their frown! CANON HowEs. BOOK Il. — SATIRE I.* “ Sunt, guibus in satira videor nimis acer et ultra.” Horace. THERE are, to whom too poignant I appear ; Beyond the laws of satire too severe. My lines are weak, unsinewed, others say, ‘A man might spin a thousand such a day.’ * In his first book of satires our poet opposes the vices of mankind ; in this he refutes the false opinions of the philosophers. Such a design requires more force and more erudition than the former. The reader may therefore expect to find this book better supported with reasoning and learning than the first. —Francis. BOOK II—SATIRE IT. 237 What shall I do, Trebatius? Trebatws.* Write no more. | Hf. What! Give the dear delight of scribbling o’er ? T. Yes. HH. Let me die but your advice were best. But sir, I cannot sleep; I cannot rest. T. Swim o’er the Tiber, if you want to sleep, Or the dull sense in t’ other bottle steep : If you must write, to Cesar tune your lays, Indulge your genius, and your fortune raise. _ H. Oh! were I equal to the glorious theme, Bristled with spears his iron war should gleam : A thousand darts should pierce the hardy Gaul, + And from his horse the wounded Parthian fall. T. Then give his peaceful virtues forth to fame ; His fortitude and justice be your theme. H. Yes. I will hold the daring theme in view, _ Perhaps hereafter your advice pursue. But Cesar never will your Flaccus hear ; A languid panegyric hurts his ear. Too strongly guarded from the poet’s lays, He spurns the flatterer, and his saucy praise. T’.. Better even this, than cruelly defame, And point buffoons and villains out by name. Sure to be hated even by those you spare, Who hate in just proportion as they fear. H. Tell me, Trebatius, are not all mankind To different pleasures, different whims inclined ? Millonius dances when his head grows light, And the dim lamp shines double to his sight. * Trebatius was a learned lawyer and wit: he was old at this time, having been contemporary with Cicero. + The Gauls of Aquitain having rebelled in 726, Octavius sent Messala, with the title of governor of the province, to reduce them to his obedience. He conquered them the year following, and had the honour of a triumph the twenty-fifth of Sentember.—Saz. 238 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. The twin-born brothers in their sports divide ; Pollux loves boxing ; Castor joys to ride. Indulge me then in this my sole delight, Like great and good Lucilius let me write. Behold him frankly to his book impart, As to a friend, the secrets of his heart: To write was all his aim; too heedless bard, And well or ill, unworthy his regard. Hence the old man stands open to your view, Though with a careless hand the piece he drew. His steps I follow in pursuit of fame, Whether Lucania or Apulia claim The honour of my birth; for on the teeG By Samnites once possessed, Venusium stands, A forward barrier, as old tales relate, To stop the course of war, and guard the state. Let this digression, as it may, succeed— No honest man shall by my satire bleed ; It guards me like a sword, and safe it lies Within the sheath, till villains round me rise. Dread king and father of the mortal race, Behold me, harmless bard, how fond of peace ! And may all kinds of mischief-making steel In rust, eternal rust, thy vengeance feel ! But who provokes me, or attacks my fame, ‘ Better not touch me, friend,’ I loud exclaim : His eyes shall weep the folly of his tongue, By laughing crowds in rueful ballad sung. Th’ informer Cervius threatens with the laws ; Turius your judge, you surely lose your cause: Are you the object of Canidia’s hate ? Drugs, poisons, incantations, are your fate : For powerful Nature to her creatures shows With various arms to terrify their foes. BOOK I.—SATIRE I. 239 The wolf with teeth, the bull with horns can fight ; Whence, but from instinct, and an inward light ? His long-lived mother trust to Sceva’s care— T. No deed of blood his pious hand could dare. H. Wondrous indeed! that bulls ne’er strive to bite, Nor wolves, with desperate horns engage in fight ; No mother’s blood the gentle Sceva spills, But with a draught of honeyed poison kills. Then, whether age my peaceful hours attend, Or death his sable pinions round me bend ; Or rich, or poor; at Rome; to exile driven ; Whatever lot by powerful fate is given, Yet write I will. JT. O boy, thy fate is sped, And short thy days. Some lord shall strike thee dead With freezing look— H. What! in his honest page, When good Lucilius lashed a vicious age, _From conscious villains tore the mask away, And stripped them naked to the glare of day, Were Lelius or his friend (whose glorious name From conquered Carthage deathless rose to fame), - Were they displeased, when villains and their crimes Were covered o’er with infamy and rhymes ? The factious demagogue he made his prize, And durst the people, tribe by tribe, chastise ; Yet true to virtue, and to virtue’s friends, To them alone with reverence he bends. When Scipio’s virtue, and, of milder vein, When Lelius’ wisdom, from the busy scene, And crowd of life, the vulgar and the great, Could with their favourite satirist retreat, Lightly they laughed at many an idle jest, Until their frugal feast of herbs was dressed. What though with great Lucilius I disclaim All sauev rivalship of birth or fame, 240 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Spite of herself even Envy must confess That I the friendship of the great possess, And, if she dare attempt my honest fame, Shall break her teeth against my solid name. This is my plea; on this I rest my cause— What says my counsel, learned in the laws ? T. Your case is clearer; yet let me advise ; For sad mishaps from ignorance arise. Behold the pains and penalties decreed To libellers— H. To libellers indeed ! But, if with truth his characters he draws, Even Cesar shall support the poet’s cause ; The formal process shall be turned to sport, And you dismissed with honour by the court. FRANCIS. SATIRE II. ON FRUGALITY. “ Que virtus et quanta, boni, sit vivere parvo.” Wuart, and how great the virtue, friends, to live On what the gods with frugal bouuty give, (Nor are they mine, but sage Ofellus’ rules Of mother-wit, and wise without the schools,) Come learn with me, but learn before ye dine, Kre with luxurious pomp the table shine ; Hire yet its madding splendours are displayed, That dull the sense, and the weak mind mislead. Yet why before we dine ? I'll tell ye, friends, - A judge, when bribed, but ill to truth attends. Pursue the chase: th’ unmanaged courser rein : Or, if the Roman war ill suit thy vein, BOOK II.—SATIRE TI. 241 To Grecian revels formed, at tennis play, Or at the manly discus * waste the day: With vigour hurl it through the yielding air (The sport shall make the labour less severe) ; Then, when the loathings that from surfeits rise Are quelled by toil, a homely meal despise ; Then the Falernian grape with pride disclaim, Unless with honey we correct its flame. Your butler strolls abroad; the wintered sea Defends its fish ; but you can well allay The stomach’s angry roar with bread and salt. Whence can this rise, you ask, from whence the fault ? In you consists the pleasure of the treat, Not in the price, or flavour of the meat. Let exercise give relish to the dish, Since not the various luxuries of fish, Nor foreign wild fowl can delight the pale, Surfeit-swoln guest; yet I shall ne’er prevail To make our men of taste a pullet choose, And the gay peacock with its train refuse ; t For the rare bird at mighty price is sold ; ~ And, lo! what wonders from its tail unfold! But ¢éan these whims a higher gusto raise, Unless you eat the plumage that you praise ? Or do its glories, when ’tis boiled, remain ? No; ’tis th’ unequalled beauty of its train Deludes your eye, and charms you to the feast, For hens and peacocks are alike in taste. * The discus was a quoit of brass, iron, or stone, thrown by a thong put through the middle of it. + Quintus Hortensius was the first who gave the Romans a taste for peacocks, and it soon became so fashionable a dish, that all people of fortune had it at their tables. Cicero pleasantly says, he had the bold- ness to invite Hirtius to sup with him, even without a peacock.— Francis. R 242 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. But say, by what discernment are you taught To know that this voracious pike was caught Where the full river’s lenient waters glide, Or where the bridges break the rapid tide ; In the mild ocean, or where Tiber pays With broader course his tribute to the seas ? Madly you praise the mullet’s three pound weight, And yet you stew it piecemeal ere you eat ; Your eye deceives you; wherefore else dislike The natural greatness of a full-grown pike, Yet in a mullet so much joy express ? ‘* Pikes are by nature large, and mullets less.” ‘Give me,” the harpy-throated glutton cries, ‘In a large dish, a mullet’s largest size: ” Descend, ye southern winds, propitious haste, And dress his dainties for this man of taste. And yet it needs not; for when such excess Shall his o’er-jaded appetite oppress, The new-caught turbot’s tainted ere he eat, And bitter herbs are a delicious treat. But still some ancient poverty remains ; The egg,—the olive yet a place maintains At great men’s tables; nor, till late, the fame ; Of a whole sturgeon damned a pretor’s name. Did ocean then a smaller turbot yield ? The towering stork did once in safety build * Her airy nest, nor was the turbot caught Till your great preetor better precepts taught. * The storks built their nests in safety, until the time of Augustus. Asinius Sempronius, or, according to others, Rutilius Rufus, when can- didates for the pretorship, entertained the people with a dish of storks. But the people revenged the death of the poor birds, by refusing the pretorship to their murderer. From this refusal the poet pleasantly calls him pretor.— 7Zorr. BOOK II—SATIRE 11. 243 Tell them, that roasted cormorants are a feast, Our docile youth obey the man of taste ; But sage Ofellus marks a decent mean A sordid, and a frugal meal between ; For a profuse expense in vain you shun If into sordid avarice you run. Avidienus, who by public fame Was called ‘‘ the dog,” and merited the name, Wild cornels, olives five years’ old, devoured ; Nor, till his wine was turned, his pure libations poured. When robed in white he marked with festal mirth His day of marriage, or his hour of birth, From his one bottle, of some two pounds weight, With oil, of execrable stench, replete, With his own hand he dropped his cabbage o’er, But spared his oldest vinegar no more. _ How shall the wise decide, thus urged between The proverb’s ravening wolf, and dog obscene ? Let him avoid the equal wretchedness Of sordid filth, or prodigal excess ; Nor his poor slaves like old Albucius rate, When he gives orders for some curious treat : Nor yet like Neevius, carelessly unclean, His guests with greasy water entertain. This too is vile. Now mark, what blessings flow From temperate meals; and first they can bestow That prime of blessings, health: for you'll confess That various meats the stomach must oppress, If you reflect how light, how well you were When plain and simple was your cheerful fare ; But roast, and boiled, when you promiscuous eat, When fowl and shell-fish in confusion meet, Sweets, turned to choler, with cold phlegm engage, And civil war in the racked stomach wage. R 2 244 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Behold how pale the sated guests arise From suppers, puzzled with varieties ! The body too, with yesterday’s excess Burthened and tired, shall the pure soul depress ; Weigh down this portion of celestial birth, This breath of god, and fix it to the earth. Who down to sleep from a short supper lies, Can to the next day’s business vigorous rise, Or jovial wander (when the circling year Brings back some festal day) to better cheer ; Or when his wasted strength he would restore, When years approach, and age’s feeble hour A softer treatment claim. But if in prime Of youth and health you take before your time The luxuries of life, where is their aid When age or sickness shall your strength invade ? Our fathers loved (and yet they had a nose) A tainted boar; but I believe they chose The mouldy fragments with a friend to eat, Rather than eat it whole themselves, and sweet. Oh! that the earth, when vigorous and young, Had borne me this heroic race among ! Do you the voice of fame with pleasure hear ? (Sweeter than verse it charms the human ear ;) Behold, what infamy and ruin rise From a large dish, where the large turbot lies ; Your friends, your neighbours, all your folly hate, You hate yourself, in vain, and curse your fate, When, though you wish for death, you want the pelf To purchase even a rope to hang yourself. ‘‘ These precepts well may wretched Trausius rate ; But why to me? So large is my estate, And such an ample revenue it brings To satiate even the avarice of kings.” BOOK I.—SATIRE II. 245 Then why not better use this proud excess Of worthless wealth ? Why lives in deep distress A man unworthy to be poor, or why The temples of the gods in ruins lie ? Why not of such a massy treasure spare To thy dear country, wretch, a moderate share ? Shalt thou alone no change of fortune know ? Thou future laughter to thy deadliest foe ! But who, with conscious spirit self-secure, A change of fortune better shall endure ? He, who with such variety of food Pampers his passions, and inflames his blood ; Or he, contented with his little store, And wisely cautious of the future hour, Who in the time of peace with prudent care Shall for th’ extremities of war prepare ? But, deeper to impress this useful truth, I knew the sage Ofellus in my youth, Living, when wealthy, at no larger rate Than in his present more contracted state. I saw the hardy hireling till the ground (Twas once his own estate),* and while around His cattle grazed, and children listening stood, The cheerful swain his pleasing tale pursued. ‘** On working days I had no idle treat, But a smoked leg of pork and greens I eat; Yet when arrived some long-expected guest, Or rainy weather gave an hour of rest, * It seems to have been customary in the case of the metati agri— the lands taken by confiscation from the former possessors to be dis- tributed in measured compartments to the veteran soldiers of Rome, to suffer the former occupiers to superintend and assist in the cultivation, es render an account of the net proceeds to the new proprietors.— owes, 246 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. If a kind neighbour then a visit paid, An entertainment more profuse I made ; Though with a kid or pullet well content, Ne’er for luxurious fish to Rome I sent. With nuts and figs I crowned the cheerful board, The largest that the season could afford. The social glass went round with cheerfulness, And our sole rule was to avoid excess. Our due libations were to Ceres paid, T’o bless our corn, and fill the rising blade, While the gay wine dispelled each anxious care, And smoothed the wrinkled forehead too severe. '* Let Fortune rage, and new disorders make, From such a life how little can she take ? Or have we lived at a more frugal rate Since this new stranger seized on our estate ? Nature will no perpetual heir assign, Or make the farm his property or mine. He turned us out: but follies all his own, Or lawsuits, and their knaveries unknown ; Or, all his follies and his lawsuits passed, Some long-lived heir shall turn him out at last. The farm, once mine, now bears Umbrenus’ name ; The use alone, not property we claim ; Then be not with your present lot depressed, And meet the future with undaunted breast.” FRANCIS. BOOK II1.—SATIRE III, 247 SATIRE III. IN THE FORM OF A DIALOGUE BETWEEN HORACE AND DAMASIPPUS.* “Sic raro scribis, ut toto non quater anno.” ‘* So seldom now you court the Muse, I hear, You call for parchment scarcely thrice a year ; On dull revisal while you waste your pow’rs, And, sleep or wine engrossing all your hours, Vexed with yourself you peevishly complain That you can hammer out no living strain. How now! from Saturn’s revels you withdrew, As one resolved to carol something new. Here then, all sober, keep your promise; come, Begin, compose—Alas! you still are dumb. In vain you curse the pen, and in a rage Pour your resentment on the luckless page. Poor innocents! regardless of their worth Sure Gods and Poets frowned upon their birth. Methought your looks bespoke some wondrous feat If e’er you reached your villa’s snug retreat. Why else, as if to indulge a studious fit, Heap Plato’s wisdom on Menander’s wit ? Why take Archilochus, a goodly load, With Eupolis, companions on the road ? Think you the wrath of envy to appease, By quitting virtue for inglorious ease ? Poor wretch! contempts awaits you. Scorn the smiles Of Siren Sloth and her insidious wiles,— Or tamely forfeit all your claim to praise, The meed of toil and fruits of better days.” * Damasippus is supposed to have been the connoisseur in sculpture mentioned by Cicero (ad Fam. VII. xxiii.). 248 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. —Your counsel, Damasippus, I must own, Is just: And for the wisdom you have shown Heaven send you a good barber !*—But pray tell, How wist you me and my concerns so well ? —‘‘ Learn, since the Forum saw by sad neglect My fortunes all on Usury’s quicksands wrecked, From that time forward I devote my cares (Reft of my own) to other men’s affairs. For late my sole ambition was to amass Not current gold, but rare Corinthian brass ; Proud if I chanced with some old vase to meet In which sly Sisyphus had bathed his feet. Oft I pronounced in all the pride of taste This rudely sculptured, and that coarsely cast ; Would name the price with connoisseur-like air To here a busto, a relievo there; Or cheapened mansions, parks, and pleasure-grounds, And many bargains bought for many pounds. The auction-hunters, when they met me, smiled And pointing cried—See Mercury’s favoured child! ” —I know the mania you so long endured, And wonder by what process you were cured. —‘‘ The old distemper to a new gave place ; And this, you know, is no uncommon case: One patient finds his pleurisy depart Or head-ache, but to settle at the heart; That, cured of lethargy, turns pugilist And at the frightened doctor darts his fist.” —‘‘ Go to, pray Heaven your frenzy be not such!” ** Softly, good sir! presume not quite so much: For if there’s truth in wise Stertinius’ + rules, * The Stoics wore long beards. + A Stoic philosopher. BOOK II.—SATIRE ITI. 249 You and the world are madmen all and fools. From his pure lips with wondrous wisdom fraught My eager ear some golden precepts caught, What time my guardian genius he appeared, Bade me to nurse this sapient length of beard, From the Fabrician bridge my steps withdrew, And opened scenes of comfort to my view. Wild in despair, with muffled head* I stood, Prepared to plunge into the roaring flood, When up he came in time of greatest need, And ‘‘ Hold!” he cried, ‘‘ forbear the dreadful deed : Emancipate thy mind from this false shame, Nor shrink ’midst madmen from a madman’s name; For be it first inquired, to make all plain, What madness is, and who are the insane. If this be found in you and none beside, I’m dumb—go, perish nobly in the tide ! The man whom ignorance warps and passions blind, Him ‘have Chrysippus and the Porch defined A madman. Mark, the rule embraces you, Kings, Commons, all—except the favoured few. Hear now why those who proudly call you mad, In reason’s view are every wit as bad. As, when bewildered in a wood by night, This trav’ller takes the left and that the right, Each strays, though in a different path he strays, Mocked by the self-same error various ways,— So it is here; and he that laughs at you May wear the cap; for he is crack-brained too. See Mania in a thousand forms appear! One fears where there exists no cause for fear, And in an open field complains he sees His path opposed by rivers, rocks, and trees. * Those who devoted themselves to death covered the head. 250 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Another maniac of a different turn Will rush where torrents roll and Adtnas burn. Warned by a mother’s, sister’s, consort’s care— ‘“‘ Here yawns a gulf, here frowns a rock ; beware! ” He’s deaf as drunken Fufius in the play - Who snored the part of slumbering Hecuba, While, backed by thousands, Polydorus* bawls— ‘“* Awake, dear mother! ’tis thy son that calls.” Alike to wisdom’s eye through all mankind Prevails some strange obliquity of mind. With his last sous poor Damasippus buys Statues and busts—and here his madness lies. But is his creditor of mind quite sound Whose loans return him sixpence in the pound ? Suppose one says, ‘‘ Take this nor e’er repay ; ” Are you forsooth a madman who obey ? Call him the madman rather, who pretends To spurn the prize propitious Mercury sends. Ten drawn on Nerius; sign the loan with speed: Tis not enough—down with the bond and deed: A thousand parchments let Cicuta draw, Skilled to tie fast each knotty noose of law. Though chains of adamant the wretch enthrall, This cursed Proteus-debtor bursts them all; Laughs in his sleeve when dragged to court, and see— He turns at will to bear, bird, rock, or tree! No more—if to o’erstep self-interest’s bound Be mad, while caution proves the reason sound, Strong in his breast the flames of frenzy burn Who lends his money never to return. * Fufius was an actor who played the part of Ilione, and was sup- posed to be asleep when the ghost of her son Polydore called her. The actor, who was intoxicated, slept in reality too soundly to awake, and the amused audience joined in the cry, ‘‘ Dear mother, hear me |” uttered by Polydore.—-Francts. BOOK IL—SATIRE II. 251 Haste and adjust the mantle’s decent fold, All ye that madden with the thirst of gold,— Whose bosoms kindle with ambition’s fires,— Whose blood ferments with lechery’s wild desires,— Whom superstition’s slavish fear molests,— In short, whatever frenzy racks your breasts, Approach in ranks, be patient if you can, And hear me prove you maniacs to a man! The miser first: none wants.a keeper more Or asks a stronger dose of hellebore. By wisdom’s rules I know not if to such A whole Anticyra’s * produce were too much. Staberius willed, to make his riches known, Their sum should be engraved upon his stone: His heirs, in case of failure, to engage Two hundred champions for the public stage, Besides a one-year’s Libyan crop of grain, With such a feast as Arrius should ordain. ‘¢ Whether I formed my judgment well or ill, Such was my pleasure; who dare thwart my will?’ Such haply was the plea which weighed with him. But would you learn the motive for this whim ? ’Twas this: he thought no sin like being poor ; Through all his life he dreaded nothing more; And would no doubt have blushed for his excess, If he had died worth but one farthing less. All things in his esteem—fame, virtue, health, Human and heavenly—bow to blessed wealth : He that is rich, in every trade has skill,— Is brave, just, wise, aye monarch,—-what you will. * Famous for producing hellebore, which was believed to be a cure for madness. There were three towns of this name in Greece. The one here meant was situated south of Phocis. 252 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Such was his creed; with him the road to praise Was wealth, and therefore wealth he strove to raise. How different, Aristippus ! your commands When with your slaves you traversed Afric’s sands ! Finding their freight of gold begat delay, You bade them fling the cumbrous ore away. Which was the greater madman ? some will ask: The problem is a nice, but needless task : Extremes but puzzle the dispute ; for who Can hope to solve old doubts by starting new ? If one devoid of ear or taste should buy A hundred harps and pile them up on high ; Or treasure many a last and paring-knife, Who never botched a shoe in all his life ;sx Or sails, who took in sailing no delight ;— The world would stamp him mad, and well they might. Now point me out the difference, if you can, Between these downright maniacs and the man Who heaps, but dare not use, his darling ore, And deems it sacrilege to touch the store. If near a heap of corn one takes his stand, Couched like a watchful dragon, club in hand, Yet feeding upon bitter herbs is fain Sooner to starve than touch a single grain ;— If old Falern and Chian fifty tier— Nay fifty thousand—in his vaults appear, Yet loath to violate a single jar He sips the dregs of ropy vinegar ;— If in his eightieth year, when nature’s law Indulgence claims, he seeks his bed of straw, Though rich in sumptuous quilts, which left a prey To moths and worms within his chests decay :— Perhaps he’s thought a madman but by few: Why ? but because the rest are madmen too ? BOOK I1,—SATIRE III. 253 Go, graceless dotard ! watch thy hoarded wine, That some sly freedman or wild son of thine, When thy old bones are mouldering in the grave, May drink it out and laugh at him that gave ! "Tis penury, I fear, methinks you say: Go, count how trifling were the charge per day Upon your herbs some sweeter oil to shed And give some unguents to that squalid head. If such a pittance can your wants supply, Why, madman! break your oath and cheat and lie ? Should you begin the passing crowd to stone And kill the slaves by purchase made your own, The very rabble whom you chanced to meet Would hoot you for a madman through the street. And are you sane forsooth, who hang your wife And drug the bowl against a mother’s life ? ‘What though the deed was not at Argos done ? What though you ne’er, like Clytemnestra’s son, Applied the poniard ?—Idle pleas and vain ! Think you ’twas matricide first turned his brain ? Or that his soul was not with fiends possest Long ere his sword had pierced a mother’s breast ? We hear not that Orestes from the time They deemed him mad, dared any heinous crime. Against Electra did he e’er offend, Or lift the sword against his faithful friend ? No—her he only as a fiend addrest, And him what wild delirium might suggest. Opimius, poor amid his hoarded coin, Who quaffed on common days the lees of wine, And thought it much on festivals to share Small Veian tiff from cheap Campanian ware, So deep a lethargy once chanced to seize That his glad heir assailed the chests and keys. 254 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. The doctor, an expert and skilful man, To rouse his patient tried the following plan: Large bags of gold were emptied on the floor, And friends employed to come and count it o’er. All things prepared, he raised the sick man’s head, And pointing where the glittering heaps were spread, ‘ Arise,” he cried; “‘ your greedy heir will take All your effects, unless you watch and wake. Look, they commence their plunder even now ! ”’— ‘What, ere I die !’’—‘‘ Then wake and live.” —‘‘ But how ?”?~— “Your fainting stomach needs some strength’ning food ; | Take this Hlixir—come, ’twill do you good.” — ‘* First tefl me what it cost ?”—‘‘ The price is small.” ‘* How much, I ask ?’’—“‘ One shilling ; that is all.” ‘A shilling! ’sdeath, if ruin must ensue, Whut matter if by theft, disease, or you?” Who then is sane? ‘The man from folly free. And what’s the miser ? none so mad as he. If not a miser, am I straightway sane ? Far from it.—Why, great stoic ?—I’ll explain. Craterus declares his patient free from gout: Is he then hearty ? can he walk about ? No, he will answer ; for there yet remains A sharp distemper in the side and reins. You neither cheat nor hoard ; so far you shine: Slay to your favouring household-gods a swine ! But do you thirst for place and power ?—Away, Steer for Anticyra without delay : For whether to the mob you fling your pelf Or hoard it, where’s the difference to yourself ? Oppidius of Canusium, his estate (A large one, reckoning by the antique rate) BOOK I1—SATIRE III, 2 Between two sons resolving to divide, Summoned and thus addrest them ere he died. ** Long since, my children, when ye both were boys, I marked the different treatment of your toys. Yours, Aulus! scattered and neglected lay, Were often given and sometimes thrown away : While you, Tiberius! of severer mood Counted and hid them up where’er you could. Observing this I feared—nay, still I fear— Lest various frenzies should in both appear : Lest you the vile example should pursue Of Nomentanus—of Cicuta you. Conjured, then, by our household-gods, beware, As ye regard a dying father’s prayer, You of enlarging, you of making less— By sordid avarice or by wild excess— What seems sufficient in your father’s eyes, What sense approves and nature justifies. But, lest ambition lure you to the great, Hear on what terms I leave you my estate: Whichever of the twain is Aidile first Or Preetor, be he outlawed and accurst !” Vainglorious fool, thus to consume thy means In scattering largesses of peas and beans, All for a brazen bust and gaudy train, Stripped of thy house, thy chattels, and domain,— Thinking forsooth Agrippa’s praise to win, A would-be lion, though an ass within! Whence, Agamemnon, does this order spring That Ajax lie untombed ?—‘“‘ Obey your king ! ’”— Enough ; I’m but your subject ; and submit. ‘‘ Nay, more—we think our edict just and fit: Yet, if there be to whom it seems severe, Let him allege his reasons ; we will hear.” 256 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. ‘“‘ Great Chief, may heaven vouchsafe thee to destroy And quit in safety the proud walls of Troy! Fain would I put some questions, if I may, With leave to answer.” —“ Say what thou would’st say.’ — ** Why does brave Ajax, who for Greece has won Such laurels, second but to Peleus’ son, Rot uninterred ? what triumph will it be To Priam and his people, when they see That hero robbed of funeral rites, by whom So many youth of theirs have lost a tomb !” ‘Upon our flocks with frantic rage he flew, And dealing slaughter thought ’twas us he slew. Here fell myself—here lay Ulysses gored— There Menelaus reeked beneath his sword.” ‘When you at Aulis to the altar led Iphigenia in a heifer’s stead, Sprinkled upon her brow the salted meal, And to her throat applied the ruthless steel, What shall we say ? Was he with frenzy wild, And are you sane who sacrifice your child ? But after all what harm did Ajax do ? He killed the sheep and oxen, it is true: He cursed the two Atride ; but his wife And son—he would not hurt them for his life. He spared his Teucer ; and his deadliest foe Felt but in effigy the vengeful blow.” —‘‘ JT, when Diana’s wrath, as Calchas swore, Detained our barks upon the Grecian shore, To gain a passage through the stormy flood, Strove wisely to propitiate Heaven with blood.” Aye, whose, rash madman ! but thine own ? reply. —‘‘ My own, I grant ;—as madman, I deny.”— He to whose view bewildering passion flings False colours and distorts tke form of things, BOOK I1,—SATIRE III. 257 (Whether from rage or folly, ’tis the same) Is frantic, and deserves a madman’s name. Was Ajax mad, who what he did scarce knew, And in his mood the harmless cattle slew ? And, when for empty title’s sake you sin, Basely deliberate, is all sound within ? Does no insaneness in that breast reside Which pants for sovereignty and swells with pride ? What if some wight should take it in his head To pet a lambkin in a daughter’s stead,— Trinkets, fine clothes, and tiring-maids provide, And destine her some noble lordling’s bride ;— Straight his incompetence the law declares And names trustees to manage his affairs. Reverse the picture now, and say that one Slays for a lamb his child, as you have done: What shall we call it ?—Madness, to be sure, And such a madness as admits no cure. For trust this maxim: In whatever mind Reigns folly, there, too, madness sits enshrined. Frenzy and vice are in effect the same ; And whoso fondly hunts the bubble Fame, Him have ten thousand furies captive led And grim Bellona thundered round his head. Now turn your eye to the voluptuous race ; Give Luxury and Nomentanus chase ; And mark if scanned by reason’s sober rule The spendthrift be not mad; the rake a fool. Yon stripling, having dropped the filial tear, Steps into some ten thousand pounds a year. What does he first ?—He puts his edict out, That fishmongers and fruiterers, cote que coitte,— That all who vend perfumes, choice birds, choice meat, With all the riff-raff of the Tuscan street, s 258 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Buffoons, pimps, poulterers, to his hall repair, And what ensued, when they assembled there ? Silence proclaimed, amid the full divan, The pimp arose, and rising thus began : “‘ Whate’er belongs to me —whate’er to these— Is yours to-day, to-morrow, when you please.” Then did the youth thus graciously reply : ‘Friends, you provide me all that gold can buy ; You booted hunt the midnight forest o’er, That I may sup on a delicious boar : You swoop the fishes from the wintry sea, And of your perils bring the fruits to me: I neither need nor merit this vast store ; Here, take this hundred—you this hundred more. A triple share to you, dear sir, must fall Whose spouse at midnight listens to my call.” Esopus’ * son drew from Metella’s ear That pearl for which he erst had paid so dear, And in a vinegar solution quaffed A cool ten-thousand pieces at one draught. Could he have shown a mind more past all cure, Had he consigned it to the public sewer ? The sons of Arrius too, a jovial pair, Resolved on dainties no expense to spare, Twins in debauch, frivolity, and vice, Luncheoned on nightingales of monstrous price. How shall we mark all such ? with blackening coal, As fools and mad—or chalk them sound and whole ? To yoke a team of mice, build huts of sod, Ride on a switch, and play at ev’n-and-odd,— All this if one should do with bearded chin, Few would deny that madness lurked within. * Esopus was a celebrated tragic actor. BOOK II.—SATIRE ITI]. 259 Say now—if sober argument shall prove These freaks not half so childish as to love, (No matter whether on the play-ground rolled You gambol as you did when four years old, Or for a jilt with foolish tremors quake And whine and whimper for a harlot’s sake) Would you, like Polemo* reclaimed, lay by Each tell-tale badge of the mind’s malady ? And, as he reeking from debauch, ’tis said, Drew one by one the garlands from his head, Stung by the sober sage’s keen rebuff, Would you too doff the tippet, swathe, and muff ? Offer the wayward child a plum; ’tis still “*T won’t:”’ withhold it, and he cries, “‘ I will.’’ And is the doting lover less a child, Who ponders, from his mistress’ gate exiled, Whether to go or not, where he were sure To go uncalled, nor quits the hated door ? —‘‘ What,” sighs the youth ;—“ and can I still refuse When of herself she sends for me and sues ? Or shall I boldly close at once my pain ? She shut me out—she summons me again; And can I after this return ? oh no, Not though she beg me on her knees to go!” Now hear the slave, how well the truth he hits ; ‘Master, that thing which in itself admits Nor mean nor method, we attempt in vain By method and by counsel to restrain. In Love are all these ilis—alternate wars And peace, suspicions, jealousies, and jars : These random fits, these ever-flitting forms, Vague and inconstant as the winds and storms, * Polemo, after listening to Xenocrates, tore the garland from his head and devoted himself to philosophy. S 2 260 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Who thinks to moderate, were no less a fool Than he that should attempt to rave by rule.”’ What—are his intellects correct and clear, Who, picking out the kernels of a pear,* Hails it an omen of success in love, If chance one hit the ceiling’s height above ? When, bent with years, you clip each tender word, Art sane? or whether were it more absurd With that bald pate to ape an amorous itch And lisp out love,—or ride upon a switch ? Nor is this all: Hence darker evils flow, And what began in folly, ends in woe: Oft has suspicion the fond bosom gored And tempered at love’s flame the vengeful sword. When Marius plunged the knife in Hellas’ breast, Then leaped down headlong, was he not possest ? Or else acquitted of disordered sense, Shall he be guilty found of sin prepense ? Say ‘twas in malice or in madness done, The terms are tantamount—the thing is one. I knew a freedman once, advanced in age, Who went, by way of morning pilgrimage, With clean-washed hands to run from street to street, Bowed to each statue that he chanced to meet, And paying in due form his vows, would cry— “Grant me, ye gods all-powerful, ne’er to die! ”’-- This fellow one might warrant wind and limb, Not thick of hearing nor of eye-sight dim : His brain no master but an arrant knave Would scruple to except, if sold a slave. Such too must class, by wise Chrysippus’ rules, With thee, Menenius! and thy fellow-fools. * A Picenian apple in the original. This love-test exists still as a sport of Hallowe’en. BOOK l1.—SATIRE 111, 261 ‘*O Jove!” the mother cries, whose sole employ For five long months has been to nurse her boy, ‘© O Jove! who, as thy sovereign will may please, Inflictest anguish or reliev’st disease, If to these weeping eyes thou giv’st to see My lingering little-one from ague free, On the first solemn fasts thy priests command Chin-deep in Tiber’s current he shall stand.” Should chance or med’cine’s aid prolong his breath And snatch her fosterling from the jaws of death, Bare on the river’s brink she makes him sit, Then pulls him in, renews his ague-fit, And stamps his doom.—What mania have we here ? What but the frenzy of religious fear ? So spake the sage Stertinius good and great, The eighth wise man and wisest of the eight: Such arms in self-defence he bade me wield, And drive each rude assailant from the field. Who calls me mad, now hears as much in turn ; And he, that taxes me, perchance may learn, To his own grosser faults no longer blind, To mark the wallet pendent from behind.* *O stoic! so may future luck befriend Your bargains, and your shattered fortunes mend ! Since you have clearly proved that all men’s minds Are touched, and folly is of various kinds, Say which of all its species racks my brain ? For faith I seem not to myself insane.’’ —‘ Nor did the mad Agave,} when she bore Her own son’s head and eyed the dripping gore. * The fable says that Jupiter threw over the shoulders of every mortal two bags ; the faults of his neighbour were put into the bag in front of him, his own behind him.—JFrancis. + The mother of Pentheus, who in bacchaualian frenzy took her son for a wild beast and killed him, 262 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. —‘* Come then, I grant the justice of your rule, And will most humbly own myself a fool,— Nay, madman too. Say only of what turn You think my madness is?” “ Attend and learn. First then you build; in other words, you vie With giants, tho’ you stand scarce three feet high. You smile, when Turbo on the stage is seen, At his small stature and commanding mien: But is he more ridiculous than you, When, whatsoe’er you see Mecenas do, Forthwith, regardless of your pigmy frame, You think that Horace too must do the same ! A mother frog, ’tis said, in quest of food Had roamed abroad and left her infant brood : An ox came by and crushed them all but one, Who told his weeping mother what was done,— How a stupendous monster huge and tall Had trodden on the rest and killed them all. Then puffing both her sides, ‘ D’ye think,’ said she, Twas big as this ?’——‘ Aye, bigger far,’ quoth he. ‘What, big as this ?’—‘ Nay, mother, cease,’ he cries; ‘Strain till you burst, you'll never reach his size.’ This fable pictures to the life the state Of little folk, like you, that ape the great. Add to these symptoms that most strange desire For scribbling verse—add oil, that is, to fire:”’ For when was poet known that had his wits ?— —‘* Hold, hold ’’—I mention not your raving fits, That horrid aptitude to fume and fret— —‘* Good Damasippus, have you not done yet ?’’— —‘‘ Your style of living far above your sphere— —‘ Pray, saucy stoic, cease to interfere In my concerns.’”’—‘‘ And then your lewd excess ” —O spare, thou greater madman, spare a less! HowEs. BOOK H—SATINE IY. 263 SATIRE IV. IN THE FORM OF A DIALOGUE BETWEEN HORACE AND CATIUS. « Unde et quo Catius ?”” Han, Catius! whence and whither now so fast ?— ‘* Prithee excuse me; I’m in urgent haste To note down precepts which the Samian sage, The tongue of Socrates, and Plato’s page Ne’er equalled.”—Marry, I confess my crime To interrupt you at this awkward time. Yet stay, indulge my thirst of curious lore: What now escapes, reflection will restore ; For, be the system relative to art Or nature, you have always both by heart. —‘‘ But then I’d fain substantiate, ere ’tis fled, This skein of doctrine spun of slenderest thread.” —‘‘ And who is he from whom the doctrine came ? Roman or sojourner ? and what’s his name ?”’ -—“ Go to—I’ll try and tell you, if I can, The rules themselves: no matter for the man. The long-shaped eggs should be preferred to round ; Their juice is richer, and they more abound In nutriment. This rule will never fail, For they inclose the embryo of the male. The cabbage grown in dry and upland fields Is sweeter far than what the suburb yields. Here none but plants of washy taste are had: Irriguous ground for all this tribe is bad. Should you receive an unexpected guest, And fresh-killed fowl be all you have, ’twere best Souse it alive in mixed Falernian wine: This makes the flesh eat tender, rich, and fine. 264 THE SATIRES OF HORACE, Prefer those mushrooms that in pastures spring : ‘To swallow others is a dangerous thing. I warrant he shall seldom sickness feel Who with ripe mulb’ries ends his morning meal : But then they must be gathered, to be sweet, Ere the sun sheds his full meridian heat. Aufidius for his morning beverage used . Honey in strong Falernian wine infused ; But here methinks he showed his want of brains: Drink less austere best suits the empty veins. And he with greater prudence will proceed Who wets his wizzard first with lenient mead. If nature lingers, in one mess combine Dwarf-sorrel, muscles, and white Coan wine; To the clogged stomach ’twill restore its play And wash the crude obstructions clean away. Shell-fish afford a lubricating slime! But then you must observe both place and time. They’re caught the finest when the moon is new ; The Lucrine far excel the Baian too. Misenum shines in cray-fish ; Circe most In oysters; scollops let Tarentum boast. The culinary critic first should learn Each nicer shade of flavour to discern : To sweep the fish-stalls is mere show at best, Unless you know how each thing should be drest ; And what if roasted—what if stewed aright Rallies the stomach and renews the fight. Let boars of Umbrian game replete with mast, If game delight you, crown the rich repast : Those of Laurentian breed, whose only food Are sedge and rushes, are not half so good. The vine-fed gazel small enjoyment brings : The wise in pregnant hares prefer the wings. BOOK L1.—SATIRE TV. To con the worth and age of fish and bird, Ere I explained it, was an art ne’er heard. Some waste their genius upon paste alone, As if one virtue would all faults atone : Others in choice of wines place all their pride, Indifferent in what oil their fish is fried. Expose to a clear sky your Massic wine ; Whate’er was thick the night-air will refine. Unpleasant odours too will thus be chased : But straining it through nen mars the taste. Whoe’er, its strength and spirit to increase, Pours his Surrentine o’er Falernian lees, Should clarify the mass with pigeons’ eggs, Which in their fall precipitate the dregs. Baked shrimps and cockles o’er the furnace drest Serve to recruit the satiated guest. But lettuce after many a bumper glass Floats on the stomach and corrodes the mass. Chuse rather ham or chitterlings or aught That reeking from the Tavern-fire is brought. The compound sauce demands your nicest care, Mixed up with oil, rich wine, and caviare : But be it of no other sort than that Long since distilled from a Byzantine vat. With shredded herbs and saffron let it boil, And when it cools, pour in Venafrian oil. Tiburtine pears to Picene yield in juice, In look superior, but less fit for use. For grapes Venaculan big jars provide, But dry the Alban at your chimney’s side. This grape with apples, brine, and Coan lees, (Add salt and sifted pepper, if you please Round the main dish in separate plates to strew Is an invention to my genius due, 265 266 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Fools, having spent a fortune for a fish, Cramp its circumference in a scanty dish. Tis apt foul nausea in the guest to raise, If by a greasy glass the slave betrays His lckorish thefts: nor is the eye less hurt ‘T'o see an antique vase begrimed with dirt. How small of sand, brooms, dusters is the price! Yet to o’erlook them what a flagrant vice ! Gods ! who would sweep with filthy besom o’er The beauties of a tesselated floor ? Or who with sense of decency would spread An unwashed cover o’er a purple bed ? The less expense and pains such trifles claim, To disregard them is the greater shame : Some comforts nought but wealth commands ; but these Are such as all can compass if they please.” H. ‘‘ Good Catius! let me by the gods, I pray, Hear this professor, be he who he may. For though you have his lectures at command, Yet through your mouth it comes but second-hand, Besides there’s something in his look, his air, Far more than you that know him are aware. I, by the love of sacred science led, Would quaff her waters at the fountain-head.” HoweEs. SATIRE VY. A HUMOROUS DIALOGUE BETWEEN ULYSSES AND TIRESIAS. “* Hoc quogue Tiresia, preter narrata petenti.” Ulysses. Brsitpxs the precepts, which you gave before, Resolve this question, and I ask no more: BOOK II—SATIRE VJ. 267 Say by what arts and methods I may straight Repair the ruins of a lost estate. How now, Tiresias ? whence those leering smiles ? Tiresias. Already versed in double-dealing wiles, Are you not satisfied to reach again © Your native land, and view your dear domain ? U. How poor and naked I return, behold, Unerring prophet, as you first foretold, The wooing tribe, in revellings employed, My stores have lavished, and my herds destroyed ; But high descent and meritorious deeds, Unblessed with wealth, are viler than sea-weeds. T'. Since, to be brief, you shudder at the thought Of want, attend how riches may be caught. Suppose a thrush, or any dainty thing Be sent to you, despatch it on the wing To some rich dotard. What your garden yields, The choicest honours of your cultured fields, To him be sacrificed, and let him taste, Before your gods, the vegetable feast. Though he be perjured ; though a low-born knave, Stained with fraternal blood, a fugitive slave, Yet wait upon him, at his least command, And always bid him take the upper hand. U. What; shall Ulysses then obey the call Of such a wretch, and give a slave the wall ? Not thus at Troy I proved my lofty mind, Contending ever with the nobler kind. T. Then poverty’s your fate. U. And be it so. Let me with soul undaunted undergo This loathsome evil, since my valiant heart In greater perils bore a manly part. But instant tell me, prophet, how to scrape Returning wealth, and pile the splendid heap. 268 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. T. I told, and tell you: you may safely catch The wills of dotards, if you wisely watch ; And though one hunks or two perceive the cheat, Avoid the hook, or nibble off the bait, Lay not aside your golden hope of prey, Or drop your art, though baffled in your play. Should either great or less important suit In court become the matter in dispute, Espouse the man of prosperous affairs, Pregnant with wealth, if indigent in heirs ; Though he should hamper with a wicked cause The juster party, and insult the laws. Despite the citizen of better life, If clogged with children, or a fruitful wife. Accost him thus, (for he with rapture hears A title tingling in his tender ears,) ‘* Quintus, or Publius,* on my faith depend, Your own deserts have rendered me your friend : I know the mazy doubles of the laws, Untie their knots, and plead with vast applause. Had you a nut, the villain might as well Pluck out my eyes, as rob you of the shell. This is the business of my life professed, That you lose nothing, or become a jest.” Bid him go home, of his sweet self take care; Conduct his cause, proceed, and persevere, Should the red dog-star infant statues split, Or fat-paunched Furius in poetic fit Bombastic howl; and, while the tempest blows, Bespawl the wintry Alps with hoary snows. * A slave was no sooner made free than he qualified himself with a surname, such as Marcus Quintus Publius, which carried a sort of dignity with it. The Romans saluted each other by their surnames. BOOK I1.—SATIRE J. 269 Some person then, who happens to be nigh, Shall pull your client by the sleeve, and cry, ‘See with what patience he pursues your ends! Was ever man so active for his friends?” Thus gudgeons daily shall swim in apace, And stock your fish-ponds with a fresh increase. This lesson also well deserves your care, If any man should have a sickly heir, And large estate, lest you yourself betray By making none but bachelors your prey, With winning ease the pleasing bane instil, In hopes to stand the second in his will ; Then if the boy by some disaster hurled, Should take his journey to the nether world, Your name in full reversion may supply The void ; for seldom fails this lucky die. If any one desires you to peruse His will, be sure you modestly refuse, And push it from you; but obliquely read The second clause, and quick run o’er the deed ; Observing, whether, to reward your toil, You claim the whole, or must divide the spoil. A seasoned scrivener, bred in office low, Full often dupes, and mocks the gaping crow. Thus foiled, Nasica shall become the sport Of old Coranus, while he pays his court. U. What! are you mad, or purposed to propose Obscure predictions, to deride my woes ? T. O son of great Laertes, everything Shall come to pass, or never, as [ sing ; For Phcebus, monarch of the tuneful Nine, Informs my soul, and gives me to divine. U. But, good Tiresias, if you please, reveal What means the sequel of that mystic tale. 270 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. T. What time a youth, who shall sublimely trace From famed A‘neas his heroic race, The Parthian’s dread, triumphant shall maintain His boundless empire over land and main ; Nasica, loath to reimburse his coin, His blooming daughter shall discreetly join To stout Coranus, who shall shly smoke The harpy’s aim, and turn it to a joke, The son-in-law shall gravely give the sire His witnessed will, and presently desire That he would read it: coyly he complies, And silent cons it with attentive eyes ; But finds, alas! to him and his forlorn No legacy bequeathed—except to mourn. Add to these precepts, if a crafty lass, Or freedman manage a delirious ass, Be their ally ; their faith applaud, that you, When absent, may receive as much in lieu; "Tis good to take these outworks to his pelf, But best to storm the citadel itself. Writes he vile verses in a frantic vein ? Augment his madness, and approve the strain ; Loves he a lass ? then, with a cheerful glee Give to his arms your own Penelope. U. Can you suppose, a dame so chaste, so pure, Could e’er be tempted to the guilty lure. Whom all the suitors amorously strove, In vain, to stagger in her plighted love ? T. The youth too sparing of their presents came; They loved the banquet rather than the dame; And thus your prudent, honourable spouse, It seems, was faithful to her nuptial vows. But had she once indulged the dotard’s glee, Smacked her old cull, and shared the spoil with thee, BOOK IL1.—SATIRE VJ. 271 She never after could be terrified, Sagacious beagle, from the reeking hide. I'll tell a tale, well worthy to be told, A fact that happened, and I then was old: A hag at Thebes, a wicked one, no doubt, Was thus, according to her will, lugged out, Stiff to the pile. Upon his naked back Her heir sustained the well-anointed pack. She, likely, took this crotchet in her head, That she might slip, if possible, when dead, From him, who trudging through a filthy road, Had stuck too closely to the living load. Be cautious, therefore, and advance with ait, Nor sink beneath, nor overact your part. A noisy fellow must of course offend The surly temper of a sullen friend : Yet be not mute—hke Davus in the play, With head inclined, his awful nod obey, Creep into favour: if a ruder gale Assault his face, admonish him to veil His precious pate. Oppose your shoulders, proud To disengage him from the bustling crowd. If he loves prating, hang an ear: should lust Of empty glory be the blockhead’s gust, Indulge his eager appetite, and puff The growing bladder with inspiring stuff, Till he, with hands uphitted to the skies, “Enough! enough!” in glutted rapture cries. When he shall free you from your servile fear, And tedious toil; when broad awake, you hear, “To good Ulysses, my right trusty slave, A fourth division of my lands I Jeave:”’ ‘“‘ Is then (as void of consolation, roar) My dearest friend, my Dama now no more ? 272 THE SATIRES OF HORACE. Where shall I find another man so just, Firm in his love, and faithful to his trust?” Squeeze out some tears: ’tis fit in such a case To cloak your joys beneath a mournful face. Though left to your discretionary care, Erect.a tomb magnificently fair, And let your neighbours, to proclaim abroad Your fame, the pompous funeral applaud. Tf any vassal of the will-compeers, With asthma gasping, and advanced in years, Should be disposed to purchase house or land, Tell him, that he may readily command Whatever may to your proportion come, And for the value, let him name the sum.— But I am summoned by the queen of hell Back to the shades. Live artful, and farewell. FRANCIS. SATIRE VI. “ Hoc erat in votis ; modus agri non ita magnus.” Tuts was of old my wishes’ utmost bound ;— A snug estate with house and garden ground, Where a small grove might wave its foliage near And a pure spring run bubbling all the year. Indulgent Heaven has granted this, and more: "Tis well; no further blessings I implore. reat son of Maia, make but to endure —_- EPISTLE I. TO AUGUSTUS CASAR. A PANEGYRIC ON AUGUSTUS, FOLLOWED BY CRITICISMS ON THE VARIOUS STYLES AND OBJECTS OF POETRY. “Cum tot sustineas et tanta negotia solus.” Cmsar! while you sustain a nation’s weight, Immersed in toils so various and so great,— While you the Roman realm in arms defend, ~ Call back to virtue, and with laws amend, — He that with prolix pen such hours should steal Might seem to trespass on the public weal. The worthies who achieved high deeds of old, Since for those deeds among the Gods enrolled, Rome’s founder,—Bacchus, —Leda’s twin-born pride, While yet alive their generous toils they plied— To tame wild hordes, put lawless rebels down, Mark the new settlement, and rear the town— Mourned that the world, still blind to merit new, Withheld the guerdon to their exploits due. Hiv’n he who crushed the far-famed Hydra’s rage And dared so long a fateful war to wage 342 THE EPISTLES OF HORACE, With monsters dire, those monsters all o’erthrown, Found Envy could be quelled by Death alone. For why—each weak aspirant’s twinkling rays Fade in these greater luminaries’ blaze ; But, soon as death has quenched their scorching beam, Rivals turn friends and those that railed, esteem. But your deserts maturer honours claim, And shrines already consecrate your name,— All prompt to own, ere yet you mount the skies, That nothing such has ris’n nor e’er shall rise. And yet your people (wisely thus and well On this one point agreed, that you excel, Whose name they justly rank while yet on earth Above all Greek—above all Roman worth) In books methinks far other taste display And frame their judgments in a coarser way. Each loathes with scorn whatever wears the bloom Of novelty and smells not of the tomb ; Each of departed worth the praises rings : Name the Decemy’ral code—some league our kings With Gabii or rude Sabines sealed of yore— The Pontiffs’ books—the Sibyl’s musty lore— Their rapture knows no bound. ‘The sacred Nine On Alba’s hill, say they, inspired each line! But if, because in Greece, with genius blest So long, the earliest bards are held the best, In the same scale we Roman talent weigh Where bards and books are things of yesterday,— I say no more—such sophists may as well Swear olives have no kernel, nuts no shell! Consummate masters in each branch of art, We sons of wit forsooth have topped our part ; And polished Athens bows to Roman skill In picture, music, wrestling—what you will! BOOK I1.—EPISTLE I. » 348 If verse, like wine, improve by ripening age, What period, pray, stamps value on the page ? T'o end all parley draw your landmark clear: A bard, suppose, has reached his hundredth year ;— I fain would learn if praise be deemed his due. As ancient, or contempt as vile and new. ‘*He o’er whose grave one hundred suns have rolled May be pronounced a classic good and old.” But should he want a month or year perhaps,— Must he maintain his station or relapse,— Tow’r mid the faultless wits of other days, Or mixed with modern trash renounce all praise ? ‘For one short month he forfeits not his place; Come, grant him, if you will, a twelvemonth’s grace.” To take the licence giv’n I shall not fail ; And, like the hairs from which the horse’s tail, Though singly pulled, yet all at last decay, So I those years pluck one by one away, Till my opponent, by fair logic beat, Shall find the ground sink fast beneath his feet, Who runs to dates, weighs genius by the year, And hails no worth till sanctioned by the bier. Ennius, in precept sage, in spirit bold, That second Homer, as our critics hold, Seems oft methinks his promise to neglect, And brings his Samian dreams to small effect. Nevius (so much is time the soul of verse !) None read, but all can fresh by heart rehearse. In balancing their worth if questions rise Which yields to which, Pacuvius bears the prize Of studious art—Accius of loftiness ; Afranius well, it seems, in Roman dress Hits off Menander; Plautus more, they say, In Epicharmus the Sicilian’s way 344 THE EPISTLES OF HORACE. Pours with bold negligence his rapid lines ; Terence in skill, in force Cecilius shines. These bards great Rome commits to memory ; these In crowded pits her ravished audience please : These are her standard favourites on the stage From elder Livius to the present age. The people’s voice is sometimes just and true ; But times occur when it can blunder too. If it pronounce with hyperbolic praise That nothing can surpass those antique lays— Nothing come near their worth, ’tis clearly wrong. But if it candidly admit their song Charged with old-fashioned rudeness, coarse in grain, Uncouth in parts, and slov’nly in the main, "Tis clearly right; its voice accords with mine ; And Jove’s own grace shall on the verdict shine. Not that I would at all those veterans flout, Or wish old Livius wholly blotted out, Whom, I remember well, with iron rule Orbilius taught me to repeat at school : But, when I hear them called to the last touch Correct and exquisite, I marvel much: In whom if haply starts me here and there Some well-turned phrase—some line of smoothnessrare, It covers flaws unnumbered, drags along Whole pages, and accredits all the song. I hate to hear a work assailed with blame Not for its own dull thoughts or texture tame, But for its newness ; and for ancient bards Not pardon claimed, but honour and rewards. Should I of Atta’s piece a doubt obtrude Whether it tread the boards all flow’r-bestrewed.* * The stage at Rome was strewed with flowers and saffron. Horace supposes the plays of Atta limping over the stage like their lame author. —Francis. BOOK I1.—KHPISTLE 1. 345 With foot erect, some frowning senior says That lost to shame are these degenerate days, When scenes, that grave A’sopus used to act Or artful Roscius, are with sneers attacked ! Is it that self-love dims their eye, which sees No worth but what has chanced themselves to please ? Or that they cannot brook the foul disgrace Of borrowing counsel from a rising race,— And, stiff in prepossession, proudly spurn In age their childhood’s lesson to unlearn ? Go to—the Salian hymn that Numa * wrote Who praises, and affects to know and quote What neither he nor I can comprehend, Seeks not departed genius to befriend, Nor burns with zeal for bards of centuries past ; But us depreciates—us and ours would blast. Yet had the Greeks thus scrupled to allow Ought that was new, what had been ancient now ? Or whence had public use derived this store Of volumes to be thumbed and tumbled o’er ? When, resting from her deeds of arms, fair Greece Voluptuous revelled in the lap of peace, Soon wanton waxed, she now would take the lead In feats gymnastic, now would train the steed ; In ivory, stone, or brass she loved to trace The sculptured form and mould the living grace ; Or on the coloured canvas boldly sought To rivet each enraptured eye and thought ;— Now to the Comic pipe gave eager ear ; Now shed o’er Tragic scenes soft pity’s tear. * Numa composed hymns in honour of Mars, which were sung by his priests. ‘They were called axamenta, because they were written upon tables of wood, axes. The language of them was grown so dark and obsolete, that Cicero confesses he did not understand them ; and Quintilian says, in his time they were scarce intelligible to the priests themselves, — Francis, 346 THE EPISTLES OF HORACE. As frisking round his nurse some infant boy With wayward humour shifts the various toy, So every art in turn with wistful eye She viewed—then flung the short-lived bauble by. What moves our love—or what our hate—so much, But soon it veers at fashion’s magic touch ! Thus throve variety—thus seldom fails ‘T'o thrive—with gentler peace and prosp’rous gales ! In Rome ’twas long our fathers’ joy and pride At early dawn with portals opened wide On knotty points to clear each client’s doubt ; And great the care to put their money out With all due forms secured : experienced age Would teach, and youth imbibe, in precepts sage, The ways and means to make their funds increase By honest thrift, and bid vain luxury cease. The fickle public now has changed its tone, Stung with the lust of scribbling verse alone. Crowned at the festive board with bays, grave sires And striplings dictate what the muse inspires. Ev’n I, who pen no rhyme as I’ve averred, Prove falser than the Parthian to my word, And, ere the sun is risen, awake and bawl For parchment, pens, and ink, in haste to scrawl. None steer the ship but those in steerage versed ; Those who would practise med’cine, learn it first : And few will, ere the art is understood, Mix for the sick a dose of southern-wood : Smiths ply the smithy ; and the proverb rules None but adepts should meddle with edged tools: Verse is the only art each thinks he knows ; And, learnéd or illiterate, all compose ! Yet that this slight obliquity of bran— ‘This minor mania—carries in its train BOOK II,—EPISTLE I. 347 Some scattered virtues too, must be confest: Avarice can scarce infect the poet’s breast : "Tis verse he covets—verse alone requires ; With this he laughs at losses, thefts, and fires. No plots he hatches, nor supplants by fraud An unsuspecting friend or infant ward. Coarse bread and herbs demand small length of purse ; He asks no better fare, he fears no worse : Though weak in war, still useful to the state Grant but that small concerns may profit great : He trains to speech the infant’s faltering tongue, And childhood learns to lisp what bards have sung. Ev’n at those years he turns the untainted eyes From ribald trash to lessons sound and wise: Anon he forms the heart in riper age, Reproves low spite and tempers brutal rage ;— Perpetuates worth, records each generous deed, And binds round Virtue’s brow fair honour’s meed ;— Points out to view examples high, and fires The sons to emulate their patriot sires ;— Bids anguish smile that never smiled before, Assuages sickness, and consoles the poor. Unless the muse had giv’n the bard, say how Had youths and maids preferred the suppliant vow ? The Chorus waits—he lends his helping hand, And Heavy’n is won to hear their accents bland. He calls to earth the show’r refreshing, frees From threat’ning peril, and averts disease ; Let but the poet touch the plaintive string— See peace returning spreads her downy wing, And years with plenty at his bidding flow ! Verse soothes the Gods above and Ghosts below ! Our pristine peasants, men of rustic mould, Content with little, hardy, rough and bold, 348 THE EPISTLES OF HORACE. After their corn was housed, in festive play Were wont to pass a harmless holiday. Cheered through long toil by prospects of its close, Their hands—nay hearts—they gave to glad repose. Each seated with his good-wife at his side And chubby brats, the little household’s pride, With milk Silvanus—with a pig boon Harth— Genius, the mystic pow’r that guards our birth, With flow’rs and wine—they laboured to appease, Mindful of life’s short date. From rites like these The rude Fescennine farce in process grew, Where rustic flouts in verse alternate flew. The pleasing license long uncurbed by laws Gambolled from year to year, and gained applause : Till into open outrage waxing fast The foul-mouthed jibe grew serious, and at last Through noble roofs the ribald slander rang : He that was galled by scandal’s venomed fang Erelong took umbrage ; he too that was not, Still felt some interest for the common lot. A law now past appointing heavy pains To him that should revile in wicked strains. They changed their note, and dread of drubbing soon Taught them fair words and wit without lampoon. Tamed Greece to tame her victress now began, And with her arts fair Latium over-ran : Whence that Saturnian doggrel was consigned To due disgrace, and rudeness grew refined. Yet traces of the ancient uncouth vein Remained for many an age, and still remain. For late it was ere Rome, her arms flung by, ‘Turned to the Grecian page a studious eye ; Nor, till her wars with Carthage now well o’er Gave leisure and repose unknown before, BOOK II.—EPISTLE I. 349 Began she to inquire if Sophocles, Thespis, and Auschylus had ought to please. Fired with those scenes, to copy next she tried, And to translation’s task her hand applied ; And, formed with heart to feel and tongue to dress Thoughts high and grand, she failed not of success. For not of tragic spirit lacks she store,— Nay happily can dare and boldly soar: But here her weakness lies, that to efface What once is penned, she deems a foul disgrace. ‘To Comedy some hold less pains and thought Due, since her themes from common life are sought. But common themes in fiction’s garb to dress— The task grows harder as the indulgence less. Mark with how small consistency or truth Plautus delineates the enamoured youth, Sly pimp, and griping churl! Observe, I pray, How old Dossennus in his rambling way With spunging parasites ekes out his page, And with how lax a sock he sweeps the stage! For why—His aim is pelf; with purse well crammed He recks not if his piece be clapped or damned. Now look to him whom in her airy car Vain-glory leads to the dramatic war! His heart with spleen a lukewarm audience kills, A listening pit with pert complacence fills. To those who start for fame, so light—so small That chance which bids their spirits mount or fall! Adieu the stage, if, as the palm is mine Or from my grasp withheld, I thrive or pine! Another grievance, which might well deter The stoutest-hearted bard, will oft occur : For of the crowd that portion which, though lower In rank and taste, are far in numbers more, 350 THE EPISTLES OF HORACE. The stupid vulgar (prompt with many a fist To enforce their judgment, should the knights resist) In the mid action claim with deaf’ning bawl The Boxers or the Bear, their all-in-all. Nay evn the knight seems now no joy to know But gorgeous pageantry and raree-show ; His spring of pleasure from the ear and brain Passed to the flickering eye and optics vain. Four hours or more uncurtained stands the stage, While troops of horse and foot fierce battle wage ; Cars, coaches, chariots, ships, astound the eye, And here kings stalk in chains, there squadrons fly : Corinthian vases plundered from the foe, And ivory statues in long order go. Oh could the laughing sage revisit earth, How would our staring audience move his mirth, When some white elephant their fond regard Attracts, or beast half-camel and half-pard ! The people sure would his main interest share, And prove far more amusing than the play’r. The bard (God help him!) well with him might pass For one that tells his tale to a deaf ass. For where can histrionic lungs be found To stem the clam’rous din our pits resound ? Loud as the billows lash the Tuscan shore Or Gargan forests to the tempest roar, Their shouts salute the pomp with carvings rich, And gems, and foreign frippery, frounced in which No sooner stalks the play’r, than peals are heard On peals !—But has he spoken ?—Not a word.— Why then this coil ?—Yon tawdry stuff they view, Whose dye Tarentine mocks the violet’s hue. But, lest you think that hopeless to excel Myself, I slight what others handle well, BOOK II.—EPISTLE I, 351 Know that to me that poet seems possessed Of pow’rs portentous, who can rack my breast With visionary woe, bid pity fill, Soothe, stir to wrath, with fancied horrors thrill, And, like a sorcerer, whisk me through the air To Thebes—to Athens—when he will and where! But some there are, who loathe to trust their piece To an assembled public’s proud caprice, Write to be read. ‘T’o these aspirants too, Methinks, some portion of your care is due, If you would fill that sacred pile you rear With poems worthy great Apollo’s ear,— Or fire our bards with zeal, and spur them on To climb the verdant heights of Helicon. Oft to ourselves, indeed, we sons of song (To own the painful truth) work mickle wrong : ‘When on your ear, for instance, at a time Of bus’ness or fatigue, we force our rhyme ;— When we resent the freedom of a friend Who dares this line or that to reprehend ;— When, in reciting, each choice phrase we meet, We hasten, uninvited, to repeat ;— When we lament that few have sense to trace Our poem’s subtle thread and fine-spun grace ;— When we think surely that our scribbling vein No sooner shall transpire, than you will deign To smile upon our lays, caress, invite, Load us with boons, and urge us on to write. Yet ’tis worth while to mark with wary eyes What sort of Sacristans the mute supplies Meet for the shrine, and competent to tell That worth in peace, in war, approved so well,— Worth, which ’twere sacrilege to trust, I deem, In hands unequal to so proud a theme. 352 THE EPISTLES OF HORACE. Well had it been for Philip’s warlike son If Cheerilus had ne’er his favour won, Nor to the conqueror of the world had sold His dogegrel lines for Macedonian gold. For homely verse the purest fame will spot, Sure as ink handled leaves behind a blot. But he, in choice of bards so little nice, Who such a poem bought at such a price,— This very king, we’re told, ordained by law None but Apelles should his semblance draw, And that Lysippus’ hand should mould alone Great Alexander’s shape in brass or stone. Thus the same mind, which Nature had endued With taste for works of art so nice and shrewd, When summoned to pronounce on books and bards And those fair tributes which the muse awards, Forgot its skill, and any one might swear He drew, when young, Beotia’s foggy air. But, sir! the favoured bards, on whom is placed Your patronage, discredit not your taste ;— But speak the fine discernment which selects And the boon hand which hailed by all protects Virgil and Varius. Here the public voice Echoes the verdict and approves the choice. Nor breathes the form with portraiture more just On the smooth tablet stamped or brazen bust, Than of great worthies by the pen we find Sketched to the life the manners and the mind. Nor would I still my humble efforts bound To this colloquial verse that creeps aground, But rather launch in Epic’s bold career, To sing the embattled host and bristling spear, Record the fields which Ceesar’s arms have won, The rivers forded and the realms o’er-run, BOOK I1.—EPISTLE I. 353 Hills crowned with forts to curb each barb’rous horde, And a wide world compelled to own its lord, - While Janus closed speaks peace restored anew And Parthia bows her neck to Rome and You— All this and more my ample page should fill, Were but my genius equal to my will. | But so itis: Your dignity demands No flimsy treatment at the poet’s hands ; And shame forbids this feeble pen to dare _ A theme my muse lacks energy to bear: Since too officious zeal has oft pulled down To its own level him it strove to crown; But never more than when that zeal displays Its fulsome raptures in poetic lays. For sooner caught and steadier to abide On memory’s tablet that which we deride, Than what revere. For me, had I such claim, Well could I spare the zeal which mars my fame. I wish not to stand forth to public view In wax with features coarser than the true,— Still less to hear some bungling bard rehearse _. My praises travestied in slov’nly verse ; Lest at a tribute so uncouthly paid I stand abashed ; and with my author laid In the broad bottom of some open chest, Budge to the shopman’s counter to invest Pies, perfumes, pepper, frankincense, or ought That wrapped in reams of nonsense there is bought. | Howes. 354 THE EPISTLES OF HORACE, EPISTLE II. TO JULIUS FLORUS. “ Flore, bono claroque fidelis amice Neroni.” Fiorus, the friend of Nero, good and brave, Suppose a merchant, who would sell a slave, Should thus address you: ‘‘ Sir, the boy’s complete From head to foot, and elegantly neat : He shall be yours for fifty pounds. He plays ‘The vassal’s part, and at a nod obeys His master’s will—then for the Grecian tongue He has a taste—so pliable and young, Like clay, well tempered with informing skill, He may be moulded to what shape you will. His notes are artless, but his voice is fine, ‘Vo entertain you o’er a glass of wine. He sinks in credit who attempts to raise His venal wares with overrating praise, To put them off his hands. My wants are none ; My stock is little, but that stock my own. No common dealer, sir, would sell a slave On equal terms, nor should another have So good a bargain. Guilty of one slip, It seems, and fearful of the pendent whip, I own he loitered once. ‘The money pay ; The lad is only apt to run away.” I think he safely may the sum enjoy: You know his failing, and would buy the boy: The form was legal, yet you still dispute The sale, and plague him with an endless suit. I told you, frankly told you, ere you went, That I was grown most strangely indolent, BOOK I—EPISTLE 11, 355 No longer fit for offices like these, Lest my not writing might my friends displease ; But what avails whatever I can say, If you demur against so just a plea ? Besides, you murmur, that my muse betrays Your expectations in her promised lays. A common soldier, who by various toils And perils gained a competence in spoils, At night fatigued, while he supinely snored, Lost to a farthing his collected hoard. This roused his rage, in vengeance for his pelf, Against the foe, nor less against himself. A very ravenous wolf, with craving maw, With hungry teeth and wide-devouring jaw, He charged with fury, as the folks report, Scaled the high wall, and sacked a royal fort, _Replete with various wealth: for this renowned, His name is honoured, and his courage crowned : Besides, in money he receives a meed, A sum proportioned to the glorious deed. His chief soon after purposing to form Another siege, and take a town by storm, Began to rouse this desperado’s fire With words, that might a coward’s heart inspire: “Go, my brave friend, where fame and honour call ; Go; with successful courage mount the wall, And reap fresh honours with an ample prize :— What stops your course!”’ ‘The rustic shrewd replies: ** An’t please you, captain, let another trudge it, The man may venture who has lost his budget.” It chanced, at Rome, that I was early taught What woes to Greece enraged Achilles wrought ; Indulgent Athens then improved my parts With some small tincture of ingenuous arts, AA2 356 THE HPISTLES OF HORACE. Fair truth from falsehood to discern, and rove In search of wisdom through the museful grove. But, lo! the time, destructive to my peace, Me rudely ravished from that charming place; The rapid tide of civil war amain Swept into arms, unequal to sustain The might of Cesar. Dread Philippi’s field First clipt my wings, and taught my pride to yield. My fortune ruined, blasted all my views, Bold hunger edged, and want inspired my muse. But say, what dose could purify me, blessed With store sufficient, should I break my rest To scribble verse? The waning years apace Steal off our thoughts, and rifle every grace. Alas! already have they snatched away My jokes, my loves, my revellings, and play. They strive to wrest my poems from me too; Instruct me then what method to pursue. In short, the race of various men admire As various numbers: thee the softer lyre _ Delights: this man approves the tragic strain ; That joys in Bion’s* keen, satiric vein. I have three guests invited to a feast, And all appear to have a different taste. What shall I give them? What shall I refuse ? What one dislikes, the other two shall choose : And even the very dish you like the best, Is acid, or insipid to the rest. Besides, at Rome, amidst its toils and cares, Think you that I can write harmonious airs ? One bids me be his bail; another prays That I would only listen to his lays, * Bion imitated Archilochus and Hipponax in his satirical poems, — He wrote a criticism on Homer. BOOK II.—EPISTLE I1. 357 And leave all business; more to raise your wonder, Although they live the length of Rome asunder, Yet both must be obeyed: and here you see A special distance—“ But the streets are free, And, while you walk, with flowing fancy fraught, Nothing occurs to disconcert a thought.” Here furious drives a builder with his team ; An engine there upheayes the lengthened beam, Or ponderous stone ; here justling waggons jar With mournful hearses in tumultuous war: Hence runs a madding dog with baneful ire : Thence a vile pig, polluted with the mire. Go then, and bustle through the noisy throng, Invoke the muse, and meditate the song. The tribe of writers, to a man, admire The peaceful grove, and from the town retire, Chents of Bacchus, indolent they dose Beneath the shade, and court its calm repose. How then in noise unceasing tune the lay, Or tread where others hardly find their way ? A genius who, in Athens’ calm retreat, Had studied hard his seven long years complete, Now, waxen old in discipline and books, Abroad he comes, with pale and meagre looks ; Dumb as a statue, slow he stalks along, And shakes with laughter loud the gazing throng. What then—at Rome ; in this tumultuous town, Tossed by the noisy tempest up and down, Can I, though even the willing muse inspire, Adapt her numbers to the sounding lyre ? A wight there was, for rhetoric renowned, Whose brother was a lawyer most profound ; In mutual praise all honours were their own, And this a Gracchus, that a Mucius * shone. * Mucius Scevola, a distinguished lawyer. 358 THE EPISTLES OF HORACE. What milder frenzy goads the rhyming train ? Mine is the lyre; in elegiac strain He soothes the soul. A wondrous work is mine ! And his—was surely polished by the Nine! With what an air of true poetic pride And high disdain, we view from side to side Apollo’s temple, as if we ourselves, And none but we, should fill the vacant shelves ! Then follow farther, if your time permits, And at a distance hear these mighty wits ; How far intitled to this mutual praise, Which freely gives, and arrogates the bays. Like gladiators, who, by candle-light, Prolong the combat, for with foils they fight ; With mimic rage we rush upon the foe, Wounded, we wound, and measure blow for blow. Alceus I in his opinion shine, He soars a new Callimachus in mine; Or if Mimnermus be his nobler fame, He struts and glories in the darling name. Much I endured, when writing I would bribe The public voice, and soothe the fretful tribe Of rival poets. Now my rhyming heat Is cooled, and Reason reassumes her seat, I boldly bar mine ears against the breed Of babbling bards, who without mercy read. Bad poets ever are a standing jest, But they rejoice, and, in their folly blessed, Admire themselves ; nay, though you silent sit, They bless themselves in wonder at their wit. But he who studies masterly to frame A finished piece, and build an honest fame, Acts to himself the friendly critic’s part, And proves his genius by the rules of art ; BOOK I1.—E#PISTLE II. 359 Boldly blots out whatever seems obscure, Or lightly mean, unworthy to procure Immortal honour, though the words give way With warm reluctance, and by force obey ; Though yet enshrined within his desk they stand, And claim a sanction from his parent hand. As from the treasure of a latent mine, Long darkened words he shall with art refine ; Bring into light, to dignify his page, The nervous language of a former age, Used by the Catos, and Cethegus * old, Though now deformed with dust, and covered o’er with mould. New words he shall endenizen, which use Shall authorise, and currently produce ; Then, brightly smooth, and yet sublimely strong, Like a pure river, through his flowing song Shall pour the riches of his fancy wide, And bless his Latium with a vocal tide ; Prune the luxuriant phrase ; the rude refine, Or blot the languid, and unsinewed line. Yet hard he labours for this seeming ease ; As art, not nature, makes our dancers please. A stupid scribbler let me rather seem, While of my faults with dear delight I deem, Or not perceive, than sing no mortal strain, And bear this toil, this torture of the brain. At Argos lived a citizen, well known, Who long imagined that he heard the tone Of deep tragedians on an empty stage, And sat applauding in ecstatic rage : In other points a person, who maintained A due decorum, and a life unstained, * Consul, A.U.c, 548 360 THE EPISTLES OF HORACE. A worthy neighbour, and a friend sincere, Kind to his wife, nor to his slaves severe, Nor prone to madness, though the felon’s fork Defaced the signet of a bottle cork ; * And wise to shun (well knowing which was which) The rock high pendent, and the yawning ditch. He, when his friends, at much expense and pains, Had amply purged with hellebore + his brains, Came to himself—‘‘ Ah! cruel friends !”’ he cried, ‘**Is this to save me? Better far have died, Than thus be robbed of pleasure so refined, The dear delusion of a raptured mind.” - "Tis wisdom’s part to bid adieu to toys, And yield amusements to the taste of boys, Not the soft sound of empty words admire, Or model measures to the Roman lyre, But learn such strains and rhapsodies, as roll Tuneful through life, and harmonise the soul. Thus, when alone, | commune with my heart, And silent meditate this nobler art. If no repletion from the limpid stream Allayed the burnings of your thirsty flame, You strait would tell the doctor your distress ; And is there none to whom you dare confess, That, in proportion to your growing store, Your lust of Iucre is inflamed the more ? If you were wounded, and your wound imbibed No soothing ease from roots or herbs prescribed, You would avoid such medicines, be sure, As roots and herbs, that could effect no cure. * The Romans generally sealed a full bottle, to prevent their slaves from stealing the wine. From whence Persius says he will never touch a bottle of bad wine with his nose, as misers try whether the seal be unbroken. —/’rancis. + A supposed cure for madness. . A BOOK I7.—EPISTLE If. 361 But you have heard, that Folly flies apace From him whom heaven hath gifted with the grace Of happy wealth, and though you have aspired Not more to wisdom, since you first acquired A fund, yet will you listen to no rule, But that from Fortune’s insufficient school ? Could riches add but prudence to your years, Restrain your wishes, and abate your fears, You then might blush with reason, if you knew One man on earth more covetous than you. If that be yours, for which you fairly told The price concluded (and as lawyers hold, In some things use a property secures), The land which feeds you must of course be yours. Your neighbour’s bailiff, who manures the fields, And sows the corn, which your provision yields, _ Finds in effect, that he is but your slave : You give your coin, and in return receive Fowls, eggs, and wine; and thus it will be found That you have bought insensibly the ground, The fee of which to purchasers before, Perhaps, had been two thousand pounds or more ; For what avails it in a life well passed, At first to pay the purchase, or at last ? The frugal man, who purchased two estates, Yet buys the pot-herbs which his worship eats, Though he thinks not: this tyrant of the soil | Buys the mere wood, which makes his kettle boil ; And yet he calls that length of land his own From which the poplar, fixed to limits known, Cuts off disputes, as if he had the power Of that, which in the moment of an hour By favour, purchase, force, or Fate’s commands, May change its lord, and fall to other hands. 362 THE EPISTLES OF HORACE. Since thus no mortal properly can have A lasting tenure; and, as wave o’er wave, Heir comes o’er heir, what pleasure can afford Thy peopled manors, and increasing hoard ? Or what avails it, that your fancy roves ‘To join Lucanian to Calabrian groves, Inflexible to gold if rigid Fate Mows down, at once, the little and the great ? Gems, marble, ivory, vases sculptured high, Plate, pictures, robes, that drink the Tyrian dye, These are the general wish ; yet sure there are Who neither have, nor think them worth their care. Sauntering, perfumes, and baths, one brother loves Beyond the wealth of Herod’s palmy groves ; * Though rich the other, yet with ceaseless toil, ~ Anxious he burns, ploughs, tames the stubborn soil. But whence these various inclinations rose The God of human nature only knows: That mystic genius, which our actions guides, Attends our stars, and o’er our lives presides ; Whose power appears propitious or malign, Stamped on each face, and varied through each line. Be mine, my little fortune to enjoy ; A moderate pittance on myself employ, Nor fear the censure of my thankless heir, That I have left too little to his share. And yet the wide distinction would I scan Between an open, hospitable man, And prodigal; the frugalist secure, And miser, pinched with penury ; for sure It differs, whether you profusely spend Your wealth, or never entertain a friend ; * Judea was famous for its woods of palms, from whence Herod drew a considerable revenue. BOOK T1.—EPISTLE II. 363 Or, wanting prudence, like a play-day boy Blindly rush on to catch the flying joy. Avert, ye gods, avert the loathsome load Of want inglorious, and a vile abode ! To me are equal (so they bear their charge), The little pinnace, and the lofty barge. Nor am I wafted by the swelling gales Of winds propitious, with expanded sails, Nor yet exposed to tempest-bearing strife, Adrift to struggle through the waves of life, Last of the first, first of the last in weight, Parts, vigour, person, virtue, birth, estate. You are not covetous: be satisfied. But are you tainted with no vice beside ? From vain ambition; dread of death’s decree ; And fell resentment, is thy bosom free ? Say, can you laugh indignant at the schemes Of magic terrors, visionary dreams, Portentous wonders, witching imps of hell, The nightly goblin, with enchanting spell ? Can you recount with gratitude and mirth The day revolved that gave thy being birth, Indulge the failings of thy friends, and grow More mild and virtuous, as thy seasons flow ? Pluck out one thorn to mitigate thy pain,— What boots it—while so many more remain ? Or act with just propriety your part, Or yield to those of elegance and art. Already glutted with a farce of age, "Tis time for thee to quit the wanton stage, Lest youth, more decent in their follies, scoff _ The nauseous scene, and hiss thee reeling off. FRANCIS. Pale Need ict J ao . aoe. = > wa THE ART OF POETRY. - THE ART OF POETRY IN AN EPISTLE ADDRESSED TO mecCrUs CADPURNIUS PISO **AND HIS TeV Oe SINS, “ Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam.” SUPPOSE a painter to a human head Should join a horse’s neck, and wildly spread The various plumage of the feathered kind O’er limbs of different beasts, absurdly joined ; Or if he gave to view a beauteous maid Above the waist with every charm arrayed, Should a foul fish her lower parts infold, Would you not laugh such pictures to behold ? Suchis-the book, that like a sick man’s dreams, Varies all shapes, and_mixes all extremes. i! ‘Painters and poets our indulgence Hap Their daring equal, and their art the same.” I own th’ indulgence—such I give and take ; But not through Nature’s sacred rules to break, Monstrous to mix the cruel and the kind, Serpents with birds, and lambs with tigers joined. Your opening promises some great design, And shreds of purple with broad lustre shine Sewed on your poem. Here in laboured strain A sacred grove, or fair Diana’s fane Rises to view; there through delicious meads A murmuring stream its winding water leads ; * Lucius Calpurnius Piso was a victorious soldier in the Thracian war and a popular Prefect of Rome. He seems to have been a man of literary taste, and Horace leads us to infer that his elder son was thinking of becoming a writer. It is to him that the epistle is chiefly addressed, 368 THE ART. OF VPOLT EY: Here pours the rapid Rhine; the wat’ry bow There bends its colours, and with pride they glow. Beauties they are, but beauties out of place ; For though your talent be to paint with grace A mournful cypress, would you pour its shade O’er the tempestuous deep, if you were paid To paint a sailor, midst the winds and waves, When on a broken plank his life he saves ? Why will you thus a mighty vase intend, If in a worthless bowl your labours end ? Then learn this wandering humour to control, ima keep one equal tenor through the whole. But oft our greatest errors take their rise From our best views. I strive to be concise; I prove obscure. My strength, my fire decays, When in pursuit of elegance and ease. Aiming at greatness, some to fustian soar ; Some in cold safety creep along the shore, Too much afraid of storms ; while he, who tries With ever-varying wonders to surprise, In the broad forest bids his dolphins play, And paints his boars disporting in the sea. Thus, injudicious, while one’fault we shun, Into its opposite extreme we run. One happier artist of th’ Aimilian square,* Who graves the nails, and forms the flowing hair, Though he excels in every separate part, Yet fails of just perfection in his art, In one grand whole unknowing to unite Those different parts ; and I no more would write Like him, than with a nose of hideous size Be gazed at for the finest hair and eyes. .* The Emilian square was a school of gladiators kept by Emilius Lepidus ; many artists lived near it. = THE ART OF POETRY. Kixamine well, ye writers, weigh with care, 369 What suits your genius; what your strength can bear. To him, who shall his theme with judgment choose, Nor words, nor method shall their aid refuse. In this, or I mistake, consists the grace, And force of method,—to assign a place For what with present judgment we should say, And for some happier time the rest delay. Would you to fame a promised work produce, Be delicate and cautious in the use | And choice of words; nor shall you fail of praise, When nicely joining two known words you raise A third unknown. A new-discovered theme For those, unheard in ancient times, may claim A just and ample licence, which, if used With fair discretion, never is refused. New words, and lately made, shall credit claim, If from a Grecian source they gently stream ; For Virgil sure, and Varius may receive That kind indulgence, which the Romans gave To Plautus and Cecilius: or shall I > Be envied, if my little fund supply Its frugal wealth of words, since bards, who sung In ancient days, enriched their native tongue With large increase ? An undisputed power Of coining money from the rugged ore, Nor less of coining words, is still confessed, If with a legal, public stamp impressed. As when the forest, with the bending year, First sheds the leaves which earliest appear, So an old age of words maturely dies, Others new-born in youth and vigour rise. ta 370 THE ART OF POLTRY. We and our noblest works to fate must yield ; HKven Cesar’s mole,* which royal pride might: build, Where Neptune far into the land extends, And from the raging north our fleets defends ; That barren marsh,+ whose cultivated plain Now gives the neighbouring towns its various grain ; Tiber (who taught a better current) yields ‘l'o Ceesar’s power, nor deluges our fields ; All these must perish, and shall words presume To hold their honours, and immortal bloom ? Many shall rise, that now forgotten lie ; Others, in present credit, soon shall die If custom will, whose arbitrary sway, Words, and the forms of language, must obey. By Homer taught, the modern poet sings, In epic strains, of heroes, wars and kings. Unequal measures first were tuned to flow Sadly expressive of the lover’s woe ; But now, to gayer subjects formed, they move In sounds of pleasure, to the joys of love: By whom invented, critics yet contend, And of their vain disputings find no end. Archilochus, with fierce resentment warmed, Was with his own severe iambics armed, Whose rapid numbers, suited to the stage, In comic humour, or in tragic rage, With sweet variety were found to please, And taught the dialogue to flow with ease ; Their numerous cadence was for action fit, And formed to quell the clamours of the pit. * It formed the Julian harbour, + The Pontine marshes. These were partly drained, and the inunda- tions of the Tiber were checked by order of Augustus. THE -ART OF POETRY. 371 The muse to nobler subjects tunes her lyre ; Gods, and the sons of gods, her song inspire, Wrestler and steed, who gained th’ Olympic prize : Love’s pleasing cares, and wine’s unbounded joys. But if, through weakness, or my want of art, I can’t to every different style impart The proper strokes and colours it may claim, Why am I honoured with a poet’s name ? Absurdly modest, why my fault discern, Yet rather burst in ignorance than learn ? Nor will the genius of the comic muse Sublimer tones, or tragic numbers use ; Nor will the direful Thyestean feast In comic phrase and language be debased. Then let your style be suited to the scene, And its peculiar character maintain. ~ Yet Comedy sometimes her voice may raise, And angry Chremes~* rail in swelling phrase : As oft the tragic language humbly flows, For Telephus or Peleus,+ ’midst the woes Of poverty or exile, must complain In prose-like style ; must quit the swelling strain, And words gigantic, if with Nature’s art They hope to touch the melting hearer’s heart. "Tis not enough, ye writers, that ye charm With ease and elegance; a play should warm With soft concernment ; should possess the soul,\/ And, as it wills, the listening crowd control. With them who laugh our social joy appears ; With them who mourn we sympathise in tears : * A character in Terence. + Telephus suffered poverty in seeking for his father. Peleus was driven into exile for being accessory to his brother’s murder. The adventures of both princes had been the subject of tragedies, BEB 2 B72 | THE ART OF POETRY. If you would have me weep, begin the strain; Then I shall feel your sorrows, feel your pain ; But if your heroes act not what they say, I sleep or laugh the lifeless scene away. The varying face should every passion show, And words of sorrow wear the look of woe ; Let it in joy assume a vivid air ; Fierce when in rage ; in seriousness severe : For Nature to each change of fortune forms The secret soul, and all its passions warms : ‘Transports to rage, dilates the heart with mirth, Wrings the sad soul, and bends it down to earth. The tongue these various movements must express ; But, if ill-suited to the deep distress His language prove, the sons of Rome engage To laugh th’ unhappy actor off the stage. Your style should an important difference make When heroes, gods, or awful sages speak ;— When florid youth, whom gay desires inflame ;— A busy servant, or a wealthy dame— A merchant, wandering with incessant toil, Or he, who cultivates the verdant soil ; But if in foreign realms you fix your scene, Their genius, customs, dialects maintain. Or follow Fame, or in th’ invented tale Let seeming, well-united truth prevail : If Homer’s great Achilles tread the stage, Intrepid, fierce, of unforgiving rage, Like Homer’s hero, let him spurn all laws, And by the sword alone assert his cause. With untamed fury let Medea glow, And Ino’s tears in ceaseless anguish flow. From realm to realm her griefs let Io bear, And sad Orestes rave in deep despair. THE ART OF POETRY. 373 But if you venture on an untried theme, And form a person yet unknown to fame, From his first entrance to the closing scene, Let him one equal character maintain. "Tis hard a new-formed fable to express, And make it seem your own. With more success You may from Homer take the tale of Troy, Than on an untried plot your strength employ. Yet would you make a common theme your own, Dwell not on incidents already known ; Nor word for word translate with painful care, Nor be confined in such a narrow sphere, From whence (while you should only imitate) Shame and the rules forbid you to retreat. Begin your work with modest grace and plain, Not like the bard of everlasting strain, . “Tsing the glorious war and Priam’s fate—” How will the boaster hold this yawning rate? ‘The mountains laboured with prodigious throes, And, lo! a mouse ridiculous arose. Far better he, who ne’er attempts in vain, Opening his poem in this humble strain ; ‘‘ Muse, sing the man who, after Troy subdued, Manners and towns of various nations viewed ; ”’ He does not lavish at a blaze his fire, Sudden to glare, and in a smoke expire ; But rises from a cloud of smoke to light, And pours his specious miracles to sight ; Antiphates his hideous feast devours, Charybdis barks, and Polyphemus roars. He would not, like our modern poet,* date His hero’s wanderings from his uncle’s fate ; * Antimachus, who wrote on the return of Diomede and absurdly began his poem from the death of his hero’s uncle Meleager. 374 THE AKkT OF POETRY. Nor sing ill-fated [lium’s various woes, From Helen’s birth, from whom the war arose; But to the grand event he speeds his course, And bears his readers with resistless force Into the midst of things, while every line Opens, by just degrees, his whole design. Artful he knows each circumstance to leave Which will not grace and ornament receive : Then truth and fiction with such skill he blends, That equal he begins, proceeds, and ends. Mine and the public judgment are the same ; Then hear what I, and what your audience claim. Tf you would keep us till the curtain fall, And the last chorus for a plaudit call, The manners must your strictest care engage, The levities of youth and strength of age. The child, who now with firmer footing walks, And with unfaltering, well-formed accents talks, Loves childish sports ; with causeless anger burns, And idly pleased with every moment turns. The youth, whose will no froward tutor bounds, Joys in the sunny field, his horse and hounds ; Yielding like wax, th’ impressive folly bears ; Rough to reproof, and slow to future cares; Profuse and vain; with every passion warmed, And swift to leave what late his fancy charmed. With strength improved, the manly spirit bends To different aims, in search of wealth and friends ; Bold and ambitious in pursuit of fame, And wisely cautious in the doubtful scheme. A thousand ills the aged world surround, Anxious in search of wealth, and when ’tis found, Fearful to use what they with fear possess, 3 While doubt and dread their faculties depress. PILE ALI OR POETRY. 375 Fond of delay, they trust in hope no more, Listless, and fearful of th’ approaching hour ; Morose, complaining, and with tedious praise Telling the manners of their youthful days ; Severe to censure; earnest to advise, And with old saws the present age chastise. The blessings flowing in with life’s full tide, Down with our ebb of life decreasing glide ; Then let not youth or infancy engage To play the parts of manhood or of age; For where the proper characters prevail, We dwell with pleasure on the well-wrought tale. The business of the drama must appear In action or description. What we hear, With weaker passion will affect the heart, Than when the faithful eye beholds the part. _ But yet let nothing on the stage be brought Which better should behind the scenes be wrought ; Nor force th’ unwilling audience to behold What may with grace and eloquence be told. Let not Medea, with unnatural rage, : Slaughter her mangled infants on the stage ; Nor Atreus his nefarious feast prepare, Nor Cadmus roll a snake, nor Progne wing the air; For while upon such monstrous scenes we gaze, They shock our faith, our indignation raise. If you would have your play deserve success, Give it five acts complete ; nor more, nor less; Nor let a god in person stand displayed, Unless the labouring * plot deserve his aid ; * At first in the Greek drama only one actor appeareg on the stage apart from the chorus. Thespis was his own actor. Aischylus added a second and Sophocles a third, The chorus took an active part in the representation, 376 THE TARE OF POLERS. Nor a fourth actor, on the crowded scene, A broken, tedious dialogue maintain. The chorus must support an actor’s part ; Defend the virtuous, and advise with art; Govern the choleric, the proud appease, And the short feasts of frugal tables praise ; Applaud the justice of well-governed states, And Peace triumphant with her open gates. Intrusted secrets let them ne’er betray, But to the righteous gods with ardour pray That Fortune with returning smiles may bless Afflicted worth, and impious pride depress ; Yet let their songs with apt coherence join, Promote the plot, and aid the main design. , Nor was the flute at first with silver bound, Nor rivalled emulous the trumpet’s sound : Few were its notes, its form was simply plain, Yet not unuseful was its feeble strain T’o aid the chorus, and their songs to raise, Willing the little theatre with ease, To which a thin and pious audience came, Of frugal manners, and unsullied fame. But when victorious Rome enlarged her state, And broader walls inclosed th’ imperial seat, Soon as with wine grown dissolutely gay, Without restraint she cheered the festal day ; Then poesy in looser numbers moved, And music in licentious tones improved ; Such ever is the taste, when clown and wit, Rustic and critic, fill the crowded pit. He, who before with modest art had played, Now called in wanton movements to his aid, Filled with luxurious tones the pleasing strain, And drew along the stage a length of train ; Pee. OL PO LT kek, 377 And thus the lyre, once awfully severe, Increased its strings, and sweeter charmed the ear : Thus poetry precipitately flowed, And with unwonted elocution glowed ; Poured forth prophetic truths in awful strain, Dark as the language of the Delphic fane. The tragic bard,* who for a worthless prize Bade naked satyrs in his chorus rise, Though rude his mirth, yet laboured to maintain ‘The solemn grandeur of the tragic scene ; Tor novelty alone he knew could charm A lawless crowd, with wine and feasting warm. And yet this laughing, prating tribe may raise Our mirth, nor shall their pleasantry displease ; But let the hero, or the power divine, Whom late we saw with gold and purple shine, Stoop not in vulgar phrase ; nor yet despise The words of earth, and soar into the skies. For as a matron, on our festal days + Obliged to dance, with modest grace obeys, So should the Muse her dignity maintain Amidst the satyrs, and their wanton train. If e’er I write, no words too grossly vile Shall shame my satyrs, and pollute my style. Nor would I yet the tragic style forsake So far, as not some difference to make Between a slave, or girl, too pertly bold, Who robs the miser of his darling gold, And grave Silenus, with instructive nod Giving wise lectures to his pupil god. * Pratinus, who invented a mixed kind of tragedy with satyrs as the chorus. It was called the Satyric drama. + Young women were usually chosen to dance in honour of the gods ; but in some festivals, as in that of the great goddess, the pontiffs obliged married women to dance,—Dac. 378 DHL WAIT OLR PORT ia From well-known tales such fictions would I raise As all might hope to imitate with ease ; Yet while they strive the same success to gain, Should find their labour, and their hopes are vain : Such grace can order and connexion give ; Such beauties common subjects may receive. ~ Let not the wood-born satyr fondly sport With amorous verses, as if bred at court ; Nor yet with wanton jests, in mirthful vein, Debase the language, and pollute the scene, For what the crowd with lavish rapture praise, In better judges cold contempt shall raise.. Rome to her poets too much licence gives, Nor the rough cadence of their verse perceives ; But shall I then with careless spirit write ? No! let me think my faults shall rise to light, And then a kind indulgence will excuse The less important errors of the muse. Thus, though perhaps I may not merit fame, T stand secure from censure and from shame. Make the Greek authors your supreme delight ; Read them by day, and study them by night.— ‘* And yet our sires with joy could Plautus hear, Gay were his jests, his numbers charmed their ear.” Let me not say too lavishly they praised, But sure their judgment was full cheaply pleased, If you or I with taste are haply blessed, To know a clownish from a courtly jest ; If skilful to discern, when formed with ease The modulated sounds are taught to please. Thespis, inventor of the tragic art, Carried his vagrant players in a cart: High o’er the crowd the mimic tribe appeared, And played and sung, with lees of wine besmeared, Pike antl .OR POLTRY. ©: : 379 Then A‘schylus a decent vizard used ; Built a low stage ; the flowing robe diffused. In language more sublime his actors rage, And in the graceful buskin tread the stage. And now the ancient Comedy appeared, Nor without pleasure and applause was heard ; But soon its freedom rising to excess, The laws were forced its boldness to suppress, And, when no longer licensed to defame, It sunk to silence with contempt and shame. No path to fame our poets left untried ; Nor small their merit when with conscious pride They scorned to take from Greece the storied theme, And dared to sing their own domestic fame. With Roman heroes fill the tragic scene, Or sport with humour in the comic vein. Nor had the mistress of the world appeared More famed for conquest, than for wit revered, Did we not hate the necessary toil Of slow correction, and the painful file. Illustrious youths! with just contempt receive, Nor let the hardy poem hope to live, Where time and full correction don’t refine The finished work, and polish every line, Because Democritus in rapture cries, ‘* Poems of genius always bear the prize From wretched works of art,” and thinks that none But brain-sick bards can taste of Helicon ; So far his doctrine o’er the tribe prevails, ‘They neither shave their heads, nor pare their nails ; To dark retreats and solitude they run, The baths avoid, and public converse shun ; A poet’s fame and fortune sure to gain, If long their beards, incurable their brain. 380 THE ART OF POETRY. Ah! luckless I! who purge in spring my spleen— Else sure the first of bards had Horace been. But shall I then, in mad pursuit of fame, Resign my reason for a poet’s name ? No! let me sharpen others, as the hone Gives edge to razors, though itself has none. Let me the poet’s worth and office show, And whence his true poetic riches flow ; What forms his genius, and improves his vein ; What well or ill becomes each different scene ; How high the knowledge of his art ascends, And to what faults his ignorance extends. Good sense, the fountain of the muse’s art, Let the strong page of Socrates impart, And if the mind with clear conceptions glow, The willing words in just expression flow. The poet, who with nice discernment knows What to his country and his friends he owes ; How various nature warms the human breast, 'l'o love the parent, brother, friend or guest ; What the great offices of judges are, Of senators, of generals sent to war ; He surely knows, with nice, well-judging art, The strokes peculiar to each different part. Keep Nature's great original in view, And thence the living images pursue ; For when the sentiments and diction please, And all the characters are wrought with ease, Your play, though void of beauty, force and art, More strongly shall delight, and warm the heart, Than where a lifeless pomp of verse appears, And with sonorous trifles charms our ears. To her loved Greeks the Muse indulgent gave, To her loved Greeks, with greatness to conceive, THE ART OF POETRY. 381 And in sublimer tone their language raise Her Greeks were only covetous of praise. Our youth, proficients in a nobler art, Divide a farthing to the hundredth part ; ‘Well done, my boy,” the joyful father cries, ‘* Addition and subtraction make us wise.” But when the rust of wealth pollutes the soul, And monied cares the genius thus control, How shall we dare to hope, that distant times With honour should preserve our lifeless rhymes ? Poets would profit or delight mankind, And with the pleasing have th’ instructive joined. Short be the precept, which with ease is gained By docile minds, and faithfully retained. If in dull length your moral is expressed, The tedious wisdom overflows the breast. Would you divert ? the probable maintain, Nor force us to believe the monstrous scene, That shows a child, by a fell witch devoured, Dragged from her entrails, and to life restored. Grave age approves the solid and the wise; Gay youth from too austere a drama flies ; Profit and pleasure, then, to mix with art, To inform the judgment, nor offend the heart, Shall gain all votes; to booksellers shall raise No trivial fortune, and across the seas To distant nations spread the writer’s fame, And with immortal honours crown his name. Yet there are faults which we may well excuse, For oft the strings th’ intended sound refuse ; In vain his tuneful hand the master tries, He asks a flat, and hears a sharp arise ; Nor always will the bow, though famed for art, With speed unerring wing the threatening dart. 382 THE ART OF POETRY. But when the beauties more in number shine, ‘I am not angry when a casual line (That with some trivial faults unequal flows) A careless hand, or human frailty shows. But as we ne'er those scribes with mercy treat Who, though advised, the same mistakes repeat ; Or as we laugh at him who constant brings The same rude discord from the jarring strings ; So, if strange chance a Cheerilus inspire With some good lines, I laugh, while I admire ; Yet hold it for a fault I can’t excuse, If honest Homer slumber o’er his muse ; Although, perhaps, a kind indulgent sleep O’er works of length allowably may creep. Poems like pictures are ; some charm when nigh, Others at distance more delight your eye ; That loves the shade, this tempts a stronger light, And challenges the critic’s piercing sight : That gives us pleasure for a single view ; And this, ten times repeated, still is new. Although your father’s precepts form your youth, And add experience to your taste of truth, Of this one maxim,—Piso,—be assured, In certain things a medium is endured. Who tries Messala’s * eloquence in vain, Nor can a knotty point of law explain Like learned Cascellius,t yet may justly claim, * Messala Corvinus, who inherited the eloquence as well as courage of his ancestors. : + Cascellius Aulus was a Roman knight, one of the greatest lawyers of his time. But his having courage to preserve his liberty in an age of universal slavery, raises his character with greater honour than all his wit and learning. The triumvirs, Lepidus, Antony, and Augustus, could not compel him to draw up their edict of proscription ; nor is it less glorious to Augustus, that a man of such a spirit of freedom should be mentioned with applause by a poet of his court. THE ART OF POETRY. 383 For pleading or advice, some right to fame ; But God, and man, and lettered post,* denies That poets ever are of middling size. As jarring music at a jovial feast, Or muddy essence, or th’ ungrateful taste Of bitter honey shall the guests displease, Because they want not luxuries like these ; So poems, formed alone to yield delight, Give deep disgust, or pleasure to the height. The man who knows not how with art to wield Lhe sportive weapons of the martial field, The bounding ball, round quoit, or whirling troque, Will not the laughter of the crowd provoke : But every desperate blockhead dares to write— Why not? his fortune’s large to make a knight ; The man’s freeborn; perhaps of gentle strain ; His character and manners pure from stain. But thou, dear Piso, never tempt the muse, If wisdom’s goddess shall her aid refuse ; And when you write, let candid Metius + hear, Or try your labours on your father’s ear, Or even on mine; but let them not come forth Till the ninth ripening year mature their worth. You may correct what in your closet lies : If published, it irrevocably flies. The wood-born race of men when Orpheus tamed, From acorns and from mutual blood reclaimed, This priest divine was fabled to assuage The tiger’s fierceness, and the lion’s rage. Thus rose the 'Theban wall; Amphion’s lyre, And soothing voice the list’ning stones inspire. * « Lettered post.” The pillars of the booksellers’ shops on which were put the names of the books for sale. + Spurius Metius Tarpa, a celebrated critic of that time. 384 THE ART. OF POHTRY. Poetic wisdom marked, with happy mean, Public and private ; sacred and profane ; The wand’ring joys of lawless love suppressed ; With equal rites the wedded couple blessed : Planned future towns, and instituted laws— So verse became divine, and poets gained applause. Homer, Tyrteus, by the muse inspired, To deeds of arms the martial spirit fired. In verse the oracles divine were heard, And Nature’s secret laws in verse declared ; Monarchs were courted in Pierian strain, And comic sports relieved the wearied swain ; Apollo sings, the Muses tune the lyre, Then blush not for an art which they inspire. Tis long disputed, whether poets claim From art or nature their best right to fame ; But art, if not enriched by nature’s vein, And a rude genius, of uncultured strain, Are useless both; but when in friendship joined, A mutual succour in each other find. A youth who hopes th’ Olympic prize to gain, All arts must try, and every toil sustain ; Th’ extremes of heat and cold must often prove, And shun the weakening joys of wine and love. Who sings the Pythic song, first learns to raise Each note distinct, and a stern master please ; But now—“ Since I can write the true sublime, Curse catch the hindmost!” cries the man of rhyme. ‘What! in a science own myself a fool, Because, forsooth, I learned it not by rule?” As artful criers, at a public fair, Gather the passing crowd to buy their ware, So wealthy poets, when they deign to write, To all clear gains their flatterers invite. THiMARTA OL. PORTH Y. 385 But if the feast of luxury they give, Bail a poor wretch, or from distress relieve When the black fangs of law around him bend, How shall they know a flatterer from a friend ? If e’er you make a present, or propose To grant a favour; while his bosom glows With grateful sentiments of joy and praise, Never, ah! never let him hear your lays ! Loud shall he cry, ‘‘ How elegant ! how fine !”’ Turn pale with wonder at some happier line ; Distil the civil dew from either eye, And leap, and beat the ground in ecstasy. As hirelings, paid for their funereal tear, Outweep the sorrows of a friend sincere, So the false raptures of a flatterer’s art: Eixceed the praises of an honest heart. Monarchs, ’tis said, with many a flowing bowl Search through the deep recesses of his soul, Whom for their future friendship they design, And put him to the torture in his wine ; So try, whene’er you write, the deep disguise, Beneath whose flattering smile false Reynard lies. Read to Quintilius, and at every hne— ‘* Correct this passage, friend, and that refine.” Tell him, you tried it twice or thrice in vain— ‘‘ Haste to an anvil with your ill-formed strain, Or blot it out.”” But if you still defend The favourite folly, rather than amend, He'll say no more, no idle toil employ— ‘Yourself unrivalled, and your works enjoy.” An honest critic, when dull lines move slow, Or harshly rude, will his resentment show ; Mark every fault, and with his pen efface What is not polished to its highest grace ; 386 THE ARTO OF POETRY, Prune all ambitious ornaments away, And teach you on th’ obscure to pour the day ; Will mark the doubtful phrase with hand severe, Like Aristarchus, candid and sincere : Nor say, for trifles why should I displease The man I love ? for trifles such as these ‘To serious mischiefs lead the man I love, If once the flatterer’s ridicule he prove. From a mad poet, whosoe’er is wise, As from a Jeprosy or jaundice, flies ; Religious madness in its zealous strain, Nor the wild frenzy of a moon-struck brain, Are half so dreadful: yet the boys pursue him, And fools, unknowing of their danger, view him. But, heedless wandering, if our man of rhyme, Bursting with verses of the true sublime, Like fowler, earnest at his game, should fall Into a well or ditch, and loudly call, “Good fellow-citizens and neighbours dear, Help a poor bard” —not one of them will hear : Or if, perchance, a saving rope they throw, I will be there, and—‘“ Sirs, you do not know But he fell in on purpose, and, I doubt, Will hardly thank you, if you pull him out.” Then will I tell Empedocles’s story, Who nobly fond of more than mortal glory, Fond to be deemed a god, in madding fit Plunged in cold blood in Etna’s fiery pit. Let bards be licensed then themselves to kill; Tis murder to preserve them ’gainst their will. But more than once this frolic he hath played, Nor, taken out, will he be wiser made Content to be a man; nor will his pride Lay such a glorious love of death aside. Poe aha ons, POEL ELY. 387 Nor is it plain for what more horrid crime The gods have plagued him with this curse of rhyme ; Whether his father’s ashes he disdained, Or hallowed ground with sacrilege profaned : Certain he’s mad, and lke a baited bear, If he hath strength enough his den to tear, With all the horrors of a desperate Muse The learnéd and unlearnéd he pursues. But if he seize you, then the torture dread ! He fastens on you till he reads you dead, And like a leech, voracious of his food, Quits not his cruel hold till gorged with blood. FRANCIS. INDEX OF FIRST LATIN LINES AND TRANSLATORS’ NAMES. ————EE THE ODES OF HORACE. BOOK oa: ODE PAGE 33 Albi, ne doleas plus nimio, memor Weta iuiie: S) 41 13 Cum tu, Lydia, Telephi.. .. .. Lora Lytton... 20 21 Dianam tenerz dicite virgines .. Whyte Melwille \, 29 386 Et thure et fidibusjuvat .. .. Archd. Wrangham., 45 29 Icci, beatis nunc Arabum invides.. ‘ ae oi M3 aes 22 Integer vite scelerisque purus *, Johnson 30 2 Jam satis terris nivis atque dire .. cae ase - ANCtS. “Se Ro), 7 Laudabunt alii claram Rhodon, aut My diene . Archd. Wran chu 12 8 Lydia, dic, peromnes .. .. .. John Evelyn 14 1 Rie cents atavis edite regibus . Herbert Grant.. 1 19 Mater seva Cupidinum.. .. . Congreve Ao 28 10 Mercuri facunde nepos Atlantis .. Whyte Melville 16 26 Musis amicus tristitiam et metus.. » ev. G. Crovyas 34 27 Natis in usum letitiv scyphis .. oc we LVANCIS 35 18 Nullam, Vare, sacra vite prius severis aiborem .. Francis 27 37 Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero.. ~» LYONS” 22 0 ee 385 O diva, gratum que regis Antium » Lo Bourne...) eee 16 O matre pulchra, filia pulchrior .. .. William Duneombe.. 24 14 O navis, referent in mare te novi.. . OS. Calverley... 21 30 O Venus, regina Cnidi Paphique .. .. Francis 39 25 Parcius junctas quatiunt fenestras ant Eee 33 34 Parcus deorum cultor et infrequens . Sir Richard Pages 42 15 Pastor cum traheret per freta navibus i Ee Carter... —. tee 388 Persicos odi, puer, apparatus.. .. Hartley Coleridge .» ah 32 Poscimur—si quid vacui sub umbra .. Herbert Grant.. 40 12 Quem virum aut heroa lyra vel acri .. Christopher Pitt 18 81 Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinem ve HV s doer? os. Oe 24 Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus «- Lev. RN. Jrench. eee 5 Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa . Milton © «. 10 6 Scriberis Vario fortis et hostium .. .. «+ Lord Lytton 11 3 Sic te.Diva potens Cypri.. su svt \sk (a0 750 SUTYOCRE .. 4) ne INDEX. ODE 4 Solvitur acris hiems grata vice veris et jitis 28 Te maris et terrae: numeroque carentis arenze 11 Tune quesieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi 17 Velox amcenum sepe Lucretilem .. 9 Vides, ut alta stet nive candidum 20 Vile potabis modicis Sabinum 23 Vitas hinnuleo me similis, Chloé .. BOOK II. 3 AEquam memento rebus in arduis.. 19 Bacchum in remotis carmina rupibus .. 17 Cur me querelis exanimas tuis? .. 14 Eheu fugaces, Postume, Postume.. 13 Ile et nefasto te posuit die .. 15 Jam pauca aratro jugera regice 1 Motum ex Metello consule civicum 4 Ne sit ancille tibi amor pudori 12 Nolis longa feree bella Numantie .. 18 Non ebur neque aureum.. 9 Non semper imbres nubibus eet st 20 Non usitata nec tenui ferar 5 Nondum subacta ferre jugum valet 2 Nullus argento, color est avaris 7 O sepe mecum tempus in ultimum 16 Otium divos rogat in patenti.. 11 Quid bellicosus Cantaber et Scythes 10 Rectius vives, Licini, neque altum 6 Septimi Gades aditure mecum et .. 8 Ulla si juris tibi pejerati.. .. .. BOOK IIT. 17 Aeli vetusto nobilis ab Lamo 2 Angustam amice pauperiem pati .. 23 Ccelo supinas si tuleris manus 5 Ceelo tonantem credidimus Jovem 6 Delicta majorum immeritus lues .. 4 Descende ccelo et dic age tibia 9 Donec gratus eram tibi .. 30 Exegi monumentum ere perennius 10 Extremum Tanain si biberes, Lyce 18 Faune, Nympharum fugientum amator 28 Festo quid potius die .. 14 Herculis ritu modo dictus, O plebd. 389 PAGE Archd. Wrangham.. 9 . J. Conington 36 Sir T, Hawkins 17 .. Francis 25 .. Dryden ; 15 .. Herbert Grant.. 29 . Prof. Newman.. él .. J. H. Merivale Lae OD .. Archd. Wrangham.. 74 . Sir Theo. Martin fl . Francis ; 66 .. Richard Crashaw 64 - Rev. J. Mitford 68 .. Francis : 48 . Lord Lytton 54 » LY BUCS os 63 .. Francis i2 . Dr. Johnson a9 . Francis 75 .. Francis : . oO . Gilbert Wakefield Seek .. Conington .. 57 .. Otway es 69 » Sur Thos. names. 62 mel dE 7) COWDCTCENE Pome ae 7 - OL .. Gilbert Wakefield .. 56 . Sir Charles Sedley .. 58 .. Francis .. LOY. .. Dean Swift moe .. Sir T. Hawkins . 112 . Archd. Wrangham.. 90 .. Lord Roscommon 92 . R. Wilmott Seg .. Ben Jonson ee wale . tlerbert Grant.: .. 127 .. Boscawen .. he eH! ~ Cn8. Calweriey.. .. 107 . Francis ee PAN . Francis . 102 390 INDEX. ODE 27 Impios parre recinentis omen 16 Inclusam Danaén turris aénea 24 Intactis opulentior ee 3 Justum et tenacem propositi virum 8 Martiis ccelebs quid agam Kalendis 11 Mercuri, nam te docilis magistro .. 12 Miserarum est neque amori dare ‘udu neque dulci ve Melek 's Lee see 22 Montium custos nemorumque, Virgo 20 Non vides, quanto moveas periclo.. 13 O fons Bandusie, splendidior vitro 21 O nata mecum Consule Manlio ee .. Franets . Mitford . Francis . Addison vai LV ANCE: eee. . Krancis .. wo HV ANCIS . ahe soe . Boscawen .. ee Whyte Melville John Cam Hobhouse ne 20 Ba ioe re 15108 ee «OD 101 fete e yds e LTANCIS in, a een 1 Odi profanum vulgus et arceo .. .. .. «. Sir Theodore Mi artin TT Paraphrase .. .. Cowley .. eerie 19 Quantum distet ab Inacho -.. .. .. . Krancis .. . 108 7 Quid fles, Asterie, quem tibi candidi .. Wrangham. 3. 94 25 Quo me, Bacche, rapis tui . Barry Cornwall (Procter. eae 29 Tyrrhena regum progenies, tibi Se eet +e OUP J. DEMUNONG leemean Paraphrase... <, Dryden 2. Ge waadee 15 Uxor pauperis Ibyci.. LTANCS, pee, oa ee 26 Vixi puellis nuper idoncus . vs ».» Alewander Bromé ~.. 116 BOOK “1V- 13. Audivere, Lyce, Di mea. vota, Di... «5 +. .. Cartwright) >. “ueaes 7 Diffugere nives, redeunt jam gramina campis .. J. H. Meriwale embed 6 Dive, quem proles Niobea magni .. Archd. Wrangham.. 137 5 Divis orte bonis, optime Romule .. . Rev. S. Sanderson .. 186 8 Donarem pateras grataque commodus .. .. Francis oa See RAO 11 Est mihi nonum superantis annum . Whyte Melville . 144 1 Intermissa, Venus, (ino. )eecee e s . Ben Jonson .. 128 12 Jam veris comites que mare tempe: ant .. Lord Thurlow .. .. 146 9 Ne forte credas interitura, quie .. Conington . .. 142 10 O crudelis adhue et Veneris muneribus Sten, oa LOPANGCIB cove .. 144 15 Pheebus volentem proclia me loqui . Lranctis ... . 150 2 Pindarum quisquis studet emulari et EPANe xa 6a eee 14 Que cura patrum queeve Quiritium .. W. Duncombe .. . 148 4 Qualem ministrum fulminis alitem . Lord Lyttelton.. .. 182 3 Quem tu, Melpomene, semel .. THE SECULAR Phoebe silvarumque potens Diana ee ee ee ee Canon Howes , .. Bishop Atterbury .. 131 ODE, EPODE 16 Altera jam teritur bellis civilibus etas THE INDEX. EPODES 5 At, O Deorum quidquid in celo regit .. .. 2 Beatus ille, qui procul negotiis .. 13 Horrida tempestas ccelum contraxit et imbres .. 1 Ibis Liburnis inter alta navium .. 17 Jam, jam, efficaci do manus scientie .. .. 4 Lupis et agnis quanta sortito obtigit .. .. 10 Mala soluta navis exit alite .. .. 14 Mollis inertia cur tantam diffuderit imis .. 15 Nox erat et ccelo fulgebat luna sereno.. .. 3 Parentis olim si quis impia manu.. 11 Petti, nihil me sicut antea juvat .. 9 Quando repostum Ceecubum ad festas dapes 6 Quid immerentes hospites vexas canis.. .. 7 Quo, quo scelesti ruitis ? Aut cur dexteris SATIRE THE . oe OF HORACE. Canon Howes 391 PAGE Ba ke Rev. O. Wheelwright 163 su Dryden .. IV. Duncombe Canon Howes Francis .. Canon Howes Canon Howes Canon Howes Canon Howes Professor Newman Francis .. Canon Howes EFONCIS .. Seward- .. SATIRES OF HORACE. BOOK I. 2 Ambubaiarum collegia pharmacopole .. .. 5 Egressum magna me excepit Aricia Roma .. 4 Eupolis atque Cratinus Aristophanesque poéte .. 9 Ibam forte via Sacra, sicut meus est mos .. 10 Lucili, quam sis mendosus, teste Catone .. 6 Non, quia Mecenas, Lydorum quidquid Etruscos 8 Olim truncus eram ficulnus, inutile lignum 3 Omnibus hoc vitium est cantoribus inter amicos . 7 Proscripti Regis Rupili pus atque venenum 1 Qui fit, Meecenas, ut nemo, quam sibi sortem .. BOOK? LL ° . 6 Hoc erat in votis? modus agri non ita magnus.. 5 Hoe quoque, Tiresia, preter narrata petenti 7 Jamdudum ausculto et cupiens tibi dicere servus 2 Que virtus et quanta, boni, sit vivere parvo 3 Sic raro scribis, ut toto non quater anno 1 Sunt, quibus in satira videor nimis acer et ultra. 4 Unde et quo Catius ? Non est mihitempus aventi 8 Ut Nasidieni juvit te ccena beati? ee Francis .. Cowper. -.. Canon Howes Canon Howes Canon Howes Francis .. Francis .. Canon Howes Canon Howes Canon Howes Canon Howes Francis .. Francis .. Francis .. Canon Howes Francis .. Canon Howes Canon Howes oe 2,168 ae Os samy ge178 .. 162 gin LpL74 Se Y 161 Pei .. 169 be GY penis 392 INDEX. THE EPISTLES OF HORACE. BOOK I, EPISTLE . 4 Albi, nostrorum sermonum candide judex .. 8 Celso gaudere et bene rem gerere Albinovano 12 Fructibus Agrippe Siculis, quod colligis, Icci 3 Juli Flore, quibus terrarum militet oris 16 Ne perconteris, fundus meus, optime Quincti 6 Nil admirari prope res est una, Numici 19 Prisco si credis, Meecenas docte, Cratino 1 Prima dicte mihi, summa dicende Camena .. 15 Que sit hiems Veliz, quod ccclum, Vala, Sale:ni. 17 Quamvis, Sceva, satis per te tibi consulis et scis . 11 Quid tibi visa Chios, Bullati, notaque Lesbos 7 Quinque dies tibi pollicitus me rure futurum 9 Septimius, Claudi, nimirum intelligit unus 18 §i bene te novi, metues, liberrime Lolli 5 §1 potes Archiacis conviva recumbere lectis 2 Trojani belli scriptorem, maxime Lolli 10 Urbis amatorem Fuscum salvere jubemus .. 13 Ut proficiscentem docui te seepe diuque 20 Vertumnum Janumque, liber, spectare videris 14 Villice silyarum et mihi me reddentis agelli BOOK II. 1 Cum tot sustineas et tanta negotia solus 2 Flore, bono claroque fidelis amice Neroni .. THE ART Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam .. THE END. . Francis . Francis . Canon Howes .. . Howes . Canon Howes .. .. Canon Howes .. . Francis . Francis Canon Howes Canon Howes .. . Canon Howes .. . Canon Howes . Francis .. . Hrancis .. . Howes . Canon Howes . Howes . Canon Howes .. . Canon Howes .. . Canon Howes .. . Canon Howes . Frances .. OF. PORTRY, we LVANCIS s« BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS, W9287289929 PAGE .. 300 . dll «eli .. 298 .«, O24 .. 803 .. 337 .. 289 + B22 .. 328 ae .. 306 ce ede aes | eee .. 294 J« Ono a f0L8 .. 339 .. 3l9 .. o41 . 304 . 367 ent parses ye oe