The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper

of him, Unde nil majus generatur ipso, nec viget quicquam simile ́aut secundum. From this Being all others, both gods and men, received their existence, and upon him they depend for the continuance of it. But as creeds and practice too frequently differ, it is acknowledged, that our poet, although not professedly the disciple of any particular school, in general lived an Epicurean. Such a religion was happily suited to the natural indolence of his disposition, the carelessness of his temper, and the companionable gaiety of his humour. Yet we find him honest, just, humane, and good-natured; firm in his friendships; grateful, without flattery, to the bounty of Mæcenas, and wisely contented with the fortune which he had the honour of receiving from his illustrious patron. Among the numerous authors of antiquity, others, perhaps, may be more admired, or esteemed; none more amiable, more worthy to be beloved.

The difficulty of translating this part of his works arises in general from the frequent translations of lines in Grecian writers, and parodies on those of his contemporaries; from his introducing new characters on the scene, and changing the speakers of his dialogues; from his not marking his transitions from thought to thought, but giving them as they lay in his mind. These unconnected transitions are of great life and spirit; nor should a translator be too coldly regular in supplying the connection, since it will be a tame performance, that gives us the sense of Horace, if it be not given in his peculiar manner.

As his editors have often perplexed the text, by altering the measures of our author for the sake of a more musical cadence; so they, who have imitated or translated him with most success in English, seem to have forgotten, that a carelessness of numbers is a peculiar part of his character, which ought to be preserved almost as faithfully as his sentiments.

Style is genius, and justly numbered amongst the fountains of the sublime. Expression in poetry is that colouring in painting, which distinguishes a master's hand. But the misfortune of our translators is, that they have only one style; and consequently all their authors, Homer, Virgil, Horace, Ovid, are compelled to speak in the same numbers, and the same unvaried expression. The free-born spirit of poetry is confined in twenty constant syllables, and the sense regularly ends with every second line, as if the writer had not strength enough to support himself, or courage enough to venture into a third.

This unclassical kind of versification would be particularly most unnatural in a translation of Horace. It would make him argue in couplets, and the persons of his dialogues converse almost in epigrams. The translator has therefore followed the sense in one unbroken period. He has often endeavoured to imitate the prosaic cadence of his author, when he could with much more ease have made him appear like a modern original. He has run the lines into each other, as he believes it the best manner of preserving that loose, prosaic poetry, that negligence of numbers, which has ever been esteemed one of his peculiar beauties.

If we consider the poetical spirit and numerous variety of measures in his Odes, we may believe this careless versification in his Satires was not an effect of necessity, but of judgment. His frequent use of proverbs and common phrases; his different manner of expressing the same sentiments in his Odes and Satires, will convince us, that he really thought a satirist and a poet were extremely different characters; that the language of poetry was as unnatural to the morality of satire, as a low, familiar style to the majesty of an epic poem; or, as he himself expresses it, that the Muse of satire walks on foot, while all her sisters soar into the skies.

If this criticism be just, the dispute between Juvenal and Horace, with regard to style, may with ease be decided. In Juvenal the vices of his age are shown in all their natural horrours. He commands his readers in the language of authority, and terrifies them with images drawn in the boldness of a truly poetical spirit. He stands like a priest at an altar sacrificing to his gods; but even a priest, in his warmest zeal of religion, might be forgiven, if he confessed so much humanity, as not to take pleasure in hearing the groans, and searching into the entrails of the victim.

There is a kind of satire of such malignity, as too surely proceeds from a desire of gratifying a constitutional cruelty of temper. The satirist does not appear like a magistrate to give sentence on the vices of mankind, but like an executioner to slaughter the criminal. It was the saying of a great man, that he who hated vice, hated mankind; but certainly he does not love them as he ought, who indulges his natural sagacity in a discernment of their faults, and feels an ill-natured pleasure in exposing them to public view.

Our author was of another spirit; of a natural cheerfulness of temper; an easiness of manners, fashioned by the politeness of courts; a good understanding, improved by conversing with mankind; a quick discernment of their frailties, but, in general, so happy an art of correcting them, that he reproves without offending, and instructs without an affectation of superiority. He preserves a strength of reasoning necessary to persuade, without that dogmatical seriousness, which is apt to disgust or disoblige. He has this advantage over the rigid satirist, that we receive him into our bosoms, while he reasons with good-humour, and corrects in the language of friendship. Nor will his Satires be less useful to the present age, than to that in which they were written, since he does not draw his characters from particular persons, but from human nature itself, which is invariably the game in all ages and countries.

WORKS OF HORACE.

TRANSLATED BY PHILIP FRANCIS, D.D.

ODES. BOOK I.

ODE I.

TO MECENAS.

MECENAS, whose high lineage springs
From fair Etruria's ancient kings,
O thou, my patron and my friend,
On whom my life, my fame depend;
In clouds th' Olympic dust to roll,
To turn with kindling wheels the goal,
And gain the palm, victorious prize!
Exalt a mortal to the skies.

This man, by faction and debate,
Rais'd to the first employs of state;
Another, who from Libya's plain
Sweeps to his barn the various grain;
A third, who with unwearied toil
Ploughs cheerful his paternal soil;
While in their several wishes blest,
Not all the wealth by kings possest,
Shall tempt, with fearful souls, to brave
The terrours of the foamy wave.

When loud the winds and waters wage
Wild war with elemental rage,
The merchant praises the retreat,
The quiet of his rural seat;

Yet, want untutor❜d to sustain,
Soon rigs his shatter'd bark again.

No mean delights possess his soul,
With good old wine who crowns his bowl;
Whose early revels are begun
Ere half the course of day be run,
Now, by some sacred fountain laid,
Now, stretch'd beneath some bowering shade,
The tented camps a soldier charm,
Trumpets and fifes his bosom warm;
Their mingled sounds with joy he'll hear,
Those sounds of war, which mothers fear.
The sportsman, chill'd by midnight Jove,
Forgets his tender, wedded love,
Whether his faithful hounds pursue,
And hold the bounding hind in view;
Whether the boar his hunters foils,
And foaming breaks the spreading toils

An ivy-wreath, fair learning's prize,
Raises Mæcenas to the skies.

The breezy grove, the mazy round,
Where the light nymphs and satyrs bound,
If there the sacred Nine inspire

The breathing flute, and strike the lyre,
There let me fix my last retreat,

Far from the little vulgar, and the great.
But if you rank me with the choir,
Who tun'd with art the Grecian lyre,
Swift to the noblest heights of fame
Shall rise thy poet's deathless name.

ODE II.

TO AUGUSTUS.

ENOUGH of snow and hail in tempests dire Have pour'd on earth, while Heav'n's eternal sire With red right arm at his own temples hurl'd His thunders, and alarm'd 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 perch'd, his wonted seat, the scaly brood Entangled hung upon the topmost wood, And every timorous native of the plain High-floating swarm amid the boundless main. We saw, push'd backward to his native source, The yellow Tiber roll his rapid course, With impious ruin threat'ning Vesta's fanè, And the great monuments of Numa's reign; With grief and rage while Ilia's bosom glows, Boastful, for her revenge, his waters rose: But now, th' uxorious river glides away, So Jove commands, smooth-winding to the sea. And yet, less numerous by their parents' crimes, Our sons shall hear, shall hear to latest times, Of Roman arms with civil gore embru'd, Which better had the Persian foe subdu'd. Among her guardian gods, what pitying power To raise ber sinking state shall Rome implore? Shall her own hallow'd 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 polish'd helm, the noise of arms,
And the stern soldier's frown with transport wasms:
Or thou, fair Maia's winged son, appear,
And human shape, in prime of manhood, wear;
Declar'd the guardian of th' imperial state,
Divine avenger of great Cæsar's fate:

Oh! late return to Heav'n, and may thy reign With lengthen'd blessings fill thy wide domain; 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 unpunish'd pride, Beyond his bounds, O Cæsar, dare to ride!

ODE III.

TO THE SHIP IN WHICH VIRGIL SAILED TO ATHENS.
So may the Cyprian queen divine,
And the twin-stars, with saving lustre shine;
So may the father of the wind
All others, but the western breezes, bind,
As you, dear vessel, safe restore
Th' entrusted pledge to th' Athenian shore,
And of my soul the partner save,

My much-lov'd Virgil, from the raging wave.
Or oak, or brass, with triple fold,
Around that daring mortal's bosom roll'd,

Who first to the wild ocean's rage
Lanch'd the frail bark, and heard the winds engage
Tempestuous, when the South descends
Precipitate, and with the North contends;
Nor fear'd the stars portending rain,
Nor, the loud tyrant of the western main,
Of power supreme the storm to raise,
Or calmer smooth the surface of the seas.
What various forms of death could fright
The man, who view'd with fixt, unshaken sight,
The floating monsters, waves inflam'd,
And rocks for shipwreck'd fleets ill-fam'd?
Jove has the realms of earth in vain
Divided by th' inhabitable main,

If ships profane, with fearless pride,

Bound o'er th' inviolable tide.

No laws, or human or divine,

Can the presumptuous race of man confine.
Thus from the Sun's ethereal beam

When bold Prometheus stole th' enlivening flame,
Of fevers dire a ghastly brood,

Till then unknown, th' unhappy fraud pursu'd;
On Earth their horrours baleful spread,
And the pale monarch of the dead,
Till then slow-moving to his prey,
Precipitately rapid swept his way.

Thus did the venturous Cretan dare

To tempt, with impious wings, the void of air;
'Through Hell Alcides urg'd his course :
No work too high for man's audacious force.
Our folly would attempt the skies,
And with gigantic boldness impious rise;
Nor Jove, provok'd by mortal pride,
Can lay his angry thunderbolts aside,

ODE IV.

TO SESTIUS.

FIERCE winter melts in vernal gales,
And grateful zephyrs fill the spreading sails;
No more the ploughman Joves his fire,
No more the lowing herds their stalls desire,
While earth her richest verdure yields,
Nor hoary frosts now whiten o'er the fields.

Now joyous through the verdant meads,
Beneath the rising Moon, fair Venus leads
Her various dance, and with her train
Of nymphs and modest graces shakes the plain,
While Vulcan's glowing breath inspires
The toilsome forge, and blows up all its fires.
Now crown'd with myrtle, or the flowers
Which the glad earth from her free bosom pours,
We'll offer, in the shady grove,

Or lamb, or kid, as Pan shall best approve.
With equal pace impartial fate
Knocks at the palace as the cottage gate;

Nor should our sum of life extend
Our growing hopes beyond their destin'd end,
When sunk to Pluto's shadowy coasts,
Opprest with darkness and the fabled ghosts,
No more the dice shall there assign
To thee the jovial monarchy of wine.

No more shall you the fair admire, The virgins' envy, and the youth's desire,

ODE V.

TO PYRRUA.

WHILE liquid odours round him breathe,
What youth, the rosy bower beneath,
Now courts thee to be kind?
Pyrrha, for whose unwary heart
Do you, thus drest with careless art,
Your yellow tresses bind?

How often shall th' unpractis'd youth
Of alter'd gods, and injur'd truth,

With tears, alas! complain?
How soon behold, with wondering eyes,
The black'ning winds tempestuous rise,
And scowl along the main?

While, by his easy faith betray'd,
He now enjoys thee, golden maid,
Thus amiable and kind;

He fondly hopes that you shall prove
Thus ever vacant to his love,

Nor heeds the faithless wind.

Unhappy they, to whom, untried,
You shine, alas! in beauty's pride;

While I, now safe on shore,
Will consecrate the pictur'd storm,
And all my grateful vows perform
To Neptune's saving power.

ODE VI.

TO AGRIPPA.

VARIUS, who soars on Homer's wing Agrippa, shall thy conquests sing, Whate'er, inspir'd by his command, The soldier dar'd on sea or land.

But we nor tempt with feeble art Achilles' unrelenting heart, Nor sage Ulysses in our lays Pursues his wanderings through the seas; Nor ours in tragic strains to tell How Pelops' cruel offspring fell.

The Muse, who rules th' unwarlike lyre, Forbids me boldly to aspire To thine or sacred Cæsar's fame, And hurt with feeble song the theme.

Who can describe the god of fight
In adamantine armour bright?
Or Merion on the Trojan shore
With dust, how glorious! cover'd o'er?
Or Diomed, by Pallas' aid,
To warring gods an equal made?

But whether loving, whether free,
With all our usual levity,
Untaught to strike the martial string,
Of feasts and virgin fights we sing,
Of maids, who, when bold love assails,
Fierce in their anger-pare their nails.

ODE VII.

TO MUNATIUS PLANCUS.

LET other poets, in harmonious lays, Immortal Rhodes or Mitylene praise, Or Ephesus, or Corinth's towery pride, Girt by the rolling main on either side; Or Thebes, or Delphos, for their gods renown'd, Or Tempe's plains with flowery honours crown'd. There are, who sing in everlasting strains The towers where wisdom's virgin-goddess reigns, And ceaseless toiling court the trite reward Of olive, pluck'd by every vulgar bard. For Juno's fame, th' uunumber'd tuneful throng With rich Mycena grace their favourite song. And Argos boast, of pregnant glebe to feed The warlike horse, and animate the breed: But me, nor patient Lacedæmon charms, Nor fair Larissa with such transport warms, As pare Albunea's far-resounding source, And rapid Anio, headlong in his course, Or Tibur, fenc'd by groves from solar beams, And fruitful orchards bath'd by ductile streams. * * * * ** * * * * * * The south wind often, when the welkin lowers, Sweeps off the clouds, nor teems perpetual showers: So, Plancus, be the happy wisdom thine, To end the cares of life in mellow'd wine; Whether the camp with banners bright display'd, Or Tibur hold thee in its thick-wrought shade.

When Teucer from his sire and country fled, With poplar wreaths the hero crown'd his head, Reeking with wine, and thus his friends address'd, Deep sorrow brooding in each anxious breast: "Bold let us follow through the foamy tides, Where Fortune, better than a father, guides; Avaunt, despair! when Teucer calls to fame, The same your augur, and your guide the same. Another Salamis, in foreign clime, With rival pride shall raise her head sublime; So Phœbus nods: ye sons of valour true, Full often tried in deeds of deadlier hue, To day with wine drive every care away, To morrow tempt again the boundless sea,"

ODE VIN.

TO LYDIA.

By the gods, my Lydia, tell, Ah! why, by loving him too well, Why you hasten to destroy Young Sybaris, too am'rous boy? Why he hates the sunny plain, While he can sun or dust sustain ?

Why no more, with martial pride, Does he among his equals ride;

Or the Gallic steed command With bitted curb and forming hand ? More than viper's baleful blood Why does he fear the yellow flood? Why detest the wrestler's oil, While firm to bear the manly toil? Where are now the livid scars Of sportive, nor inglorious, wars, When for the quoit, with vigour thrown Beyond the mark, his fame was known? Tell us, why this fond disguise, In which like Thetis' son he lies, Ere unhappy Troy had shed Her funeral sorrows for the dead, Lest a manly dress should fire His soul to war and carnage dire.

ODE IX

TO THALIARCHUS.
BEHOLD Soracte's airy height,
See how it stands a heap of snow;
Behold the winter's hoary weight

Oppress the labouring woods below;
And, by the season's icy hand
Congeal'd, the lazy rivers stand.
Now melt away the winter's cold,

And larger pile the cheerful fire;
Bring down the vintage four-year-old,
Whose mellow'd heat can mirth inspire;
Then to the guardian powers divine
Careless the rest of life resign:

For, when the warring winds arise,

And o'er the fervid ocean sweep,
They speak-and lo! the tempest dies
On the smooth bosom of the deep;
Unshaken stands the aged grove,
And feels the providence of Jove.
To morrow with its cares despise,
And make the present hour your own,
Be swift to catch it as it flies,

And score it up as clearly won;
Nor let your youth disdain to prove
The joys of dancing and of love.,
Now let the grateful evening shade,
The public walks, the public park,
An assignation sweetly made

With gentle whispers in the dark:
While age morose thy vigour spares,
Be these thy pleasures, these thy cares.
The laugh, that from the corner flies,

The sportive fair-one shall betray; Then boldly snatch the joyful prize; A ring or bracelet tear away, While she, not too severely coy, Struggling shall yield the willing toy.

« Previous Continue »

Books

The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper, Volume 19