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Tho' charg'd with what his judgment can defend,
He joins the partial sentence of his friend.
The piece thrown by; the careful bard reviews
The long-forgotten labours of his Muse:
Lo! on all sides far different objects rise,
And a new prospect strikes his wondering eyes,
Warm from the brain, the lines his love engross'd,
Now in themselves their former selves are lost.
Now his own labours he begins to blame,
And blushing reads them with regret and shame.
He loaths the piece; condemns it; nor can find
The genuine stamp, and image of his mind
This thought and that, indignant he rejectsst mai
When most secure, some danger he suspects
Anxious he adds, and trembling he corrects
With kind severities, and timely arte

Lops the luxuriant growth of every part;
Prunes the superfluous boughs, that wildly stray,
And cuts the rank redundancies away.
Thus arm'd with proper discipline he stands,
By day, by night, applies his healing hands,
From every line to wipe out every blot,
Till the whole piece is guiltless of a fault.
Hard is the task, but needful, if your aim
Tends to the prospect of immortal fame.
If some unfinish'd numbers limp behind,
When the warm poet rages unconfin'd,
Then when his swift invention scorns to stay,
By a full tide of genius whirl'd away;
He brings the sovereign cure their failings claim,
Confirms the sickly, and supports the lame.
Oft as the seasons roll, renew thy pain,
And bring the poem to the test again.

In different lights th' expression must be rang'd,
The garb and colours of the words be chang'd.
With endless care thy watchful eyes must pierce,
And mark the parts distinct of every verse.
In this persist; for oft one day denies
The kind assistance which the next supplies;
As oft, without your vigilance and care,
Some faults detected by themselves appear.
And now a thousand errours you explore,
That lay involv'd in mantling clouds before.
Oft, to improve his Muse, the bard should try,
By turns, the temper of a different sky.
For thus his genius takes a different face
From every different genius of a place.
The soul too changes, and the bard may find
A thousand various motions in his mind.

See! thy pleas'd friends thy spreading glory draus,
Each with his voice to swell the vast applause;
The vast applause shall reach the starry frame,
No years, no ages, shall obscure thy fame,
And Earth's last ends shall hear thy darling name
Shall we then doubt to scorn all worldly views,
And not prefer the raptures of the Muse?

Thrice happy bards! who, taught by Heaven, 29gbey

These rules, and follow where they lead the way;
And hear the faithful precepts I bestow'd,
Inspir'd with rage divine, and labouring with the

But art alone, and human means, must fail,
Nor these instructive precepts will prevail,
Unless the gods their present aid supply,
And look with kind indulgence from the sky.
I only pointed out the paths that lead
The panting youth to steep Parnassus' head;
And show'd the tuneful Muses from afar,
Mixt in a solemn choir, and dancing there.
Thither forbidden by the fates to go,
I sink and grovel in the world below.
Deterr'd by them, in vain I labour up,
And stretch these hands to grasp the distant top,
Enough for me, at distance if I view
Some bard, some happier bard, the path pursue;
Who, taught by me to reach Parnassus' crown,
Mounts up, and calls his slow companions on.
But yet these rules, perhaps, these humble lays,
May claim a title to a share of praise;

When, in a crowd, the gathering youths shall

hear

My voice and precepts with a willing ear;
Close in a ring shall press the listening throng,
And learn from me to regulate their song.
Then, if the pitying fates prolong my breath,
And from my youth avert the dart of Death;
Whene'er I sink in life's declining stage,
Trembling and fainting on the verge of age,
To help their wearied master shall they run,
And lend their friendly hands to guide him on;
Through blooming groves his tardy progress wait,
And set him gently down at Phœbus' gate,
The while he sings, before the hallow'd shrine,
The sacred poets, and the tuneful Nine.
Here then in Roman numbers will we rise,
And lift the fame of Virgil to the skies;
Ausonía's pride and boast; who brings along
Strength to my lines, and spirit to my song;

New gleams of light will every moment rise,

While from each part the scattering darkness flies. First how the mighty bard transported o'er

And, as he alters what appears amiss,

He adds new flowers to beautify the piece.

But here, ev'n here, avoid th' extreme of such, Who with excess of care correct too much :

Whose barbarous hands no calls of pity bound,
While with th' infected parts they cut the sound,
And make the cure more dangerous than the wound;
Till, all the blood and spirits drain'd away,
The body sickens, and the parts decay;
The native beauties die, the limbs appear
Rough and deform'd with one continued scar.
No fixt determin'd number I enjoin,

But when some years shall perfect the design,
Reflect on life; and, mindful of thy span,
Whose scanty limit bounds the days of man,
Wide o'er the spacious world, without delay,
Permit the finish'd piece to take its way;
Till all mankind admires the heavenly song,
The theme of every hand and every tongue.

The sacred Muses from the Aonian shore;
Led the fair sisters to th' Hesperian plains,
And sung in Roman towns the Grecian strains;
How in his youth to woods and groves he fled,
And sweetly tun'd the soft Sicilian reed;
Next, how, in pity to th' Ausonian swains,
He rais'd to Heaven the honours of the plains;
Rapt in Triptolemus's car on high,
He scatter'd peace and plenty from the sky;
Fir'd with his country's fame, with loud alarms,
At last he rous'd all Latium up to arms;
In just array the Phrygian troops bestow'd,
And spoke the voice and language of a god.
Father of verse! from whom our honours spring;
See! from all parts, our bards attend their king;
Beneath thy banners rang'd, thy fame increase,
And rear prov proud trophies from the spoils of Greece.
Low, in Elysian fields, her tuneful throng
Bow to thy laurels, and adore thy song:

1.

On thee alone thy country turns her eyes;
On thee her poets' future fame relies.
See! how in crowds they court thy aid divine
(For all their honours but dépend on thine);
Taught from the womb thy numbers to rehearse,
And sip the balmy sweets of every verse.
Unrivall'd bard! all ages shall deere
The first unenvy'd palm of fame to thee;
Thrice happy bard! thy boundless glory ffies,
Where never mortal must attempt to rise
Such heavenly numbers in thy song we hear, he
And more than human accents charm the ear!
To thee, his darling, Phœbus' hands impart
His soul, his genius, and immortalarth
What help or merit in these rules are shown to
The youth must owe to thy support alone

sissy off and betarea vie I

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The youth, whose wandering feet with care I led
Aloft, o'er steep Parnassus' saered head;
Taught from thy great example to explore
Those arduous paths which thou hast trod before.
Hail, pride of Italy! thy country's grace!
Hail, glorious light of all the tuneful race!
For whom, we weave the crown, and altars raise;
And with rich incense bid the temples blaze;
Our solemn hymns shall still resound thy praise.
Hail, holy bard, and boundless in renown!
Thy fame, dependent on thyself alone,
Requires no song, no numbers, but thy own.
Look down propitious, and my thoughts inspire:
Warm my chaste bosom with thy sacred fi fire!
Let all thy flames with all their raptures roll,
De Deep in in my my brea breast, and kindle all my soul!

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THE

WORKS OF HORACE.

TRANSLATED BY PHILIP FRANCIS, D. D.

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