Chapter 5

Amid my blooming orchards pleas'd I rove, Guiding the ductile course of murmuring rills; Or mark the curtains of the sacred grove Sink in the vales, or sweep along the hills. [6]Ah Friend! if round my cell such graces shine, The PALACE of Tiburnian Shades is thine; She every feature of the Scene commands, And Empress of its varied beauty stands.

Tho' frequent mists the young Favonius shroud, Bending his flagging wing with heavy rains, Yet oft he chases every showery cloud, Winnowing, with pinion light, th' aerial plains; Ah! thus from thee let each dark vapor roll, That rash Ambition gathers on the soul; The jocund Pleasures in her absence rise, Glow in the breast, and sparkle in the eyes.

And thou, MUNATIUS, whether Fate ordain The Camp thy home, with glancing javelins bright; Or if the graces of that fair domain, Umbrageous Tivoli, thy steps invite; If trumpets sound the clang that Warriors love, Or round thee trill the choirings of the grove, In flowing bowls drown every vain regret, Enjoy the PRESENT, and the PAST forget!

The walls of SALAMIS when TEUCER fled, Driven by a Parent's unrelenting frown, Hope from his spirit chas'd each anxious dread, While on his brow he bound the poplar crown; In rich libation pour'd the generous wine, Then bath'd his temples in the juice divine; And thus, with gladden'd eye, and air sedate, Address'd the drooping Followers of his fate.

“Wherever Destiny, a kinder friend Than he who gave me birth, may point the way, Thither resolv'd our duteous steps shall bend, Nor know presaging fear, nor weak delay. Doubt flies when Teucer leads, and cold despair, In Teucer's auspices, shall melt to air; Phœbus ordains that, in more favoring skies, Another prosp'rous SALAMIS shall rise.

“So much alike her fountains, fanes, and bowers, That e'en her name shall dubious meaning bear;-- Then, my lov'd Friends, who oft, in darker hours, Have shar'd with me a conflict more severe, O! let us lose in wine our sorrow's weight, And rise the masters of our future fate! This night we revel in convivial ease, To-morrow seek again the vast and pathless seas.”

1: He had twice been Consul; was of Brutus' and Cassius' party, but went over to Augustus, who received him with kind respect. However he revolted from him, persuaded by the Friends of Marc Antony, that the Battle of Actium would decree the Empire to that General. The event, so contrary, brought Munatius back to the feet of Augustus, but he was not received with former kindness, nor did he deserve it, and retired, chagrined, to his fine seat at Tivoli, in the wood of Tiburnus, so called from the neighbouring city, Tibur. There also, and near the falls of Tivoli, described at full in Mr. Gray's letters, Horace had a villa. The Poet, perceiving the spirits of Munatius dejected, writes this Ode to reconcile him to his destiny, and to inspire him with delight in the beautiful Scenery by which he was surrounded; insinuating, that should Augustus _banish_ him, which was no improbable event, he ought not to despond, but to form his conduct upon the spirited example of Teucer; who, together with his Friends and Followers, was banished from his native City, Salamis, by his Father, because he had not revenged upon the Greeks the death of his Brother Ajax.--The disinterested design of this Ode, and the humane attention it pays to a disgraced Nobleman, are much to the Poet's honor, who was perhaps, in general, more disposed to gratulate the Powerful, than to sooth the Unfortunate.

2: _Rhodes_, the Capital of an Island of the same name in the Mediterranean, and famous for the Colossal Statue.

3: _Mitylene_, the chief City of Lesbos, praised by Cicero for its advantageous situation, elegant buildings, and fertile soil.

4: Tawny Olive. It was believed that Minerva presented the seed of the olive-tree to the Athenians.

5: _Larissa_, a beautiful City, upon one of the hills in Thessaly.

6: This surely must be the Poet's meaning in mentioning his _own_ villa, when he is endeavouring to awaken in Munatius a taste for the surrounding beauties of his more magnificent seat. Commentators rationally conclude that some _connecting_ lines have been lost from the latin of this Ode. It appears to me, that the idea which those dismembered lines conveyed, must necessarily have been the comparison _added_ in the four ensuing lines, which makes the transition easy.

TO LYDIA.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE EIGHTH.

O, Lydia! I conjure thee tell Why, with persisting zeal, thou dost employ The strongest power of amorous spell On Sybaris, belov'd too well, Wounding his fame amid voluptuous joy?

Why shuns he now the noon-tide glare, Inur'd to whirling dust, and scorching heat? Ceases the Warrior-vest to wear In which he us'd, with graceful air, Aspiring Youths, all emulous, to meet?

Why is it now no more his pride To rein the ardent horse with agile arm? With new-strung sinews to divide The yellow Tyber's angry tide, When the tempestuous showers its rage alarm?

Why hates he, as the viper's gore, The Wrestler's oil, that supples every vein? Why do we see his arms no more With livid bruises spotted o'er, Of manly sports the honorable stain?

'T was his to whirl, with matchless skill, The glancing quoit, the certain javelin throw, While Crowds, with acclamations shrill, The lofty Circus joy'd to fill, And all the honors of the Day bestow.

Such fond seclusion why desire?-- Thus Thetis' care her blooming Son conceal'd, Ere yet commenc'd that Contest dire, When mournful gleam'd the funeral pyre, Thro' ten long years, on Ilium's purpled field.

In vain the female vest he wore, That Love maternal might avert his fate; Lest his spear drink the Lycian gore, Lest sinking Troy his force deplore, And DEATH with GLORY meet him at her gate.

TO [1]THALIARCHUS.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE NINTH.

In dazzling whiteness, lo! Soracte towers, As all the mountain were one heap of snow! Rush from the loaded woods the glittering showers; The frost-bound waters can no longer flow.

Let plenteous billets, on the glowing hearth, Dissolve the ice-dart ere it reach thy veins; Bring mellow wines to prompt convivial mirth, Nor heed th' arrested streams, or slippery plains.

High Heaven, resistless in his varied sway, Speaks!--The wild elements contend no more; Nor then, from raging seas, the foamy spray Climbs the dark rocks, or curls upon the shore.

And peaceful then yon aged ash shall stand; In breathless calm the dusky cypress rise; To-morrow's destiny the Gods command, To-day is thine;--enjoy it, and be wise!

Youth's radiant tide too swiftly rolls away; Now, in its flow, let pleasures round thee bloom; Join the gay dance, awake the melting lay, Ere hoary tresses blossom for the tomb!

Spears, and the Steed, in busy camps impel; And, when the early darkness veils the groves, Amid the leafless boughs let whispers steal, While frolic Beauty seeks the near alcoves.

Soft as thy tip-toe steps the mazes rove, A laugh, half-smother'd, thy pleas'd ear shall meet, And, sportive in the charming wiles of love, Betray the artifice of coy retreat;

And then the ring, or, from her snowy arm, The promis'd bracelet may thy force employ; Her feign'd reluctance, height'ning every charm, Shall add new value to the ravish'd toy.

1: This Ode was probably written at the Country Seat of that Nobleman, near the mountain Soracte, in Tuscany, twenty-six miles from Rome.

TO LEUCONOE.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE ELEVENTH.

LEUCONOE, cease presumptuous to inquire Of grave Diviner, if successive years Onward shall roll, ere yet the funeral pyre, For thee and me, the hand of Friendship rears! Ah rather meet, with gay and vacant brow, Whatever youth, and time, health, love, and fate allow;

If _many_ winters on the naked trees Drop in our sight the paly wreaths of frost, Or this for us the _last_, that from the seas Hurls the loud flood on the resounding coast.-- Short since thou know'st the longest vital line, Nurse the _near_ hope, and pour the rosy wine.

E'en while we speak our swiftly-passing Youth Stretches its wing to cold Oblivion's shore; Then shall the Future terrify, or sooth, Whose secrets no vain foresight can explore? The Morrow's faithless promise disavow, And seize, thy only boast, the GOLDEN NOW.

TO APOLLO.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE THIRTY-FIRST.

What asks the POET, when he pours His first libation in the Delphic Bowers? Duteous before the altar standing, With lively hope his soul expanding, O! what demands he, when the crimson wine Flows sparkling from the vase, and laves the golden shrine?

Not the rich and swelling grain That yellows o'er Sardinia's isle; Nor snowy herds, slow winding thro' the plain, When warm Calabria's rosy mornings smile; Nor gold, nor gems, that India yields, Nor yet those fair and fertile fields, Which, thro' their flow'ry banks as calm he glides, The silent [1]Liris' azure stream divides.

Let those, for whom kind fortune still Leads lavish tendrils o'er the sloping hill, Let such, with care their vineyard dressing, Their bursting grapes assiduous pressing, Gather, self-gratulant, the costly store, And of the future year propitious suns implore!

May luscious wines, in cups of gold, Oft for the wealthy Merchant flow! Nor let cold Thrift those plenteous draughts withhold That prosperous Commerce shall again bestow. The flowing bowl he safely drains, Since every favouring God ordains That more than [2]once, within the circling year, His prow shall o'er the smooth Atlantic steer.

_Me_, let tawny olives feed! _Me_, lenient mallows from the simple mead! Son of Latona, grant the blessing, That, a cloudless mind possessing, And not infirm of frame, in soft decay, Cheer'd by the breathing lyre, my life may pass away!

1: _Liris_--a beautiful river of remarkably placid current. It rises near Sora, a city of Latium, which it divides from Campania.

2: The Poet deems it a peculiar mark of the favor of the Deities when the Merchant is enabled safely to make repeated voyages in one year through hazardous seas.

TO HIS ATTENDANT.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE THIRTY-EIGHTH.

Boy, not in these Autumnal bowers Shalt thou the Persian Vest dispose, Of artful fold, and rich brocade; Nor tie in gaudy knots the sprays and flowers. Ah! search not where the latest rose Yet lingers in the sunny glade; Plain be the vest, and simple be the braid! I charge thee with the myrtle wreath Not one resplendent bloom entwine; We both become that modest band, As stretch'd my vineyard's ample shade beneath, Jocund I quaff the rosy wine; While near me thou shalt smiling stand, And fill the sparkling cup with ready hand.

TO SALLUST.

BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE SECOND.

Dark in the Miser's chest, in hoarded heaps, Can Gold, my SALLUST, one true joy bestow, Where sullen, dim, and valueless it sleeps, Whose worth, whose charms, from circulation flow? Ah! _then_ it shines attractive on the thought, Rises, with such resistless influence fraught As puts to flight pale Fear, and Scruple cold, Till Life, e'en Life itself, becomes less dear than Gold.

Rome, of this power aware, thy honor'd name O Proculeius! ardently adores, Since thou didst bid thy ruin'd Brothers claim A filial right in all thy well-earn'd stores.-- To make the _good_ deed deathless as the _great_, Yet fearing for her plumes [1]Icarian fate, This Record, Fame, of precious trust aware, Shall long, on cautious wing, solicitously bear.

And thou, my SALLUST, more complete thy sway, Restraining the insatiate lust of gain, Than should'st thou join, by Conquest's proud essay, Iberian hills to Libya's sandy plain; Than if the Carthage sultry Afric boasts, With that which smiles on Europe's lovelier coasts, Before the Roman arms, led on by thee, Should bow the yielding head, the tributary knee.

See bloated Dropsy added strength acquire As the parch'd lip the frequent draught obtains; Indulgence feeds the never-quench'd desire, That loaths the viand, and the goblet drains. Nor could exhausted floods the thirst subdue Till that dire Cause, which spreads the livid hue O'er the pale Form, with watry languor swell'd, From the polluted veins, by medicine, be expell'd.

Virtue, whate'er the dazzled Vulgar dream, Denies Phraätes, seated on thy throne, Immortal Cyrus, Joy's internal gleam, And thus she checks the Crowd's mistaken tone; “He, only he, who, calmly passing by, Not once shall turn the pure, unwishing eye On heaps of massy gold, that near him glare, My amaranthine wreath, my diadem shall wear.”

1: _Penna metuente solvi_ must surely be allusive to the dissolving pinions of Icarus--and mean, that deeds of private generosity are apt to melt from the recollection of mankind; while those of what is called heroic exertion go down to Posterity. For this idea of the passage the Translator was indebted to a learned Friend.

TO THE HON. THOMAS ERSKINE.

HORACE, BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE THIRD, IMITATED.

OCTOBER 1796.

Conscious the mortal stamp is on thy breast, O, ERSKINE! still an equal mind maintain, That wild Ambition ne'er may goad thy rest, Nor Fortune's smile awake thy triumph vain,

Whether thro' toilsome tho' renowned years 'T is thine to trace the Law's perplexing maze, Or win the SACRED SEALS, whose awful cares To high decrees devote thy honor'd days.

Where silver'd Poplars with the stately Pines Mix their thick branches in the summer sky, And the cool stream, whose trembling surface shines, Laboriously oblique, is hurrying by;

There let thy duteous Train the banquet bring, In whose bright cups the liquid ruby flows, As Life's warm season, on expanded wing, Presents her too, too transitory rose;

While every Muse and Grace auspicious wait, As erst thy Handmaids, when, with brow serene, Gay thou didst rove where Buxton views elate A golden Palace deck her savage scene[1].

At frequent periods woo th' inspiring Band Before thy days their summer-course have run, While, with clos'd shears, the fatal Sisters stand, Nor aim to cut the brilliant thread they spun.

Precarious Tenant of that gay Retreat, Fann'd by pure gales on Hampstead's airy downs, Where filial troops for thee delighted wait, And their fair Mother's smile thy banquet crowns!

Precarious Tenant!--shortly thou may'st leave These, and propitious Fortune's golden hoard; Then spare not thou the stores, that shall receive, When set thy orb, a less illustrious Lord.

What can it then avail thee that thy pleas Charm'd every ear with TULLY's periods bland? Or that the subject Passions they could seize, And with the thunder of the GREEK command?

What can it then avail thee that thy fame Threw tenfold lustre on thy noble Line? Since neither birth, nor self-won glory, claim One hour's exemption from the sable shrine.

E'en now thy lot shakes in the Urn, whence Fate Throws her pale edicts in reverseless doom! Each issues in its turn, or soon, or late, And lo! the great Man's prize!--a SILENT TOMB!

1: The Author had the pleasure of passing a fortnight with Mr. and Mrs. Erskine at Buxton in August 1796.

TO BARINE.

BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE EIGHTH.

BARINE, to thy always broken vows Were slightest punishment ordain'd; Hadst thou less charming been By one grey hair upon thy polish'd brows; If but a single tooth were stain'd, A nail discolour'd seen, Then might I nurse the hope that, faithful grown, The FUTURE might, at length, the guilty PAST atone.

But ah! no sooner on that perjur'd head, With pomp, the votive wreaths are bound, In mockery of truth, Than lovelier grace thy faithless beauties shed; Thou com'st, with new-born conquest crown'd, The care of all our Youth, Their _public_ care;--and murmur'd praises rise Where'er the beams are shot of those resistless eyes.

Thy Mother's buried dust;--the midnight train, Of silent stars,--the rolling spheres, Each God, that list'ning bows, With thee it prospers, false-One! to profane. The Nymphs attend;--gay Venus hears, And all deride thy vows; And Cupid whets afresh his burning darts On the stone, moist with blood, that dropt from wounded hearts.

For thee our rising Youth to Manhood grow, Ordain'd thy powerful chains to wear; Nor do thy former Slaves From the gay roof of their false Mistress go, Tho' sworn no more to linger there; Triumphant BEAUTY braves The wise resolve;--and, ere they reach the door, Fixes the faltering step to thy magnetic floor.

_Thee_ the sage Matron fears, intent to warn Her Striplings;--_thee_ the Miser dreads, And, of thy power aware, Brides from the Fane with anxious sighs return, Lest the bright nets thy beauty spreads, Their plighted Lords ensnare, Ere fades the marriage torch; nay even now, While undispers'd the breath, that form'd the nuptial vow!

[1]TO TITUS VALGIUS.

BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE NINTH.

Not ceaseless falls the heavy shower That drenches deep the furrow'd lea; Nor do continual tempests pour On the vex'd [2]Caspian's billowy sea; Nor yet the ice, in silent horror, stands Thro' _all_ the passing months on pale [3]Armenia's Lands.

Fierce storms do not for _ever_ bend The Mountain's vast and labouring oak, Nor from the ash its foliage rend, With ruthless whirl, and widowing stroke; But, Valgius, thou, with grief's eternal lays Mournest thy vanish'd joys in MYSTES' shorten'd days.

When [4]Vesper trembles in the west, Or flies before the orient sun, Rise the lone sorrows of thy breast.-- Not thus did aged Nestor shun Consoling strains, nor always sought the tomb, Where sunk his [5]filial Hopes, in life and glory's bloom.

Not thus, the lovely Troilus slain, His Parents wept the Princely Boy; Nor thus his Sisters mourn'd, in vain, The blasted Flower of sinking Troy; Cease, then, thy fond complaints!--Augustus' fame, The new Cesarian wreaths, let thy lov'd voice proclaim!

So shall the listening World be told [6]Medus, and cold Niphates guide, With all their mighty Realms controul'd, Their late proud waves in narrower tide; That in scant space their steeds the [7]Scythians rein, Nor dare transgress the bounds our Victor Arms ordain.

1: This Ode is addressed to his Friend, an illustrious Roman, who had lost a beloved Son. The poetic literature of Titus Valgius is ascertained by the honourable mention made of him by Horace, in his Tenth Satire, Book the First. Valgius, like Sir Brooke Boothby, in these days, had poured forth a train of elegiac Sorrows over the blight of his filial hopes. Horace does not severely reprove these woes, he only wishes they may not be eternal, and that he will, at least, suspend them and share the public joy; for this Ode was composed while the splendid victories, which Augustus had obtained in the East, were recent.

2: The _Caspian_ is a stormy and harbourless Sea--Yet the Poet observes that not even the _Caspian_ is _always_ tempestuous--insinuating, that inevitable as his grief must be for such a loss, it yet ought not to be incessant.

3: The coldness of _Armenia_ is well known, surrounded as it is by the high mountains of _Niphates_, _Taurus_, _Pariades_, _Antiaurus_, and _Ararat_, which are always covered with snow.

4: VESPER--alike the Evening and Morning Star--appearing _first_ and remaining last in the Horizon, it ushers in both the Evening and the Dawn. In the first instance it is called Vesper, or Hesperus, in the last Lucifer, or Phospher.

5: _Filial Hopes._ Antilochus, the Son of Nestor, observing his Father likely to fall in Battle, by the sword of his Adversary, threw himself between the Combatants, and thus sacrificed his own life to preserve that of his Parent.

6: By the Rivers _Medus_, and _Niphates_, are meant the _Parthians_, or _Scythians_, for they are the same people, and the _Armenians_. The River Tigris, rising in the cold Mountain, Niphates, Horace gives its name to the Stream, as he does that of Medus to the Euphrates, which Plato asserts to have been formerly so called. Uniting those Rivers in his verse, the Poet means to denote the Roman Conquest over two Enemies widely distant from each other.

7: The Scythians, or Parthians, were a warlike People, famous for their Equestrian prowess, for the speed of their horses, and for the unerring aim of their arrows, shot when flying on full speed. Augustus obliged their King, Phraätes, not only to restore the Roman Standards and Prisoners, taken many years before, but to withdraw his Troops from Armenia.

TO LICINIUS MURENA[1].

BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE TENTH.

Not always, dear Licinius, is it wise On the main Sea to ply the daring Oar; Nor is it safe, from dread of angry Skies, Closely to press on the insidious Shore. To no excess discerning Spirits lean, They feel the blessings of the golden mean; They will not grovel in the squalid cell, Nor seek in princely domes, with envied pomp, to dwell.

The pine, that lifts so high her stately boughs, Writhes in the storms, and bends beneath their might, Innoxious while the loudest tempest blows O'er trees, that boast a less-aspiring height. As the wild fury of the whirlwind pours, With direst ruin fall the loftiest towers; And 't is the mountain's _summit_ that, oblique, From the dense, lurid clouds, the baleful lightnings strike.

A mind well disciplin'd, when Sorrow lours, Not sullenly excludes Hope's smiling rays; Nor, when soft Pleasure boasts of lasting powers, With boundless trust the Promiser surveys. It is the same dread Jove, who thro' the sky Hurls the loud storms, that darken as they fly; And whose benignant hand withdraws the gloom, And spreads rekindling light, in all its living bloom.

To-day the Soul perceives a weight of woe;-- A brighter Morrow shall gay thoughts inspire. Does [2]Phœbus always bend the vengeful bow? Wakes he not often the harmonious lyre? Be thou, when Danger scowls in every wave, Watchful, collected, spirited, and brave; But in the sunny sky, the flattering gales, Contract, with steady hand, thy too expanded sails.