Chapter 6

1: Licinius Murena was a Patrician of high rank, one of the Brothers of Proculeius, whose fraternal generosity is celebrated in the Ode to Sallust, the ninth of these Paraphrases. The property of Licinius had been confiscated for having borne arms against the second Triumvirate. Upon this confiscation Proculeius divided two thirds of that large fortune, with which the Emperor had rewarded his valor and fidelity in the royal cause, between Licinius, and his adopted Brother, Terentius, whose fortunes had suffered equal wreck on account of the Party he had taken. Horace wrote this Ode soon after the affectionate bounty of Proculeius had restored his Friend to affluence. It breathes a warning spirit towards that turbulent, and ambitious temper, which Horace perceived in this young Nobleman. The Poet, however, has used great address and delicacy, making the reflections not particular but general; and he guards against exciting the soreness People feel from reprehension for their prevailing fault, by censuring with equal freedom the opposite extreme. That kind caution insinuated in this Ode, proved eventually vain, as did also the generosity of the Emperor, who soon after permitted Licinius to be chosen Augur;--probably at the intercession of his Favorite Mæcenas, who had married Terentia, a Daughter of that House, and whom Horace calls Licinia in the Ode which is next paraphrased. Upon the election of Licinius to this post of honor, trust, and dignity, we perceive the spirits of Horace greatly elevated; probably as much from the pleasure he knew Mæcenas would take in the promotion of his Brother-in-law, as from the attachment himself bore to Licinius. A peculiar air of hilarity shines out in the Ode addressed to Telephus, written the evening on which this Licinius, then newly chosen Augur, gave his first supper to his Friends. The Reader will find it somewhat lavishly paraphrased in the course of this Selection. By the _above_ Ode the Poet seems to have feared the seditious disposition of Licinius:--but when he afterwards strung his lyre to notes of triumph for the honors of his Friend, he little imagined _that_ Friend would finally suffer death for ungratefully conspiring against the Monarch, who had so liberally overlooked his former enmity.

2: Epidemic Diseases were, by the Pagans, believed to be the effect of having offended Apollo. The arrows he shoots among the Greeks in the first Book of the Iliad, produce the Pestilence, which follows the rape of his Priest's Daughter, Chryseis. When we consider the dependence of the human constitution upon the temperate, or intemperate influence of the Sun, the avenging bow of Phœbus appears an obvious allegory;--and since it is in the hours of health that the fine Arts are sought and cultivated, the Sun, under the name of Phœbus, Apollo, &c. is with equal propriety of fable, supposed their Patron, as well as the Avenger of crimes by the infliction of diseases.

[1]TO MÆCENAS.

BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE TWELFTH.

Mæcenas, I conjure thee cease To wake my harp's enamour'd strings To tones, that fright recumbent Peace, That Pleasure flies on rapid wings!

Slow conquest on Numantia's plain, Or Hannibal, that dauntless stood, Tho' thrice he saw Ausonia's main Redden with Carthaginian blood;

The Lapithæ's remorseless pride, Hylæus' wild inebriate hours; The Giants, who the Gods defied, And shook old Saturn's splendid towers;

These, dear Mæcenas, _thou_ should'st paint, Each glory of thy Cæsar's reign, In eloquence, that scorns restraint, And sweeter than the Poet's strain;

Show captive Kings, who from the fight Drag at his wheels their galling chain, And the pale lip indignant bite With mutter'd vengeance, wild and vain.

Enraptur'd by Licinia's grace, My Muse would these high themes decline, Charm'd that the heart, the form, the face Of matchless Excellence is thine.

Ah, happy Friend! for whom an eye, Of splendid, and resistless fire, Lays all its pointed arrows by, For the mild gleams of soft desire!

With what gay spirit does she foil The Pedant's meditated hit! What happy archness in her smile! What pointed meaning in her wit!

Her cheek how pure a crimson warms, When with the Nymphs, in circling line, Bending she twines her snowy arms, And dances round Diana's shrine[2]!

Mæcenas, would'st not thou exchange The treasures gorgeous Persia pours, The wealth of Phrygia's fertile range, Or warm Arabia's spicy shores,

For one light ringlet of the hair, Which shades thy sweet Licinia's face, In that dear moment when the Fair, In flying from thy fond embrace,

Relenting turns her snowy neck, To meet thy kisses half their way, Or when her feign'd resentments check The ardors thy warm lips convey?

While in her eyes the languid light Betrays a yielding wish to prove, Amid her coy, yet playful flight, The pleasing force of fervent Love;

Or when, in gaily-frolic guise, She snatches her fair self the kiss, E'en at the instant she denies Her Lover the requested bliss.

1: Of that artful caution, which marks the character of Horace, this Ode forms a striking instance. He declines the task appointed by his Patron, that of describing the Italian Wars, because he foresees that in its execution he must either disoblige the Emperor, and his Minister, by speaking too favorably of their Enemies, or offend some Friends, whom he yet retained amongst those, who had exerted themselves against the Cæsars. Horace endeavours to soften the effect of this non-compliance by a warm panegyric upon Licinia, the betrothed bride of Mæcenas. She is in other places called Terentia. Both these names have affinity to those of her Brothers, Licinius, afterwards Augur, and her adopted Brother, Terentius.

Horace mentions _plainly_ the Numantian Wars, and those with Hannibal, but artfully speaks of those of Brutus, and Cassius, and of the Character of Antony, under _fabulous_ denomination, sufficiently understood by Augustus, and his Minister. Dacier justly observes how easy it is to discern, that by the Lapithæ, and Giants, defeated by Hercules on the plains of Thessaly, the Poet means the Armies of Brutus, and Cassius, defeated by Augustus, almost in the same place, at the Battle of Philippi. He concludes also that by Hylæus is meant Mark Antony, who assumed the name of Bacchus, and ruined himself by his profligate passion for Cleopatra. Another Commentator observes, that as the Giants, and Lapithæ, are said to have made the Palace of Saturn shake, so also did Brutus, and Cassius, and afterwards Mark Antony, make all Italy tremble, and that it is Rome itself that Horace would have to be understood by the _magnificent Palace of Saturn_. Some Critics seek to destroy all the common sense, beauty, and character of this Ode, by denying the allegoric interpretation; and also by insisting that Licinia was the Poet's _own_ Mistress, and not the mistress of his Patron. It had been absurd, and inconceivably unmeaning, if, when he was requested to sing the triumphs of Augustus in the Italian Wars, he should, during the brief mention of them, have adverted to old fables, uniting them, not as a simile, but in a line of continuation with the Numantian, and Carthaginian Wars; unless, beneath those fables, he shadowed forth the _Roman_ Enemies of Augustus.

The idea that Licinia was the Mistress of Horace, has surely little foundation:--for it were strange indeed if he could take pleasure in describing amorous familiarities between Mæcenas, and the Person with whom _himself_ was in love. One of these Critics alledges, as the reason why this Lady could _not_ be the destined Bride of _Mæcenas_, that it would have been as indiscreet in _him_ to have admitted Horace to be a witness of his passion for Licinia-Terentia, as it would have been impertinent in the _Poet_, to have invaded the privacies of his Patron. It is not necessary, from this Ode, to conclude that Horace had _witnessed_ the tender scene he describes. He might, without any hazard of imputed impertinence, venture to paint, from his imagination, the innocently playful endearments of betrothed Lovers. The picture was much more likely to _flatter_ than to _disgust_ the gay, and gallant Mæcenas.

2: The Roman Ladies, according to ancient custom, danced with entwined arms, around the Altar of Diana, on the day of her Festival.

TO POSTHUMUS.

BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE FOURTEENTH.

Alas! my Posthumus, the Years Unpausing glide away; Nor suppliant hands, nor fervent prayers, Their fleeting pace delay; Nor smooth the brow, when furrowing lines descend, Nor from the stoop of Age the faltering Frame defend.

Time goads us on, relentless Sire! On to the shadowy Shape, that stands Terrific on the funeral pyre, Waving the already kindled brands.-- Thou canst not slacken this reluctant speed, Tho' still on Pluto's shrine thy Hecatomb should bleed.

Beyond the dim Lake's mournful flood, That skirts the verge of mortal light, He chains the Forms, on earth that stood Proud, and gigantic in their might; That gloomy Lake, o'er whose oblivious tide Kings, Consuls, Pontiffs, Slaves, in ghastly silence glide.

In vain the bleeding field we shun, In vain the loud and whelming wave; And, as autumnal winds come on, And wither'd leaves bestrew the cave, Against their noxious blast, their sullen roar, In vain we pile the hearth, in vain we close the door.

The universal lot ordains We seek the black Cocytus' stream, That languid strays thro' dreary plains, Where cheerless fires perpetual gleam; Where the fell Brides their fruitless toil bemoan, And Sisyphus uprolls the still-returning stone.

Thy tender wife, thy large domain, Soon shalt thou quit, at Fate's command; And of those various trees, that gain Their culture from thy fost'ring hand, The Cypress only shall await thy doom, Follow its short-liv'd Lord, and shade his lonely tomb!

TO LYCE,

ON HER REFUSING TO ADMIT HIS VISITS.

BOOK THE THIRD, ODE THE TENTH.

Now had you drank cold Tanais' wave, Whose streams the drear vale slowly lave, A barbarous Scythian's Bride, Yet, Lyce, might you grieve to hear Your Lover braves the winds severe, That pierce his aching side.

O listen to the howling groves, That labour o'er your proud alcoves, And hear the jarring door! Mark how the star, at eve that rose, Has brightly glaz'd the settled snows, While every leaf is hoar!

Gay Venus hates this cold disdain;-- Cease then its rigors to maintain, That sprightly joys impede, Lest the strain'd cord, with which you bind The freedom of my amorous mind, In rapid whirl recede!

Born of a jocund Tuscan Sire, Did he transmit his ardent fire That, like Ulysses' Queen, His beauteous Daughter still should prove Relentless to the sighs of Love, With frozen heart and mien?--

If nor blue cheek of shivering Swain, Nor yet his richest gifts obtain Your smile, and soft'ning brow; Nor if a faithless Husband's rage For a gay Syren of the stage, And broken nuptial vow;

If weak e'en _Jealousy_ should prove To bend your heart to truer love, Yet pity these my pains, O Nymph, than oaks more hard, and fierce As snakes, that Afric's thickets pierce, Those terrors of the plains!

When heavy falls the pattering shower, And streaming spouts their torrents pour Upon my shrinking head, Not always shall wild Love command These limbs obsequiously to stand Beneath your dropping shed.

[1]TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BLANDUSIA.

BOOK THE THIRD, ODE THE THIRTEENTH.

Nymph of the stream, whose source perpetual pours The living waters thro' the sparkling sand, Cups of bright wine, enwreath'd with summer flowers, For rich libation, round thy brink shall stand, When on the morrow, at thy Bard's decree, A young and spotless Kid is sacrificed to thee.

He, while his brows the primal antlers swell, Conscious of strength, and gay of heart prepares To meet the female, and the foe repel.-- In vain he wishes, and in vain he dares! His ardent blood thy pebbly bed shall stain, Till each translucent wave flows crimson to the plain.

In vain shall Sirius shake his fiery hairs O'er thy pure flood, with waving poplars veil'd, For thou, when most his sultry influence glares, Refreshing shade, and cooling draughts shalt yield To all the flocks, that thro' the valley stray, And to the wearied steers, unyok'd at closing day.

Now dear to Fame, sweet Fountain, shalt thou flow, Since to my lyre those breathing shades I sing That crown the hollow rock's incumbent brow, From which thy soft, loquacious waters spring. To vie with streams Aonian be thy pride, As thro' Blandusia's Vale thy silver currents glide!

1: It was common with the Ancients to consecrate Fountains by a sacrifice, and vinous libations, poured from goblets crowned with flowers. Lively imaginations glow over the idea of such a beautiful ceremony.

[1]TO TELEPHUS.

BOOK THE THIRD, ODE THE NINETEENTH.

The number of the vanish'd years That mark each famous Grecian reign, This night, my Telephus, appears Thy solemn pleasure to explain;

Or else assiduously to dwell, In conscious eloquence elate, On those who conquer'd, those who fell At sacred Troy's devoted gate.

But at what price the cask, so rare, Of luscious chian may be ours, Who shall the tepid baths prepare, And who shall strew the blooming flowers;

Beneath what roof we next salute, And when shall smile these gloomy skies, Thy wondrous eloquence is mute, Nor here may graver topics rise.--

Fill a bright bumper,--to the Moon! She's new!--auspicious be her birth! One to the Midnight!--'t is our noon Of jocund thought, and festal mirth!

And one to him, for whom the feasts This night are held with poignant [2]gust, MURENA, whom his Rome invests With solemn honors, sacred trust!

Kind omens shall his voice convey, That may each rising care beguile; Propitious fled the Birds to-day? Will Love be ours, and Fortune smile?--

Arrange the cups of various size, The least containing bumpers three, And nine the rest.--Come, no disguise! Nor yet constraint, the choice is free!

All but the BARD's--the bowl of _nine_ He is, in duty, bound to fill; The _Muses_ number to decline Were treason at Aonia's hill.

For here the Sisters shall preside, So they allow us leave to laugh; Unzon'd the Graces round us glide, While we the liquid ruby quaff.

Yet _they_, in kind and guardian care, Dreading left wild inebriate glee With broils disturb our light career, Would stint us to their number, _three_.

Away ye Prudes!--the caution wise Becomes not this convivial hour, That every dull restraint defies, And laughs at all their frigid power.--

Thou say'st I rave;--and _true_ thou say'st, Nor must thou check the flowing vein, For sprightly nonsense suits him best Whom grave reflection leads to pain.

Why mute the pipe's enlivening note? Why sleeps the charming lyre so long? O! let their strains around us float, Mix'd with the sweet and jocund song!

And lavish be the roses strewn! Ye flutes, ye lyres, exulting breathe! The festal Hour disdains to own The mournful note, the niggard wreath.

Old Lycon, with the venal Fair, Who courts yet hates his vile embrace, Our lively strains shall muttering hear, While Envy pales each sullen face:

THOU, with thy dark luxuriant hair, Thou, Telephus, as Hesper bright, Thou art accomplish'd Chloe's care, Whose glance is Love's delicious light.

Thy utmost wish the Fair-One crowns, And thy calm'd heart may well pursue The paths of knowledge;--Lyce frowns, And I, distasteful, shun their view.

From themes, that wake the powers of mind, The wounded Spirit sick'ning turns; To those be then _this_ hour consign'd, That Mirth approves, tho' Wisdom spurns.

They shall disarm my Lyce's frown, The frolic jest, the lively strain, In flowing bowls, shall gaily drown The memory of her cold disdain.

1: At the feast, held in honor of Licinius Murena having been chosen Augur, Horace endeavours to turn the conversation towards gayer subjects than Grecian Chronology, and the Trojan War, upon which his Friend Telephus had been declaiming; and for this purpose seems to have composed the ensuing Ode at table. It concludes with an hint, that the unpleasant state of the Poet's mind, respecting his _then_ Mistress, incapacitates him for abstracted themes, which demand a serene and collected attention, alike inconsistent with the amorous discontent of the secret heart, and with the temporary exhilaration of the spirits, produced by the occasion on which they were met. This must surely be the meaning of Horace in this Ode, however obscurely expressed. People of sense do not, even in their gayest conversation, start from their subject to another of _total_ inconnexion. When the latent meaning in the _concluding_ verses is perspicuously paraphrased, it accounts for the Poet's preference at _that_ period, of trifling to literary subjects. These slight, and often obscure allusions, closely, and what is called _faithfully_ translated, give a wild and unmeaning air to the Odes of Horace, which destroys their interest with the _unlearned_ admirers of Poetry. To give distinct shape and form to these embryo ideas, often capable of acquiring very _interesting_ form and shape, is the aim of these Paraphrases.

Telephus, who was a Greek, appears to have been a Youth of noble birth--being mentioned as such in the Ode to PHYLLIS, which will be found farther on amongst these Paraphrases. From that to LYDIA, so well known, and so often translated, we learn that he had a beautiful form, and was much admired by the Roman Ladies.

2: The Translator was doubtful about using that word, till she recollected it in the gravest of Pope's Poems,

“Destroy all creatures for thy sport and _gust_; Then cry, If Man's unhappy God's unjust.” ESSAY ON MAN.

TO PHIDYLE.

EXHORTING HER TO BE CONTENT WITH A FRUGAL SACRIFICE.

BOOK THE THIRD, ODE THE TWENTY-THIRD.

My Phidyle, retir'd in shady wild, If thou thy virgin hands shalt suppliant raise, If primal fruits are on thy altars pil'd, And incense pure thy duteous care conveys, To sooth the LARES, when the moon adorns, With their first modest light, her taper horns;

And if we pierce the throat of infant swine, A frugal victim, not the baleful breath Of the moist South shall blast our tender vine; Nor shall the lambs sink in untimely death When the unwholesome gales of Autumn blow, And shake the ripe fruit from the bending bough.

Let snowy Algidum's wide vallies feed, Beneath their stately holme, and spreading oak, Or the rich herbage of Albania's mead, The Steer, whose blood on _lofty_ Shrines shall smoke! Red may it stain the Priest's uplifted knife, And glut the higher Powers with costly life!

The rosemary and myrtle's simple crown Thou on our household Gods, with decent care Art gently placing; and they will not frown; No _stern_ demand is theirs, that we prepare Rich Flocks, and Herds, at Duty's solemn call, And, in the pomp of slaughter, bid them fall.

O! if an _innocent_ hand approach the shrine, The little votive cake it humbly lays, The crackling salt, that makes the altar shine, Flung on the cheerful sacrificial blaze, To the mild LARES shall be grateful found As the proud Steer, with all his garlands crown'd.

TO MELPOMENE.

BOOK THE FOURTH, ODE THE THIRD.

Not he, O MUSE! whom thy auspicious eyes In his primeval hour beheld, Shall victor in the Isthmian Contest rise; Nor o'er the long-resounding field Impetuous steeds his kindling wheels shall roll, Gay in th' Olympic Race, and foremost at the goal.

Nor in the Capitol, triumphant shown, The victor-laurel on his brow, For Cities storm'd, and vaunting Kings o'erthrown;-- But Tibur's streams, that warbling flow, And groves of fragrant gloom, resound his strains, Whose sweet Æolian grace high celebration gains.

Now that his name, her noblest Bards among, Th' imperial City loudly hails, That proud distinction guards his rising song, When Envy's carping tongue assails; In sullen silence now she hears his praise, Nor sheds her canker'd spots upon his springing bays.

O MUSE! who rulest each melodious lay That floats along the gilded shell, Who the mute tenant of the watry way Canst teach, at pleasure, to excel The softest note harmonious Sorrow brings, When the expiring Swan her own sad requiem sings.

Thine be the praise, that pointing Romans guide The Stranger's eye, with proud desire That well he note the Man, whom Crowds decide Should boldly string the Latian lyre.-- Ah! when I charm, if still to charm be mine, Nymph of the warbling shell, be all the glory THINE!

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esq.

BOOK THE FOURTH, ODE THE SEVENTH, IMITATED.

The snows dissolve, the rains no more pollute, Green are the sloping fields, and uplands wide, And green the trees luxuriant tresses shoot, And, in their daisied banks, the shrinking rivers glide.

Beauty, and Love, the blissful change have hail'd, While, in smooth mazes, o'er the painted mead, [1]Aglaia ventures, with her limbs unveil'd, Light thro' the dance each Sister-Grace to lead.

But O! reflect, that Sport, and Beauty, wing Th' unpausing Hour!--if Winter, cold and pale, Flies from the soft, and violet-mantled Spring, Summer, with sultry breath, absorbs the vernal gale.

Reflect, that Summer-glories pass away When mellow Autumn shakes her golden sheaves; While she, as Winter reassumes his sway, Speeds, with disorder'd vest, thro' rustling leaves.

But a short space the Moon illumes the skies; Yet she repairs her wanings, and again Silvers the vault of Night;--but no supplies, To feed their wasting fires, the lamps of Life obtain.

When our pale Form shall pensive vigils keep Where COLLINS, AKENSIDE, and SHENSTONE roam, Or quiet with the Despot, JOHNSON, sleep, In that murk cell, the Body's final home,

To senseless dust, and to a fleeting shade Changes the life-warm Being!--Ah! who knows If the next dawn our eye-lids may pervade? Darken'd and seal'd, perchance, in long, and last repose!

When vivid Thought's unceasing force assails, It shakes, from Life's frail glass, the ebbing sands; Their course run out, ah! what to us avails Our fame's high note, tho' swelling it expands!

Reflect, that each convivial joy we share Amid encircling Friends, with grace benign, Escapes the grasp of our rapacious Heir;-- Pile then the steaming board, and quaff the rosy wine!

Illustrious HAYLEY!--in that cruel hour, When o'er thee Fate the sable flag shall wave, Not thy keen wit, thy fancy's splendid power, Knowledge, or worth, shall snatch thee from the grave.

Not to his MASON's grief, from Death's dim plains Was honor'd GRAY's departed form resign'd; No tears dissolve the cold Lethean chains, That, far from busy Life, the mortal semblance bind.

Then, for the bright creations of the brain, O! do not thou from health's gay leisure turn, Lest we, like tuneful MASON, sigh in vain, And grasp a timeless, tho' a LAUREL'D URN!

1: Aglaia, the eldest of the Graces.

TO LIGURIA.

BOOK THE FOURTH, ODE THE TENTH.

O thou! exulting in the charms, Nature, with lavish bounty, showers, When youth no more thy spirit warms, And stealing age thy pride alarms, For fleeting graces, and for waning powers;