Chapter 7

When all the shining locks, that now Adown those ivory shoulders bound, With deaden'd colour shade thy brow, And fall as from th' autumnal bough Leaves, that rude winds have scatter'd on the ground;

And on that cheek the tints, that shame May's orient light and Summer's rose, Dim as yon taper's sullen flame, Shall, in a dusky red, proclaim That not one hue in wonted lustre glows;

When wrinkles o'er LIGURIA's face Their daily strengthening furrows lead; When faithful mirrors cease to place In her charm'd sight each blooming grace, And will no more her heart's proud triumph feed;

Then the chang'd Maid, with secret shame, Shall thus the past, and present chide; O! why, amid the loud acclaim, That gave my rising charms to Fame, Swell'd this coy bosom with disdainful pride?

Or why, since now the wish to yield Steals pensive thro' each melting vein, The ice dissolv'd, that scorn congeal'd, And every tender thought reveal'd, Why, vanish'd BEAUTY, com'st not _thou_ again?

TO PHYLLIS.

INVITING HER TO CELEBRATE THE BIRTHDAY OF MÆCENAS.

BOOK THE FOURTH, ODE THE ELEVENTH.

Sweet Phyllis, leave thy quiet home, For lo! the ides of April come! Then hasten to my bower; A cask of rich Albanian wine, In nine years mellowness, is mine, To glad the festal hour.

My garden-herbs, in fragrance warm, Our various chaplets wait to form; My tender ivies grow, That, twining in thy amber hair, Add jocund spirit to thine air, And whiteness to thy brow.

My walls with silver vessels shine; Chaste vervain decks the modest shrine, That longs with crimson stains To see its foliage sprinkled o'er, When the devoted Lamb shall pour The treasure of his veins.

The household Girls, and menial Boy, From room to room assiduous fly, And busy hands extend; Our numerous fires are quivering bright, And, rolling from their pointed height, The dusky wreaths ascend[1].

Convivial rites, in mystic state, Thou, lovely Nymph, shalt celebrate, And give the day to mirth That this [2]Love-chosen month divides; Since honor'd rose its blooming ides By dear Mæcenas' birth.

O! not to _me_ my natal star So sacred seems;--then, Nymph, prepare To grace its smiling dawn! A wealthier Maid, in pleasing chains, Illustrious [3]Telephus detains, From humble THEE withdrawn.

When Pride would daring hopes create, Of Phaeton recall the fate, Consum'd in his career! Let rash Bellerophon, who tried The fiery Pegasus to guide, Awake thy prudent fear!

Thus warn'd, thy better interest know, And cease those charming eyes to throw On Youths of high degree! Come then, of all my Loves the last, For, every other passion past, I only burn for thee!

Come, and with tuneful voice rehearse The measures of thy Poet's verse And charm the list'ning Throng! Believe me, Fairest, all our cares Will soften at the melting airs That deck the lyric song.

1: The Romans made fires in the middle of their rooms, with an hole in the ceiling, to let out the smoke, which is described as rolling to the top of the House.

2: The feast of Venus was held by the Romans in April.

3: It is agreed that this is the same young Nobleman, to whom the Ode is addressed, on Licinius being appointed Augur, and which has been paraphrased in this Collection.

[1]ON THE PLEASURES OF RURAL LIFE.

BOOK THE FIFTH, EPODE THE SECOND.

I.

Thrice happy he, whose life restores The pleasures pure of early times; That ne'er, with anxious heart, explores The rugged heights Ambition climbs; Exempt from all the din, the toil, the care, That Cities for their busy Sons prepare; Fatigue, beneath the name of pleasure, Contentious law, usurious treasure, A tedious mean attendance on the Great, And emulation vain of all their pomp and state.

II.

Not his sound and balmy sleep The trumpet's martial warning breaks; Nor the loud billows of the angry Deep, When thro' the straining cords the Tempest shrieks; But the Morning's choral lay, Chanted wild from every spray. Swift at the summons flies the wilder'd dream, And up he springs alert, to meet the orient beam.

I.

The vine-clad hill he lightly scales, Where [2]tall the frequent poplars rise, From branch to branch assiduous trails The pendent clusters rich supplies; And cautious prunes the weak, the useless shoot, Engrafting healthier boughs, that promise fruit.-- Then his arms serenely folding, And the smiling scene beholding, Marks, as the fertile valley winds away, His Flocks and lowing Herds, in ample numbers stray.

II.

Then to the warm bank below, Yellow with the morning-ray, And sees his shelter'd hives in even row, And hears their hum mix with the linnet's lay. Recent from the crystal springs Many a vessel pure he brings, In them, from all the waxen cells to drain The fragrant essence rich of flow'ry dale and plain.

I.

On the river's shady side White his gather'd flock appears, And, plung'd into the flashing tide, Their curl'd and snowy fleece he shears; But when, 'mid laughing fields diffusive spread, Majestic Autumn rears her placid head, Wreath'd with wheaten garlands yellow, Bearing various fruitage mellow, How gladly from the trees, that loaded stand, Shakes he the ripen'd pears, engrafted by his hand.

II.

Or his swelling grapes, that vie With the fleece of Tyrian stain! Such precious gifts his grateful cares supply To thee, Protector of his wide domain, Bounteous Sylvanus!--and to thee, The garden's watchful Deity; Beneath your favoring power he little cares Who wields the Lictor's rod, or who the fasces bears.

I.

In sultry noon's oppressive ray, Beneath the holme, of ample shade, His listless limbs he loves to lay On herbage, matted in the glade; Hears down the steeps the white rills dashing play, Till under the long grass they purl away; While, on wing of swift vibration, Murmuring range the honied nation, And the sweet stock-dove, the thick boughs among, His dewy slumber courts with her complaining song.

II.

Loud when wintry winds arise, And the feeble race appal, While o'er the earth, from dim and thicken'd skies, The flaky snows in white profusion fall, Then the sylvan chase he seeks;-- Lo! furious from the thicket breaks The gnashing Boar!--Flies he, or stands at bay, Into the circling toils the staunch dogs drive the prey.

I.

When thro' the clear, and sparkling air, Fleet the pointed darts of frost, The filmy nets, now here, now there, For thievish birds, are lightly toss'd; Or, plac'd with silent heed, the wily snares, To lure the stranger-cranes, and timid hares. Rich viands they, whose pleasing flavor Crown his board, reward his labor. In those convivial hours the Heart forgets Its vain tumultuous hopes, and all its fond regrets.

II.

These the pleasures unalloy'd, That brighten oft the rural scene; But, if yet dearer joys supply the void, That, even there, will sometimes intervene When days are cold, and nights are long, And business goes a little wrong, Should an endearing faithful _Wife_ be seen, With the warm light of love she chases gloomy spleen.

I.

As the Sabine Matron chaste, Active as th' Apulian Wife, See she assumes, with cheerful haste, The pleasing cares of wedded life; Draws the clean vestment o'er the little limbs, And, when the tearful eye of passion swims, With mild authority commanding, Repressing ill, and good expanding, Anxious she weeds the infant heart betimes, Ere ill propension thrive, and ripen into crimes.

II.

Dusky grows the winter-eve, In hurdled cotes the flocks are penn'd; Her vessels pure the frothing milk receive, As from swell'd udders its full streams descend. Bright the crackling faggots blaze, While she strains the eager gaze, O'er the dim vale to see her Husband come, With tir'd, yet willing step, to his warm, happy home.

I.

Her beating heart, and gladden'd eyes Perceive him ope the wicker gate; And swift her busy hand supplies The flowing bowl, the steaming plate; Her sparkling wine from their own vintage press'd; From their own stores her grateful viand dress'd; Less welcome far the proud collation, Cull'd with painful preparation, When earth, and air, and seas, have been explor'd For those expensive meats, that pile the Consul's board.

II.

Not the shell-fish, pampering food! Of Lucrine's azure lake the boast; Nor luscious product of the eastern flood, Driven by the stormy winds upon our coast; Nor costly birds, that hither rove Natives of Ionian grove, Can with more poignant zest his senses meet Than the love-kneaded cates of this unpurchas'd treat.

I.

[3]To his border's guardian Power When he spreads the vernal feast. Then bleeds the kid, in lucky hour, From the hungry wolf releas'd[4]; Then round the primal lamb's sweet flesh is seen The crisp salubrious herbage of the green; And, from loaded boughs descending, Unctuous olives richly blending;-- These form the dainties of his festal day, When every heart expands, and every face is gay.

II.

Circled by a jocund train, With joy the new-shorn Flock he hears Come bleating homeward o'er the russet plain; While slow, with languid neck, the weary Steers Th' inverted ploughshare drag along, Mindless of the Shepherd's song; Then, round his smiling Household-Gods, surveys A numerous, menial Group, the proof of prosperous days.

I.

'T was thus, amidst his ill-got wealth, The Roman Usurer justly thought, Resolv'd to purchase peace and health, And live, at length, as Nature taught; No more with subtle avarice to lend, Oppressive foe beneath the name of friend! Now grasping views, for once, rejected, He on the [5]Ides his sums collected, But on the [6]Calends, lo! with anxious pain, On the same interest vast, he sends them forth again.

II.

Thus can lust of gold controul, Tho' the Heart urge a wiser choice, By force of habit lord it o'er the Soul, And stifle e'en Conviction's powerful voice. See, with sighs the Miser yield The promis'd joys of wood, and field; Against experienc'd disappointment, try With Gold to purchase _that_, which Gold can never buy!

1: The Reader will remember, that in the course of these Paraphrases the design has been _avowed_ of stretching the pictures of Horace upon a _wider_ canvass, of filling up what are so often mere outlines. If learned eyes ever glance over this Ode, it is hoped they will not _frown_ upon the many circumstances and reflections which have been _added_, upon a presumption, induced by the pleasing nature of the subject, since the Roman customs and manners are preserved with fidelity. Those customs and manners, resulting from their festal, gay, and picturesque Religion, cannot surely be presented without proving interesting. Yet, to _create_ this interest, _stronger_ and more _circumstantial_ description seems required than can be found in Horace, if the Paraphraser may be allowed to judge of the poetic feelings of others by her own. It was doubtless sufficient for his contemporary Readers, and for those of some succeeding Generations, that he slightly alluded to events and ceremonies, which were familiar to _their_ recollection. In _our_ day more precision is demanded, at least by those who have poetic taste without knowledge of the dead languages, or intimacy with the national and domestic customs of that Time, and of that People. Also, to strengthen this necessary interest in the mind of the Reader, it must be eligible to infuse a more liberal portion of those sentiments and ideas, which speak to the Heart in _every_ Age, and in every Climate.

To _Scholars_ the fascinating music of the Latin tones and measures, and the elegance with which Horace knew to select, and to regulate them, recompense the obscurity which is so frequent in his allusions, and in the violence of his transitions from one subject to another, between which the line of connexion is with difficulty traced. What is called a _faithful_ translation of these Odes cannot, therefore, be interesting to _unlearned_ Lovers of Verse, how alive soever they may be to _poetic beauty_.--A literal translation in the plainest prose, will always shew the precise quantity of real poetic matter, contained in _any_ Production, independent of the music of its intonation, and numbers, and the elegance of its style.--The prose translations of Horace' Odes evince that their merit does not consist in the _plenitude_ of poetic matter, or essence, constituted by circumstances of startling interest, by exalted sentiment, impassioned complaint, or appeal, distinct and living imagery, happy apposite allusion, and sublime metaphor; but in certain elegant verbal felicities and general charm of style, produced by the force and sweetness of the Latin Language, subservient to the fine ear, the lively and exquisite taste of Horace. These are the graces which we find so apt to _evaporate_ in Translation, while genuine POETIC MATTER, as defined above, is capable of being transfused into any other Language without losing a _particle_ of its excellence, provided the Chemist, who undertakes the operation, has genius and skill. The more this POETIC MATTER in an Author abounds, the more close and faithful a Translator, who has judgment, may venture to render his version--but to transfuse merely _verbal_ felicities into another Language is an attempt scarcely less fruitless than to clasp the Rainbow. A kindred _nothingness_, as to poetic _value_, ensues. There _is_, however, a considerable, though not _abounding_ quantity of poetic matter, or essence in Horace; but it bears no proportion to the profusion of those evanescent glories, which will not bear the grasp of another Language. To give that essence in increased quantity, and in the freedom of unimitative numbers, is attempted in this selection. Dryden and Pope translated upon that plan, and hence their Paraphrases have the spirit of original Poems.

Ere this note closes, its Author desires to observe, that Painters cannot take a striking likeness of a face, in which there is no _predominant_ feature, and the Poet can only make his image, or description, distinct, animated, and forcible, by bringing forward some characteristic trait of the object he is presenting.

When Horace says in this Ode, “How pleasing is it to see the well-fed sheep hastening home,” the observation is not _picturesque_, and therefore does not strongly impress the Imagination; but when he adds--“to see the _weary Oxen dragging, with languid neck, the inverted Ploughshare_,” he gives perhaps the most poetic feature in this Ode. Had he only said, “to see the Oxen returning from their labor,” his Oxen had been as much without character as his Sheep, and the sentence must have passed unimpressive over the mind of the Reader. It is the words--_dragging, with languid_ neck, the inverted ploughshare, that makes the sentence _Poetry_, and empowers it to arrest and charm the fancy. Had Horace always written thus, undeviating fidelity had been the best aim of his Translator, and the sure way of rendering him delightful in every Language.

2: Dacier observes that Vines supported on the _highest_ Trees produce Wines of the most exquisite flavor.

3: The feast of Terminus, one of the rural Gods, was held on the first of February, at which time, in those warm climates, the spring is very forward.

4: The Romans fancied that the struggle and terror of a kid on being seized by the Wolf, made its flesh more tender.

5: _Ides_, the middle of a month.

6: _Calends_, the beginning of the next month.

TO NEAĒRA.

BOOK THE FIFTH, EPODE THE FIFTEENTH.

'T was night--the moon, upon her sapphire throne, High o'er the waning stars serenely shone, When thou, false Nymph, determin'd to prophane Them, and each Power that rules the earth, and main, As thy soft, snowy arms about me twin'd, Close as round oaks the clasping ivies wind, Swore, while the gaunt wolf shall infest the lea, And red Orion vex the wintry sea, While gales shall fan Apollo's floating locks, That shed their golden light o'er hills and rocks, So long thy breast should burn with purest fires, With mutual hopes, and with unchang'd desires.

Perjur'd Neaēra! thou shalt one day prove The worth, the vengeance of my slighted love; For O! if Manhood steels, if Honor warms, Horace shall fly, shall scorn thy faithless charms; Seek some bright Maid, whose soul for him shall glow, Nor art, nor pride, nor wandering wishes know.

Then should'st thou languish, sigh, and weep once more, And with new vows his injur'd heart implore, Nor sighs, nor vows, nor tears shall he regard Cold as the snow and as the marble hard.

And THOU, triumphant Youth, so gay, so vain, Proud of my fate, exulting in my pain, Tho' on thy hills the plenteous Herd should feed, And rich Pactolus roll along thy mead; For thee tho' Science ope the varied store, And Beauty on thy form its graces pour, Ere long shalt thou, while wrongs like these degrade, Droop with my woes, and with my rage upbraid; See on a Rival's brow thy garlands worn, And, with her falsehood, bear my jocund scorn.

TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE,

ON THEIR RENEWING THE CIVIL WARS.

BOOK THE FIFTH, ODE THE SEVENTH.

Where do ye rush, ye impious Trains, Why gleams afar the late-sheath'd sword? Is it believ'd that Roman veins Their crimson tides have _sparely_ pour'd? Is not our scorn of safety, health, and ease, Shewn by devasted climes, and blood-stain'd seas?

Those scowling brows, those lifted spears, Bend they against the threat'ning towers Proud Carthage emulously rears? Or Britain's still unconquer'd 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; _Accomplish'd_ 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 phrenzy 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!

The blood our rising walls that stain'd, Shed by the [1]ruthless Fratricide, High Heaven's avenging power ordain'd Should spread the rage of discord wide, Bid kindred Blood in dread profusion flow Thro' darken'd years of expiatory woe.

1: Romulus, who killed his Brother Remus, for ridiculing his Wall by leaping over it.

_FINIS._