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: 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.
BOOK THE THIRD, ODE THE NINETEENTH.
The number of the vanish'd yearsThat mark each famous Grecian reign,This night, my Telephus, appearsThy solemn pleasure to explain;
Or else assiduously to dwell,In conscious eloquence elate,On those who conquer'd, those who fellAt 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 noonOf jocund thought, and festal mirth!
And one to him, for whom the feastsThis night are held with poignant[2]gust,Murena, whom his Rome investsWith 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 theBard's—the bowl ofnineHe is, in duty, bound to fill;TheMusesnumber to declineWere 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.
Yetthey, in kind and guardian care,Dreading left wild inebriate gleeWith broils disturb our light career,Would stint us to their number,three.
Away ye Prudes!—the caution wiseBecomes not this convivial hour,That every dull restraint defies,And laughs at all their frigid power.—
Thou say'st I rave;—andtruethou say'st,Nor must thou check the flowing vein,For sprightly nonsense suits him bestWhom 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 ownThe 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 pursueThe 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 thenthishour 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 drownThe 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 histhenMistress, 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 oftotalinconnexion. When the latent meaning in theconcludingverses is perspicuously paraphrased, it accounts for the Poet's preference atthatperiod, of trifling to literary subjects. These slight, and often obscure allusions, closely, and what is calledfaithfullytranslated, give a wild and unmeaning air to the Odes of Horace, which destroys their interest with theunlearnedadmirers of Poetry. To give distinct shape and form to these embryo ideas, often capable of acquiring veryinterestingform 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 toPhyllis, which will be found farther on amongst these Paraphrases. From that toLydia, so well known, and so often translated, we learn that he had a beautiful form, and was much admired by the Roman Ladies.
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 histhenMistress, 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 oftotalinconnexion. When the latent meaning in theconcludingverses is perspicuously paraphrased, it accounts for the Poet's preference atthatperiod, of trifling to literary subjects. These slight, and often obscure allusions, closely, and what is calledfaithfullytranslated, give a wild and unmeaning air to the Odes of Horace, which destroys their interest with theunlearnedadmirers of Poetry. To give distinct shape and form to these embryo ideas, often capable of acquiring veryinterestingform 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 toPhyllis, which will be found farther on amongst these Paraphrases. From that toLydia, 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 andgust;Then cry, If Man's unhappy God's unjust.”Essay on Man.
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 andgust;Then cry, If Man's unhappy God's unjust.”Essay on Man.
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 theLares, 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 breathOf the moist South shall blast our tender vine;Nor shall the lambs sink in untimely deathWhen 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 onloftyShrines 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 crownThou on our household Gods, with decent careArt gently placing; and they will not frown;Nosterndemand is theirs, that we prepareRich Flocks, and Herds, at Duty's solemn call,And, in the pomp of slaughter, bid them fall.
O! if aninnocenthand 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 mildLaresshall be grateful foundAs the proud Steer, with all his garlands crown'd.
BOOK THE FOURTH, ODE THE THIRD.
Not he, OMuse! whom thy auspicious eyesIn his primeval hour beheld,Shall victor in the Isthmian Contest rise;Nor o'er the long-resounding fieldImpetuous 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.
OMuse! who rulest each melodious layThat floats along the gilded shell,Who the mute tenant of the watry wayCanst teach, at pleasure, to excelThe softest note harmonious Sorrow brings,When the expiring Swan her own sad requiem sings.
Thine be the praise, that pointing Romans guideThe Stranger's eye, with proud desireThat well he note the Man, whom Crowds decideShould boldly string the Latian lyre.—Ah! when I charm, if still to charm be mine,Nymph of the warbling shell, be all the gloryTHINE!
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, wingTh' 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 awayWhen 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 againSilvers the vault of Night;—but no supplies,To feed their wasting fires, the lamps of Life obtain.
When our pale Form shall pensive vigils keepWhereCollins,Akenside, andShenstoneroam,Or quiet with the Despot,Johnson, sleep,In that murk cell, the Body's final home,
To senseless dust, and to a fleeting shadeChanges the life-warm Being!—Ah! who knowsIf 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 availsOur fame's high note, tho' swelling it expands!
Reflect, that each convivial joy we shareAmid encircling Friends, with grace benign,Escapes the grasp of our rapacious Heir;—Pile then the steaming board, and quaff the rosy wine!
IllustriousHayley!—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 hisMason's grief, from Death's dim plainsWas honor'dGray'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 tunefulMason, sigh in vain,And grasp a timeless, tho' alaurel'd Urn!
1: Aglaia, the eldest of the Graces.
1: Aglaia, the eldest of the Graces.
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;
When all the shining locks, that nowAdown those ivory shoulders bound,With deaden'd colour shade thy brow,And fall as from th' autumnal boughLeaves, that rude winds have scatter'd on the ground;
And on that cheek the tints, that shameMay's orient light and Summer's rose,Dim as yon taper's sullen flame,Shall, in a dusky red, proclaimThat not one hue in wonted lustre glows;
When wrinkles o'erLiguria's faceTheir daily strengthening furrows lead;When faithful mirrors cease to placeIn 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 yieldSteals pensive thro' each melting vein,The ice dissolv'd, that scorn congeal'd,And every tender thought reveal'd,Why, vanish'dBeauty, com'st notthouagain?
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 stainsTo see its foliage sprinkled o'er,When the devoted Lamb shall pourThe 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 mirthThat this[2]Love-chosen month divides;Since honor'd rose its blooming idesBy dear Mæcenas' birth.
O! not tomemy natal starSo sacred seems;—then, Nymph, prepareTo grace its smiling dawn!A wealthier Maid, in pleasing chains,Illustrious[3]Telephus detains,From humbleTHEEwithdrawn.
When Pride would daring hopes create,Of Phaeton recall the fate,Consum'd in his career!Let rash Bellerophon, who triedThe fiery Pegasus to guide,Awake thy prudent fear!
Thus warn'd, thy better interest know,And cease those charming eyes to throwOn 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 rehearseThe measures of thy Poet's verseAnd charm the list'ning Throng!Believe me, Fairest, all our caresWill soften at the melting airsThat 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.
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.
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.
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.
BOOK THE FIFTH, EPODE THE SECOND.
Thrice happy he, whose life restoresThe pleasures pure of early times;That ne'er, with anxious heart, exploresThe 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.
Not his sound and balmy sleepThe 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.
The vine-clad hill he lightly scales,Where[2]tall the frequent poplars rise,From branch to branch assiduous trailsThe 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.
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 springsMany a vessel pure he brings,In them, from all the waxen cells to drainThe fragrant essence rich of flow'ry dale and plain.
On the river's shady sideWhite 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.
Or his swelling grapes, that vieWith the fleece of Tyrian stain!Such precious gifts his grateful cares supplyTo thee, Protector of his wide domain,Bounteous Sylvanus!—and to thee,The garden's watchful Deity;Beneath your favoring power he little caresWho wields the Lictor's rod, or who the fasces bears.
In sultry noon's oppressive ray,Beneath the holme, of ample shade,His listless limbs he loves to layOn 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.
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 breaksThe gnashing Boar!—Flies he, or stands at bay,Into the circling toils the staunch dogs drive the prey.
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 flavorCrown his board, reward his labor.In those convivial hours the Heart forgetsIts vain tumultuous hopes, and all its fond regrets.
These the pleasures unalloy'd,That brighten oft the rural scene;But, if yet dearer joys supply the void,That, even there, will sometimes interveneWhen days are cold, and nights are long,And business goes a little wrong,Should an endearing faithfulWifebe seen,With the warm light of love she chases gloomy spleen.
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.
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.
Her beating heart, and gladden'd eyesPerceive him ope the wicker gate;And swift her busy hand suppliesThe 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'dFor those expensive meats, that pile the Consul's board.
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 roveNatives of Ionian grove,Can with more poignant zest his senses meetThan the love-kneaded cates of this unpurchas'd treat.
[3]To his border's guardian PowerWhen 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 seenThe 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.
Circled by a jocund train,With joy the new-shorn Flock he hearsCome bleating homeward o'er the russet plain;While slow, with languid neck, the weary SteersTh' inverted ploughshare drag along,Mindless of the Shepherd's song;Then, round his smiling Household-Gods, surveysA numerous, menial Group, the proof of prosperous days.
'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.
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 yieldThe promis'd joys of wood, and field;Against experienc'd disappointment, tryWith Gold to purchasethat, which Gold can never buy!
1: The Reader will remember, that in the course of these Paraphrases the design has beenavowedof stretching the pictures of Horace upon awidercanvass, of filling up what are so often mere outlines. If learned eyes ever glance over this Ode, it is hoped they will notfrownupon the many circumstances and reflections which have beenadded, 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, tocreatethis interest,strongerand morecircumstantialdescription 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 totheirrecollection. Inourday 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 ineveryAge, and in every Climate.ToScholarsthe 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 afaithfultranslation of these Odes cannot, therefore, be interesting tounlearnedLovers of Verse, how alive soever they may be topoetic beauty.—A literal translation in the plainest prose, will always shew the precise quantity of real poetic matter, contained inanyProduction, 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 theplenitudeof 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 toevaporatein Translation, while genuinePOETIC MATTER, as defined above, is capable of being transfused into any other Language without losing aparticleof its excellence, provided the Chemist, who undertakes the operation, has genius and skill. The more thisPOETIC MATTERin an Author abounds, the more close and faithful a Translator, who has judgment, may venture to render his version—but to transfuse merelyverbalfelicities into another Language is an attempt scarcely less fruitless than to clasp the Rainbow. A kindrednothingness, as to poeticvalue, ensues. Thereis, however, a considerable, though notaboundingquantity 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 nopredominantfeature, 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 notpicturesque, and therefore does not strongly impress the Imagination; but when he adds—“to see theweary 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 languidneck, the inverted ploughshare, that makes the sentencePoetry, 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.
1: The Reader will remember, that in the course of these Paraphrases the design has beenavowedof stretching the pictures of Horace upon awidercanvass, of filling up what are so often mere outlines. If learned eyes ever glance over this Ode, it is hoped they will notfrownupon the many circumstances and reflections which have beenadded, 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, tocreatethis interest,strongerand morecircumstantialdescription 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 totheirrecollection. Inourday 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 ineveryAge, and in every Climate.
ToScholarsthe 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 afaithfultranslation of these Odes cannot, therefore, be interesting tounlearnedLovers of Verse, how alive soever they may be topoetic beauty.—A literal translation in the plainest prose, will always shew the precise quantity of real poetic matter, contained inanyProduction, 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 theplenitudeof 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 toevaporatein Translation, while genuinePOETIC MATTER, as defined above, is capable of being transfused into any other Language without losing aparticleof its excellence, provided the Chemist, who undertakes the operation, has genius and skill. The more thisPOETIC MATTERin an Author abounds, the more close and faithful a Translator, who has judgment, may venture to render his version—but to transfuse merelyverbalfelicities into another Language is an attempt scarcely less fruitless than to clasp the Rainbow. A kindrednothingness, as to poeticvalue, ensues. Thereis, however, a considerable, though notaboundingquantity 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 nopredominantfeature, 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 notpicturesque, and therefore does not strongly impress the Imagination; but when he adds—“to see theweary 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 languidneck, the inverted ploughshare, that makes the sentencePoetry, 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 thehighestTrees produce Wines of the most exquisite flavor.
2: Dacier observes that Vines supported on thehighestTrees 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.
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.
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.
5:Ides, the middle of a month.
6:Calends, the beginning of the next month.
6:Calends, the beginning of the next month.
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 prophaneThem, 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 proveThe 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 regardCold as the snow and as the marble hard.
AndTHOU, 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.
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 veinsTheir crimson tides havesparelypour'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 towersProud Carthage emulously rears?Or Britain's still unconquer'd shores?That her fierce Sons, yet free from hostile sway,May pass in chains along ourSacred Way?
No!—but that warring Parthia's curseMay quickly blast these far-famed Walls;Accomplish'dwhen, with direful force,By herownstrength 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 pierceEach 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'dShould spread the rage of discord wide,Bid kindred Blood in dread profusion flowThro' darken'd years of expiatory woe.
1: Romulus, who killed his Brother Remus, for ridiculing his Wall by leaping over it.
1: Romulus, who killed his Brother Remus, for ridiculing his Wall by leaping over it.
FINIS.