SONNET LXXVII.

1: In jargon, like the following, copied from aReview, are the works of Genius perpetually criticized in our public Prints: “Passion has not sufficient coolness to pause for metaphor, nor has metaphor ardor enough to keep pace with passion.”—Nothing can be less true. Metaphoric strength of expression will burst even from vulgar and illiterate minds when they are agitated. It is a natural effort of roused sensibility in every gradation, from unlettered simplicity to the highest refinement. Passion has no occasion topausefor metaphors, theyrushupon the mind which it has heated. Similies, it is true, are not natural to strong emotion.Theyare the result of spirits that are calm, and at leisure tocompare.

2: This idea is from a speech of Mr. Burke's, recorded by Boswell.

O! hast thou seen a vernal Morning brightGem every bank and trembling leaf with dews,Tinging the green fields with her amber hues,Changing the leaden streams to lines of light?Then seen dull Clouds, that shed untimely night,Roll envious on, and every ray suffuse,Till the chill'd Scenes their early beauty lose,And faint, and colourless, no more inviteThe glistening gaze of Joy?—'Twas emblem justOf my youth's sun, on which deep shadows fell,Spread from thepall of Friends; and Grief's loud gustResistless, oft wou'd wasted tears compel:Yet let me hope, that on my darken'd daysScience, and pious Trust, may shed pervading rays.

Sophia tempts me to her social walls,That 'mid the vast Metropolis arise,Where Splendor dazzles, and each Pleasure viesIn soft allurement; and each Science callsTo philosophic Domes, harmonious Halls,And[1]storied Galleries. With duteous sighs,Filial and kind, and with averted eyes,I meet the gay temptation, as it fallsFrom a seducing pen.—Here—here I stay,Fix'd by Affection's power; nor entertainOne latent wish, that might persuade to strayFrom my ag'd Nurseling, in his life's dim wane;But, like the needle, by the magnet's sway,My constant, trembling residence maintain.

1: “And storied windows richly dight.”—Il Penseroso.

While unsuspecting trust in all that wearsVirtue's bright semblance, stimulates my heartTo find its dearest pleasures in the partTaken in other's joys; yielding to theirsIts own desires, each latent wish that bearsThe selfish stamp, O! let me shun the artTaught by smooth Flattery in her courtly mart,Where Simulation's studied smile ensnares!Scorn that exterior varnish for the Mind,Which, while it polishes themanners, veilsIn showy clouds thesoul.—E'en thus we findGlass, o'er whose surface clear the pencil steals,Grown less transparent, tho' with colours gay,Sheds but the darken'd and ambiguous ray.

As lightens the brown Hill to vivid greenWhen juvenescent April's showery SunLooks on its side, with golden glance, at Noon;So on the gloom of Life's now faded sceneShines the dear image of those days serene,From Memory's consecrated treasures won;The days that rose, ere youth, and years were flown,Soft as the morn of May;—and well I weenIf they had clouds, in Time's alembic clearThey vanish'd all, and their gay vision glowsIn brightness unobscur'd; and now they wearA more than pristine sunniness, which throwsThose mild reflected lights that soften care,Loss of lov'd Friends, and all the train of Woes.

ON A LOCK OF MISS SARAH SEWARD'S HAIRWHO DIED IN HER TWENTIETH YEAR.

My Angel Sister, tho' thy lovely formPerish'd in Youth's gay morning, yet is mineThis precious Ringlet!—still the soft hairs shine,Still glow the nut-brown tints, all bright and warmWith sunny gleam!—Alas! each kindred charmVanish'd long since; deep in the silent shrineWither'd to shapeless Dust!—and of their graceMemory alone retains the faithful trace.—Dear Lock, had thy sweet Owner liv'd, ere nowTime on her brow had faded thee!—My careScreen'd from the sun and dew thy golden glow;And thus her early beauty dost thou wear,Thouallof that fair Frame my love cou'd saveFrom the resistless ravage of theGrave!

From a riv'd Tree, that stands beside the graveOf the Self-slaughter'd, to the misty MoonCalls the complaining Owl in Night's pale noon;And from a hut, far on the hill, to raveIs heard the angry Ban-Dog. With loud waveThe rous'd and turbid River surges down,Swoln with the mountain-rains, and dimly shownAppals the Sense.—Yet see! from yonder cave,Her shelter in the recent, stormy showers,With anxious brow, a fond expecting MaidSteals towards the flood!—Alas!—for now appearsHer Lover's vacant boat!—the broken oarsRoll down the tide!—What images invade!Aghast she stands, the Statue of her fears!

ON CATANIA AND SYRACUSESWALLOWED UP BY EARTHQUAKE.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF FILACAJA.

Here, from laborious Art, proudTowns, ye rose!Here, in an instant, sunk!—nor ought remainsOf all ye were!—on the wide, lonely plainsNot e'en a stone, that might these words disclose,“Here stoodCatania;”—or whose surface showsThat this wasSyracuse:—but louring reignsA tracklessDESOLATION.—Dim Domains!Pale, mournful Strand! how oft, with anxious throes,Seek I sad relics, which no spot supplies!—ASilence—a fix'dHorrorsears my soul,Arrests my foot!—DreadDoomof human crimes,What art thou?—Ye o'erwhelmed Cities, rise!That your terrific skeletons may scowlPortentous warning to succeeding Times!

While one sere leaf, that parting Autumn gilds,Trembles upon the thin, and naked spray,November, dragging on his sunless day,Lours, cold and fallen, on the watry fields;And Nature to the waste dominion yields,Stript her last robes, with gold and purple gay.—So droops my life, of your soft beams despoil'd,Youth, Health, and Hope, that long exulting smil'd;And the wild carols, and the bloomy huesOf merry Spring-time, spruce on every plainHer half-blown bushes, moist with sunny rain,More pensive thoughts in my sunk heart infuseThan Winter's grey, and desolate domain,Faded, like my lost Youth, that no bright Spring renews.

TO MARCH.

March, tho' the Hours of promise with bright rayMay gild thy noons, yet, on wild pinion borne,Loud Winds more often rudely wake thy morn,And harshly hymn thy early-closing day.Still the chill'd Earth wears, with her tresses shorn,Her bleak, grey garb:—yet not forthiswe mourn,Nor, as in Winter's more enduring sway,With festal viands, and Associates gay,Arm 'gainst the Skies;—norshunthe piercing gale;But, with blue cheeks, and with disorder'd hair,Meet its rough breath;—and peep for primrose pale,Or lurking violet, under hedges bare;And, thro' long evenings, from our Lares[1]claimThe thrift of stinted grate, and sullen flame.

1: Lares, Hearth-Gods.

TO THE LAKE OF KILLARNEY[1].

Pride of Ierne's Sea-encircled bound,Rival of all Britannia's Naiads boast,Magnificent Killarney!—from thy coastTho' mountains rise with noblest woods embrown'd;Tho' ten-voiced Echos send the cannon's soundIn thunders bursting the vast rocks around,Till startled Wonder and Delight exhaustIn countless repercussion—Isles embostUpon thy liquid glass; their bloomy veilSorbus and ārbutus;—yet not for theeSo keenly wakes our local ecstacy,As o'er the narrow, barren, silent Dale,Where deeply sleeps, rude circling Rocks among,The Love-devoted Fount enamour'dPetrarchsung.

1: This Sonnet was written on having read a description of the Killarney Scenery immediately after that of the Vale of Vaucluse, uncultivated and comparatively desert as the latter has been through more than the present Century.

TO A YOUNG LADY,ADDRESSED BY A GENTLEMAN CELEBRATED FOR HIS POETIC TALENTS.

Round Cleon's brow the Delphic laurels twine,And lo! the laurel decks Amanda's breast!Charm'd shall he mark its glossy branches shineOn that contrasting snow; shall see express'dLove's better omens, in the green hues dress'dOf this selected foliage.—Nymph, 't is thineThe warning story on its leaves to find,Proud Daphne's fate, imprison'd in its rind,And with its umbrage veil'd, great Phœbus' powerScorning, and bent, with feet of wind, to foilHis swift pursuit, till on Thessalian shoreShot into boughs, and rooted to the soil.—Thus warn'd, fair Maid, Apollo's ire to shun,Soon may his Spray's andVotary's lot be one.

THE PROSPECT A FLOODED VALE.

The three following Sonnets are written in the character of Werter; the sentiments and images chiefly, but notintirelytaken from one of his letters.

Up this bleak Hill, in wintry Night's dread hour,With mind congenial to the scene, I come!To see my Valley in the lunar gloom,To see itwhelm'd.—Amid the cloudy lourGleams the cold Moon;—and shows the ruthless powerOf yon swoln Floods, that white with turbid foamRoll o'er the fields;—and, billowy as they roam,Against the bushes beat!—A Vale no more,A troubled Sea, toss'd by the furious Wind!—Alas! the wild and angry Waves effacePathway, and hedge, and bank, and stile!—I findBut one wide waste of waters!—In controulThus dire, to tides of Misery and DisgraceLove opes the flood-gates of my struggling Soul.

SUBJECT CONTINUED.

Yon late but gleaming Moon, in hoary lightShines out unveil'd, and on the cloud's dark fleeceRests;—but her strengthen'd beams appear to increaseThe wild disorder of this troubled Night.Redoubling Echos seem yet more to exciteThe roaring Winds and Waters!—Ah! why ceaseResolves, that promis'd everlasting peace,And drew my steps to this incumbent height?I wish!—I shudder!—stretch my longing armsO'er the steep cliff!—My swelling spirits braveThe leap, that quiets all these dire alarms,And floats me tossing on the stormy wave!But Oh! what roots my feet?—what spells, what charmsThe daring purpose of my Soul enslave?

SUBJECT CONTINUED.

My hour is not yet come!—these burning eyesHave not yet look'd theirlast!—else, 'mid the roarOf this wildStorm, what gloomy joy to pourMy freed, exhaling Soul!—sublime to rise,Rend the conflicting clouds, inflame the skies,And lash the torrents!—Bending to exploreOur evening seat, my straining eye once moreRoves the wide watry Waste;—but nought descriesSave the pale Flood, o'erwhelming as it strays.Yet Oh! lest my remorseless Fate decreeThat all I love, with life's extinguish'd raysSink from my soul, to soothe this agony,To balm that life, whose loss may forfeit thee,Come dear remembrance of departed Days!

On the fleet streams, the Sun, that late arose,In amber radiance plays;—the tall young grassNo foot hath bruis'd;—clear Morning, as I pass,Breathes the pure gale, that on the blossom blows;And, as with gold yon green hill's summit glows,The lake inlays the vale with molten glass.—Now is the Year's soft youth;—yet me, alas!Cheers not as it was wont;—impending woesWeighon my heart;—the joys, that once were mine,Spring leads not back;—and those that yet remainFade while she blooms.—Each hour more lovely shineHer crystal beams, and feed her floral Train;But ah with pale, and waning fires, declineThose eyes, whose light my filial hopes sustain.

Behold that Tree, in Autumn's dim decay,Stript by the frequent, chill, and eddying Wind;Where yet some yellow, lonely leaves we findLingering and trembling on the naked spray,Twenty, perchance, for millions whirl'd away!Emblem, alas! too just, of Humankind!VainManexpects longevity, design'dFor few indeed; and their protracted dayWhat is it worth that Wisdom does not scorn?The blasts of Sickness, Care, and Grief appal,That laid the Friends in dust, whose natal mornRose near their own;—and solemn is the call;—Yet, like those weak, deserted leaves forlorn,Shivering they cling to life, and fear to fall!

Yon soft Star, peering o'er the sable cloud,Sheds its[1]green lustre thro' the darksome air.—Haply in that mild Planet's crystal sphereLive the freed Spirits, o'er whose timeless shroudSwell'd my lone sighs, my tearful sorrows flow'd.They, of these long regrets perhaps aware,View them with pitying smiles.—O! then, if e'erYour guardian cares may be on me bestow'd,For the pure friendship of our youthful days,Ere yet ye soar'd from earth, illume my heart,That roves bewilder'd in Dejection's night,And lead it back to peace!—as now ye dart,From your pellucid mansion, the kind rays,That thro' misleading darkness stream so bright.

1: The lustre of the brightest of the Stars always appeared to me of a green hue; and they are so described by Ossian.

All is not right with him, who ill sustainsRetirement's silent hours.—Himself he flies,Perchance from that insipid equipoise,Which always with the hapless mind remainsThat feels no native bias; never gainsOne energy of will, that does not riseFrom some external cause, to which he hiesFrom his own blank inanity.—When reigns,With a strong,cultur'dmind, this wretched hateTo commune with himself, from thought that tellsOf some lost joy, or dreaded stroke of FateHe struggles to escape;—or sense that dwellsOn secret guilt towards God, or Man, with weightThrice dire, the self-exiling flight impels.

On the damp margin of the sea-beat shoreLonely at eve to wander;—or reclin'dBeneath a rock, what time the rising windMourns o'er the waters, and, with solemn roar,Vast billows into caverns surging pour,And back recede alternate; while combin'dLoud shriek the sea-fowls, harbingers assign'd,Clamorous and fearful, of the stormy hour;To listen with deep thought those awful sounds;Gaze on the boiling, the tumultuous waste,Or promontory rude, or craggy moundsStaying the furious main, delight has castO'er my rapt spirit, and my thrilling heart,Dear as the softer joys green vales impart.

The breathing freshness of the shining Morn,Whose beams glance yellow on the distant fields,A sweet, unutterable pleasure yieldsTo my dejected sense, that turns with scornFrom the light joys of Dissipation born.Sacred Remembrance all my bosom shieldsAgainst each glittering lance she gaily wields,Warring with fond Regrets, that silent mournThe Heart's dear comforts lost.—But,Nature, thou,Thou art resistless still;—and yet I weenThy present balmy gales, and vernal blow,ToMemoryowe the magic of their scene;For with such fragrant breath, such orient rays,Shone the soft mornings of my youthful days.

TO A COFFIN-LID.

Thou silent Door of our eternal sleep,Sickness, and pain, debility, and woes,All the dire train of ills Existence knows,Thou shuttest outFOR EVER!—Why then weepThis fix'd tranquillity,—so long!—so deep!In a dearFather's clay-cold Form?—where roseNo energy, enlivening Health bestows,Thro' many a tedious year, that us'd to creepIn languid deprivation; while the flameOf intellect, resplendent once confess'd,Dark, and more dark, each passing day became.Now that angelic lights theSoulinvest,Calm let me yield totheea joyless Frame,Thou silent Door of everlasting Rest.

Lichfield, March 1790.

Since my griev'd mind some energy regains,Industrious habits can, at times, repressThe weight of filial woe, the deep distressOf life-long separation; yet its pains,Oft do they throb along these fever'd veins.—My rest has lost its balm, the fond caressWont the dear aged forehead to impressAt midnight, as he slept;—nor now obtainsMy uprising the blest news, that cou'd impartJoy to the morning, when its dawn had broughtSome health to that weak Frame, o'er which my heartWith fearful fondness yearn'd, and anxious thought.—Time, and theHopethat robs the mortal DartOf its fell sting, shall cheer me—as they ought.

ON THE VIOLENT THUNDER STORMS.

DECEMBER 1790.

RemorselessWinter! in thy iron reignComes the loud whirlwind, on thy pinion borne;Thelong longnight,—the tardy, leaden morn;The grey frost, riv'ling lane, and hill, and plain;Chill silent snows, and heavy, pattering rain.These are thyknownallies;—and Life forlorn,Yet patient, droops, nor breathes repinings vain;But now, Usurper, thou hast madly tornFrom Summer's hand his stores of angry sway;His rattling thunders with thy winds unite,On thy pale snows those livid lightnings play,That pour their deathful splendors o'er his night,To poise the pleasures of his golden day,Soft gales, blue skies, and long-protracted light.

WRITTEN DECEMBER 1790.

Lyre of the Sonnet, that full many a timeAmus'd my lassitude, and sooth'd my pains,When graver cares forbade thelengthen'dstrains,To thy brief bound, and oft-returning chimeA long farewell!—the splendid forms of RhymeWhen Grief in lonely orphanism reigns,Oppress the drooping Soul.—Death's dark domainsThrow mournful shadows o'er the Aonian clime;For in their silent bourne my filial bandsLie all dissolv'd;—and swiftly-wasting pourFrom my frail glass of life, health's sparkling sands.Sleep then, myLyre, thy tuneful tasks are o'er,Sleep! for my heart bereav'd, and listless handsWake with rapt touch thy glowing strings no more!

Flower

Translations scrupulously faithful are apt to be stiff, vapid and obscure, from the often irreconcilably different nature of languages, from local customs, and from allusions to circumstances over which time has drawn a veil. In attempting to put the most admired and interesting of Horace's Odes into English Verse, I have taken only the Poet's general idea, frequently expanding it, to elucidate the sense, and to bring the images more distinctly to the eye; induced by the hope of thus infusing into these Paraphrases the spirit of original composition. Neither have I scrupled to follow the example of Dryden and Pope, by sometimes adding ideas and imagery congenial to the subject, and thus to translate Horace like a Poet, rather than a Versifier.

The trust, whether partial or not, that it was in my powersoto paraphrase the Odes of Horace, prompted the late Mr. Grove of Lichfield, and the late Mr. Dewes of Wellsburn in Warwickshire, to request that I would undertake the task respecting those whose subjects best pleased me. Not acquainted with each other, the coincidence of their opinion and request was flattering. They were extensively known to be Gentlemen of distinguished virtues, much classic erudition, and poetic taste;

“Blest with each talent, and each art to please,And born to write, converse, and live at ease.”

Mr. Dewes was the highly esteemed Friend of Dr. Parr, Mr. Grove of Lord Sheffield. A beautiful epitaph in verse, written by Mr. Grove, on his beloved Wife, is one of the chief ornaments of Lichfield Cathedral.

The imitation of the Ode to Delius, applied to Mr. Erskine, was written since the lamented death of those Gentlemen, which happened in the meridian of their days. All the other Paraphrases had been submitted to their revision and correction, and had been honoured by their warm praise. That consciousness makes me indifferent to the expected cavils of illiberal criticism.

Men of letters have often observed to me, that in paraphrasing Horace, my sex would be an unpardonable crime with every Pedant, whether within, or without the pale of professional criticism. It is not in their power to speak or write more contemptuously of my Horatian Odes than the Critics of Dryden's and Pope's time, in the literary journals of that Period, wrote of their Translations from Homer, Virgil, Horace, Boccace, and Chaucer. Instances of thatpublic abuseare triumphantly inserted by Warburton in his Edition of Pope's works. See Appendix to the Dunciad. It is re-published there, to justify some of the personal severities of Pope's celebrated Satire.

Most of the notes to the ensuing Paraphrases are addressed to their unlearned Readers, since no allusion can interest which is not perfectly comprehended.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE FIRST.

Mæcenas, from Etrurian Princes sprung,For whom my golden lyre I strung,Friend, Patron, Guardian of its rising song,O mark the Youth, that towers along,With triumph in his air;Proud of Olympic dust, that soilsHis burning cheek and tangled hair!Mark how he spreads the palm, that crown'd his toils!Each look the throbbing hope revealsThat his fleet steeds and kindling wheels,Swept round the skilfully-avoided goal,Shall with illustrious Chiefs his echo'd name enrol.

Who the civic crown obtains,Or bears into his granaries largeThe plenteous tribute of the Libyan Plains;Or he, who watches still a rural charge,O'er his own fields directs the plough,Sees his own fruitage load the bough;These would'st thou tempt to brave the faithless main,And tempt with regal wealth, thy effort should be vain.

The stormy South howls thro' the sullen cloud,Contending billows roar aloud!The Merchant sees the gathering danger rise,And sends a thousand yearning sighsTo his dear shelter'd home.—Its shades receive him;—but the tidesGrow smooth;—the wild winds cease to roam;And see!—his new-trimm'd vessel gaily rides!—Fir'd with the hope of wealth, once moreHe quits, so hardly gain'd, the shore;Watches, with eager eye, th' unfurling sail,Nor casts one look behind to the safe, sylvan vale.

[1]The youth of gay, luxurious taste,Breaks, in the ārbutus' soft shade,The precious day with interrupting feast;Or quaffs, by some clear fountain in a glade,The mellow wine of ruby gleam,While in vain the purer streamCourts him, as gently the green bank it laves,To blend th' enfevering draught with its pellucid waves.

Th' uplifted trumpet, and the clarion, send,Confus'd, the mingled clang afar;Lo! while the Matron's tender breast they rend,Her Soldier hails that din of war.—The wood-landChasedesired,Far other sounds the Hunter charms;By the enlivening shout inspired,He breaks from his young Bride's encircling arms;Nor heeds the morning's wintry gale,While his deep-mouth'd hounds inhaleThe tainted breeze, or hold the stag at bay,Or while, from his strong toils, the wild boar bursts away.

[2]Theebright Learning's ivy crownExalts above a mortal fate;Meshady Groves, light Nymphs, and Satyrs brown,Raise o'er the Crowd, in sweet sequester'd state.And there is heard the Lesbian lute,And there Euterpe's Dorian flute;But, should'st thou rank me with thelyric Choir,ToGlory's starry heights thy Poet would aspire.—

1: The Romans, in general, made no regular meal till the business of the day was over. They considered a mid-day feast as a mark of indolence and luxury.

2: “Diis miscent superis.] A manner of expression not unusual amongst the Greeks and Latins, for any eminent degree of happiness. Unless we adopt this explanation of the words, says Dacier, we shall make Horace guilty of a manifest contradiction, since a few lines farther he tells his Patron, thathis suffrage, not theivy crownis that, which will exalt him to the skies. The judicious emendation of the late Bishop of Chichester, who forMe doctarum, readsTe doctarum, removes all objection; and adds beauty to the Ode by the fine compliment it contains to Mæcenas.”Brom. Hor.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE FIFTH.

Where roses flaunt beneath some pleasant cave,Too charming Pyrrha, what enamour'd Boy,Whose shining locks the breathing odors lave,Woos thee, exulting in a transient joy?For whom the simple band dost thou prepare,That lightly fastens back thy golden hair?

Alas! how soon shall this devoted YouthLove's tyrant sway, and thy chang'd eyes deplore,Indignant curse thy violated truth,And count each broken promise o'er and o'er,Who hopes to meet, unconscious of thy wiles,Looks ever vacant, ever facile smiles!

He, inexperienc'd Mariner! shall gazeIn wild amazement on the stormy deep,Recall the flattery of those sunny days,That lull'd each ruder wind to calmest sleep.'T was then, with jocund hope, he spread the sail,In rash dependence on the faithless gale.

Ah Wretch! to whom untried thou seemest fair!By me, who late thy halcyon surface sung,[1]The walls of Neptune's fane inscrib'd, declareThat I have dank and dropping garments hung,Devoted to theGod, whose kind decreeSnatch'd me to shore, from an o'erwhelming sea.

1: Horace alludes to the custom of the Roman Mariners after a shipwreck—that of suspending their garments, which had been drenched in the storm, in the temple of Neptune, together with a votive tablet, on which the circumstances of the danger and escape, were painted.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE SEVENTH.

Be far-fam'd[2]Rhodesthe theme of loftier strains,Or[3]Mitylene, as their Bard decrees;OrEphesus, where greatDianareigns,OrCorinth, towering 'twixt the rival seas;OrThebes, illustrious in thy birth divine,PurpurealBacchus;—or ofPhœbus' shrineDelphosoracular; or warbling hailThessalianTempe's flower-embroider'd vale.

The Art-crown'd City, chasteMinerva's pride,There are, whose endless numbers have pourtray'd;They, to each tree that spreads its branches wide,Prefer the[4]tawny Olive's scanty shade.Many, inJuno's honor, sing thy meads,GreenArgos, glorying in thy agile steeds;Or opulentMycene, whose proud fanesThe blood of murder'dAgamemnonstains.

Nor patientLacedæmonwakes my lyre,Who trains her Sons to all the Warrior's toil;Nor me[5]Larissa's airy graces fire,Tho' round her hills the golden vallies smile:But my lov'd mansion, 'mid the circling wood,On the green bank of clear Albūnea's flood,Its walls resounding with the echo'd roar,As Anio's torrents down the mountain pour.

Amid my blooming orchards pleas'd I rove,Guiding the ductile course of murmuring rills;Or mark the curtains of the sacred groveSink in the vales, or sweep along the hills.[6]Ah Friend! if round my cell such graces shine,ThePalaceof 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 ordainThe 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 thePresent, and thePastforget!

The walls ofSalamiswhenTeucerfled,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 friendThan 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'rousSalamisshall 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 Augustusbanishhim, 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.

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