HAPPY the man, I grant, thrice happy heWho can through gross effects their causes see:Whose courage from the deeps of knowledge springs,Nor vainly fears inevitable things,But does his walk of virtue calmly go,Through all the allarms of death and hell below.Happy, but next such conquerors, happy theyWhose humble life lies not in fortune's way.They unconcerned from their safe-distant seatBehold the rods and sceptres of the great.The quarrels of the mighty without fearAnd the descent of foreign troops they hear.Nor can ev'n Rome their steddy course misguideWith all the lustre of her perishing pride.Them never yet did strife or avarice drawInto the noisy markets of the law,The camps of gownëd war, nor do they liveBy rules or forms that many mad men give.Duty for Nature's bounty they repay,And her sole laws religiously obey.
HAPPY the man, I grant, thrice happy heWho can through gross effects their causes see:Whose courage from the deeps of knowledge springs,Nor vainly fears inevitable things,But does his walk of virtue calmly go,Through all the allarms of death and hell below.Happy, but next such conquerors, happy theyWhose humble life lies not in fortune's way.They unconcerned from their safe-distant seatBehold the rods and sceptres of the great.The quarrels of the mighty without fearAnd the descent of foreign troops they hear.Nor can ev'n Rome their steddy course misguideWith all the lustre of her perishing pride.Them never yet did strife or avarice drawInto the noisy markets of the law,The camps of gownëd war, nor do they liveBy rules or forms that many mad men give.Duty for Nature's bounty they repay,And her sole laws religiously obey.
Cowley.
118
(Beginning atAt cantu commotae....)
THEN from the deepest deeps of Erebus,Wrung by his minstrelsy, the hollow shadesCame trooping, ghostly semblances of formsLost to the light, as birds by myriads hieTo greenwood boughs for cover, when twilight-hourOr storms of winter chase them from the hills;Matrons and men, and great heroic framesDone with life's service, boys, unwedded girls,Youths placed on pyre before their fathers' eyes.Round them, with black slime choked and hideous weed,Cocytus winds; there lies the unlovely swampOf dull dead water, and to pen them fast,Styx with her ninefold barrier poured between.Nay, even the deep Tartarean Halls of deathStood lost in wonderment, the Eumenides,Their brows with livid locks of serpents twined,E'en Cerberus held his triple jaws agape,And, the wind hushed, Ixion's wheel stood still.And now with homeward footstep he had passedAll perils scathless, and, at length restored,Eurydice, to realms of upper airHad well-nigh won behind him following—So Proserpine had ruled it—when his heartA sudden mad desire surprised and seized—Meet fault to be forgiven, might Hell forgive.For at the very threshold of the day,Heedless, alas! and vanquished of resolve,He stopped, turned, looked upon Eurydice—His own once more. But even with the look,Poured out was all his labour, broken the bondOf that fell tyrant, and a crash was heardThree times like thunder in the meres of hell.'Orpheus! what ruin hath thy frenzy wroughtOn me, alas! and thee? Lo! once againThe unpitying fates recall me, and dark sleepCloses my swimming eyes. And now, farewell:Girt with enormous night I am borne away,Outstretching toward thee, thine, alas! no more,These helpless hands.' She spoke, and suddenly,Like smoke dissolving into empty air,Passed and was sundered from his sight; nor him,Clutching vain shadows, yearning sore to speak,Thenceforth beheld she, nor no second timeHell's boatman lists he pass the watery bar.
THEN from the deepest deeps of Erebus,Wrung by his minstrelsy, the hollow shadesCame trooping, ghostly semblances of formsLost to the light, as birds by myriads hieTo greenwood boughs for cover, when twilight-hourOr storms of winter chase them from the hills;Matrons and men, and great heroic framesDone with life's service, boys, unwedded girls,Youths placed on pyre before their fathers' eyes.Round them, with black slime choked and hideous weed,Cocytus winds; there lies the unlovely swampOf dull dead water, and to pen them fast,Styx with her ninefold barrier poured between.Nay, even the deep Tartarean Halls of deathStood lost in wonderment, the Eumenides,Their brows with livid locks of serpents twined,E'en Cerberus held his triple jaws agape,And, the wind hushed, Ixion's wheel stood still.And now with homeward footstep he had passedAll perils scathless, and, at length restored,Eurydice, to realms of upper airHad well-nigh won behind him following—So Proserpine had ruled it—when his heartA sudden mad desire surprised and seized—Meet fault to be forgiven, might Hell forgive.For at the very threshold of the day,Heedless, alas! and vanquished of resolve,He stopped, turned, looked upon Eurydice—His own once more. But even with the look,Poured out was all his labour, broken the bondOf that fell tyrant, and a crash was heardThree times like thunder in the meres of hell.'Orpheus! what ruin hath thy frenzy wroughtOn me, alas! and thee? Lo! once againThe unpitying fates recall me, and dark sleepCloses my swimming eyes. And now, farewell:Girt with enormous night I am borne away,Outstretching toward thee, thine, alas! no more,These helpless hands.' She spoke, and suddenly,Like smoke dissolving into empty air,Passed and was sundered from his sight; nor him,Clutching vain shadows, yearning sore to speak,Thenceforth beheld she, nor no second timeHell's boatman lists he pass the watery bar.
James Rhoades
119 a
ONCE a slender silvan reedAnswered all my shepherd's need;Once to farmer lads I toldAll the lore of field and fold:Well they liked me, for the soilBeyond their dreams repaid their toil.Ah! who am I, 'mid war's alarms,To 'sing the hero and his arms'?
ONCE a slender silvan reedAnswered all my shepherd's need;Once to farmer lads I toldAll the lore of field and fold:Well they liked me, for the soilBeyond their dreams repaid their toil.Ah! who am I, 'mid war's alarms,To 'sing the hero and his arms'?
H.W.G.
121
I give first the version of Conington—an excellent specimen of his skill and its limitations; and I add Pope's imitation—a piece as graceful as anything he wrote:
THINK not those strains can e'er expire,Which, cradled 'mid the echoing roarOf Aufidus, to Latium's lyreI sing with arts unknown before.Though Homer fill the foremost throne,Yet grave Stesichorus still can please,And fierce Alcaeus holds his ownWith Pindar and Simonides.The songs of Teos are not mute,And Sappho's love is breathing still:She told her secret to the lute,And still its chords with passion thrill.Not Sparta's queen alone was firedBy broidered robe and braided tress,And all the splendours that attiredHer lover's guilty loveliness:Not only Teucer to the fieldHis arrows brought, not IlionBeneath a single conqueror reeled:Not Crete's majestic lord alone,Or Sthenelus, earned the Muses' crown:Not Hector first for child and wife,Or brave Deiphobus, laid downThe burden of a manly life.Before Atrides men were brave,But ah! oblivion dark and longHas locked them in a tearless grave,For lack of consecrating song.'Twixt worth and baseness, lapp'd in death,What difference?Youshall ne'er be dumb,While strains of mine have voice and breath:The dull neglect of days to comeThose hard-won honours shall not blight:No, Lollius, no: a soul is yoursClear-sighted, keen, alike uprightWhen Fortune smiles and when she lowers:To greed and rapine still severe,Spurning the gain men find so sweet:A consul not of one brief year,But oft as on the judgement-seatYou bend the expedient to the right,Turn haughty eyes from bribes array,Or bear your banners through the fight,Scattering the foeman's firm array.The lord of countless revenuesSalute not him as happy: no,Call him the happy who can useThe bounty that the gods bestow,Can bear the load of poverty,And tremble not at death, but sin:No recreant he when called to dieIn cause of country or of kin.
THINK not those strains can e'er expire,Which, cradled 'mid the echoing roarOf Aufidus, to Latium's lyreI sing with arts unknown before.Though Homer fill the foremost throne,Yet grave Stesichorus still can please,And fierce Alcaeus holds his ownWith Pindar and Simonides.The songs of Teos are not mute,And Sappho's love is breathing still:She told her secret to the lute,And still its chords with passion thrill.Not Sparta's queen alone was firedBy broidered robe and braided tress,And all the splendours that attiredHer lover's guilty loveliness:Not only Teucer to the fieldHis arrows brought, not IlionBeneath a single conqueror reeled:Not Crete's majestic lord alone,Or Sthenelus, earned the Muses' crown:Not Hector first for child and wife,Or brave Deiphobus, laid downThe burden of a manly life.Before Atrides men were brave,But ah! oblivion dark and longHas locked them in a tearless grave,For lack of consecrating song.'Twixt worth and baseness, lapp'd in death,What difference?Youshall ne'er be dumb,While strains of mine have voice and breath:The dull neglect of days to comeThose hard-won honours shall not blight:No, Lollius, no: a soul is yoursClear-sighted, keen, alike uprightWhen Fortune smiles and when she lowers:To greed and rapine still severe,Spurning the gain men find so sweet:A consul not of one brief year,But oft as on the judgement-seatYou bend the expedient to the right,Turn haughty eyes from bribes array,Or bear your banners through the fight,Scattering the foeman's firm array.The lord of countless revenuesSalute not him as happy: no,Call him the happy who can useThe bounty that the gods bestow,Can bear the load of poverty,And tremble not at death, but sin:No recreant he when called to dieIn cause of country or of kin.
J. Conington.
LEST you should think that verse shall die,Which sounds the silver Thames along,Taught on the wings of Truth to flyAbove the reach of vulgar song;Though daring Milton sits sublime,In Spenser native Muses play;Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay—Sages and chiefs long since had birthEre Caesar was, or Newton, named;Those raised new empires o'er the earth,And these new heavens and systems framed.Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride!They had no poet, and they died.In vain they schemed, in vain they bled!They had no poet, and are dead.
LEST you should think that verse shall die,Which sounds the silver Thames along,Taught on the wings of Truth to flyAbove the reach of vulgar song;
Though daring Milton sits sublime,In Spenser native Muses play;Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay—
Sages and chiefs long since had birthEre Caesar was, or Newton, named;Those raised new empires o'er the earth,And these new heavens and systems framed.
Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride!They had no poet, and they died.In vain they schemed, in vain they bled!They had no poet, and are dead.
Pope.
124
ANGEL of Love, high-thronëd in Cnidos,Regent of Paphos, no more repine:Leave thy loved Cyprus; too long denied usVisit our soberly censëd shrine.Haste, and thine Imp, the fiery-hearted,Follow, and Hermes; and with thee hasteThe Nymphs and Graces with robe disparted,And, save thou chasten him, Youth too chaste.
ANGEL of Love, high-thronëd in Cnidos,Regent of Paphos, no more repine:Leave thy loved Cyprus; too long denied usVisit our soberly censëd shrine.
Haste, and thine Imp, the fiery-hearted,Follow, and Hermes; and with thee hasteThe Nymphs and Graces with robe disparted,And, save thou chasten him, Youth too chaste.
H.W.G.
125
WHAT slender youth bedewed with liquid odoursCourts thee on roses in some pleasant cave,Pyrrha, for whom bindst thouIn wreaths thy golden hair,Plain in thy neatness? O how oft shall heOn faith and changed gods complain: and seasRough with black winds and stormsUnwonted shall admire:Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold,Who always vacant, always amiableHopes thee, of flattering galesUnmindful. Hapless theyTo whom thou untried seem'st fair. Me in my vowedPicture the sacred wall declares to have hungMy dank and dripping weedsTo the stern God of Sea.
WHAT slender youth bedewed with liquid odoursCourts thee on roses in some pleasant cave,Pyrrha, for whom bindst thouIn wreaths thy golden hair,Plain in thy neatness? O how oft shall heOn faith and changed gods complain: and seasRough with black winds and stormsUnwonted shall admire:Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold,Who always vacant, always amiableHopes thee, of flattering galesUnmindful. Hapless theyTo whom thou untried seem'st fair. Me in my vowedPicture the sacred wall declares to have hungMy dank and dripping weedsTo the stern God of Sea.
Milton.
Milton's version has been a good deal criticized. Yet, though it lacks the lightness of its original, it remains a nobler version than any other. Of other versions the most interesting is, perhaps, that of Chatterton (made from a literal English translation), and the most graceful that of William Hamilton of Bangour. Of the latter I quote a few lines:
WITH whom spend'st thou thy evening hoursAmid the sweets of breathing flowers?For whom retired to secret shade,Soft on thy panting bosom laid,Set'st thou thy looks with nicest care,O neatly plain? How oft shall heBewail thy false inconstancy!Condemned perpetual frowns to prove,How often weep thy altered love,Who thee, too credulous, hopes to find,As now, still golden and still kind!
WITH whom spend'st thou thy evening hoursAmid the sweets of breathing flowers?For whom retired to secret shade,Soft on thy panting bosom laid,Set'st thou thy looks with nicest care,O neatly plain? How oft shall heBewail thy false inconstancy!Condemned perpetual frowns to prove,How often weep thy altered love,Who thee, too credulous, hopes to find,As now, still golden and still kind!
W. Hamilton.
126
Of this often-translated poem I give first the version of Herrick and then that of Gladstone. There is an amusing adaptation in the Poems of Soame Jenyns,Dialogue between the Rt. Hon. Henry Pelham and Modern Popularity.
Hor.WHILE, Lydia, I was lov'd of thee,Nor any was preferr'd 'fore meTo hug thy whitest neck: than I,The Persian King liv'd not more happily.Lyd.While thou no other didst affect,Nor Cloe was of more respect;Then Lydia, far-fam'd Lydia,I flourish't more than Roman Ilia.Hor.Now Thracian Cloe governs me,Skilfull i' th' Harpe, and Melodie:For whose affection, Lydia, I(So Fate spares her) am well content to die.Lyd.My heart now set on fire isBy Ornithes sonne, young Calais;For whose commutuall flames here I(To save his life) twice am content to die.Hor.Say our first loves we sho'd revoke,And sever'd, joyne in brazen yoke:Admit I Cloe put away,And love again love-cast-off Lydia?Lyd.Though mine be brighter than the Star;Thou lighter than the Cork by far;Rough as th' Adratick sea, yet IWill live with thee, or else for thee will die.
Hor.WHILE, Lydia, I was lov'd of thee,Nor any was preferr'd 'fore meTo hug thy whitest neck: than I,The Persian King liv'd not more happily.
Lyd.While thou no other didst affect,Nor Cloe was of more respect;Then Lydia, far-fam'd Lydia,I flourish't more than Roman Ilia.
Hor.Now Thracian Cloe governs me,Skilfull i' th' Harpe, and Melodie:For whose affection, Lydia, I(So Fate spares her) am well content to die.
Lyd.My heart now set on fire isBy Ornithes sonne, young Calais;For whose commutuall flames here I(To save his life) twice am content to die.
Hor.Say our first loves we sho'd revoke,And sever'd, joyne in brazen yoke:Admit I Cloe put away,And love again love-cast-off Lydia?
Lyd.Though mine be brighter than the Star;Thou lighter than the Cork by far;Rough as th' Adratick sea, yet IWill live with thee, or else for thee will die.
Herrick.
Hor.WHILE no more welcome arms could twineAround thy snowy neck than mine,Thy smile, thy heart while I possessed,Not Persia's monarch lived as blessed.Lyd.While thou didst feed no rival flame,Nor Lydia after Chloe came,Oh then thy Lydia's echoing nameExcelled ev'n Ilia's Roman fame.Hor.Me now Threician Chloe sways,Skilled in soft lyre and softer lays;My forfeit life I'll freely giveSo she, my better life, may live.Lyd.The son of Ornytus inspiresMy burning breast with mutual fires;I'll face two several deaths with joySo Fate but spare my Thracian boy.Hor.What if our ancient love awoke,And bound us with its golden yoke?If auburn Chloe I resignAnd Lydia once again be mine?Lyd.Though fairer than the stars is he,Thou rougher than the Adrian seaAnd fickle as light cork, yet IWith thee would live, with thee would die.
Hor.WHILE no more welcome arms could twineAround thy snowy neck than mine,Thy smile, thy heart while I possessed,Not Persia's monarch lived as blessed.
Lyd.While thou didst feed no rival flame,Nor Lydia after Chloe came,Oh then thy Lydia's echoing nameExcelled ev'n Ilia's Roman fame.
Hor.Me now Threician Chloe sways,Skilled in soft lyre and softer lays;My forfeit life I'll freely giveSo she, my better life, may live.
Lyd.The son of Ornytus inspiresMy burning breast with mutual fires;I'll face two several deaths with joySo Fate but spare my Thracian boy.
Hor.What if our ancient love awoke,And bound us with its golden yoke?If auburn Chloe I resignAnd Lydia once again be mine?
Lyd.Though fairer than the stars is he,Thou rougher than the Adrian seaAnd fickle as light cork, yet IWith thee would live, with thee would die.
Gladstone.
Prior's 'echo' of this poem is well known:
'SO when I am weary of wandering all day,To thee, my delight, in the evening I come;No matter what beauties I saw in my way,They were but my visits, but thou art my home.Then finish, dear Cloe, this pastoral war,And let us, like Horace and Lydia, agree;For thou art a girl as much brighter than herAs he was a poet sublimer than me.'
'SO when I am weary of wandering all day,To thee, my delight, in the evening I come;No matter what beauties I saw in my way,They were but my visits, but thou art my home.
Then finish, dear Cloe, this pastoral war,And let us, like Horace and Lydia, agree;For thou art a girl as much brighter than herAs he was a poet sublimer than me.'
(Answer to Chloe Jealous).
127
O CRUEL, still and vain of beauty's charms,When wintry age thy insolence disarms,[10]When fall those locks that on thy shoulders play,And youth's gay roses on thy cheeks decay,When that smooth face shall manhood's roughness wear,And in your glass another form appear,Ah, why, you'll say, do I now vainly burn,Or with my wishes not my youth return?
O CRUEL, still and vain of beauty's charms,When wintry age thy insolence disarms,[10]When fall those locks that on thy shoulders play,And youth's gay roses on thy cheeks decay,When that smooth face shall manhood's roughness wear,And in your glass another form appear,Ah, why, you'll say, do I now vainly burn,Or with my wishes not my youth return?
Francis.
135
I print Dryden's version in its entirety. 'I have endeavoured to make it my masterpiece in English,' he says. It is perhaps the only translation of theOdeswhich retains what Dryden calls their 'noble and bold purity' and at the same time keeps the friendly and familiar strokes of style which lighten Horace's graver moods.
DESCENDED of an ancient line,That long the Tuscan sceptre swayed,Make haste to meet the generous wineWhose piercing is for thee delayed.The rosie wreath is ready madeAnd artful hands prepareThe fragrant Syrian oil that shall perfume thy hairWhen the wine sparkles from afarAnd the well-natured friend cries 'Come away',Make haste and leave thy business and thy care,No mortal interest can be worth thy stay.Leave for awhile thy costly country seat,And—to be great indeed—forgetThe nauseous pleasures of the great:Make haste and come,Come, and forsake thy cloying store,Thy turret that surveys from highThe smoke and wealth and noise of Rome,And all the busie pageantryThat wise men scorn and fools adore:Come, give thy soul a loose, and taste the pleasures of the poor.Sometimes 'tis grateful to the rich to tryA short vicissitude and fit of Poverty;A savoury dish, a homely treat,Where all is plain, where all is neat,Without the stately spacious room,The Persian carpet or the Tyrian loomClear up the cloudy foreheads of the great.The Sun is in the Lion mounted high,The Syrian starBarks from afar,And with his sultry breath infects the sky;The ground below is parched, the heavens above us fry;The shepherd drives his fainting flockBeneath the covert of a rockAnd seeks refreshing rivulets nigh.The Sylvans to their shade retire,Those very shades and streams new streams require,And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the raging fire.Thou, what befits the new Lord May'r,And what the City Faction dare,And what the Gallique arms will do,And what the quiverbearing foe,Art anxiously inquisitive to know.But God has wisely hid from human sightThe dark decrees of future fate,And sown their seeds in depth of night:He laughs at all the giddy turns of stateWhen mortals search too soon and learn too late.Enjoy the present smiling hour,And put it out of Fortune's power.The tide of business, like the running stream,Is sometimes high and sometimes low,A quiet ebb or a tempestuous flow,And always in extreme.Now with a noiseless gentle courseIt keeps within the middle bed,Anon it lifts aloft its headAnd bears down all before it with tempestuous force;And trunks of trees come rolling down,Sheep and their folds together drown,Both house and homestead into seas are borne,And rocks are from their old foundations torn,And woods, made thin with winds, their scattered honours mourn.Happy the man—and happy he alone,—He who can call to-day his own,He who, secure within, can say'To-morrow, do thy worst, for I have lived to-day:Be fair or foul or rain or shine,The joys I have possessed in spite of Fate are mine,Not Heaven itself upon the Past has power,But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.'Fortune, that with malicious joyDoes Man, her slave, oppress,Proud of her office to destroy,Is seldom pleased to bless;Still various and unconstant still,But with an inclination to be ill,Promotes, degrades, delights in strifeAnd makes a lottery of life.I can enjoy her while she's kind,But when she dances in the wind,And shakes the wings and will not stay,I puff the prostitute away.The little or the much she gave is quietly resigned:Content with poverty my soul I arm,And Vertue, tho' in rags, will keep me warm.What is't to me,Who never sail in her unfaithful sea,If storms arise and clouds grow black,If the mast split and threaten wrack?Then let the greedy merchant fearFor his ill-gotten gain,And pray to gods that will not hear,While the debating winds and billows bearHis wealth into the main.For me, secure from Fortune's blows,Secure of what I cannot lose,In my small pinnace I can sail,Contemning all the blustering roar:And running with a merry galeWith friendly stars my safety seekWithin some little winding creek,And see the storm ashore.
DESCENDED of an ancient line,That long the Tuscan sceptre swayed,Make haste to meet the generous wineWhose piercing is for thee delayed.The rosie wreath is ready madeAnd artful hands prepareThe fragrant Syrian oil that shall perfume thy hair
When the wine sparkles from afarAnd the well-natured friend cries 'Come away',Make haste and leave thy business and thy care,No mortal interest can be worth thy stay.
Leave for awhile thy costly country seat,And—to be great indeed—forgetThe nauseous pleasures of the great:Make haste and come,Come, and forsake thy cloying store,Thy turret that surveys from highThe smoke and wealth and noise of Rome,And all the busie pageantryThat wise men scorn and fools adore:Come, give thy soul a loose, and taste the pleasures of the poor.
Sometimes 'tis grateful to the rich to tryA short vicissitude and fit of Poverty;A savoury dish, a homely treat,Where all is plain, where all is neat,Without the stately spacious room,The Persian carpet or the Tyrian loomClear up the cloudy foreheads of the great.
The Sun is in the Lion mounted high,The Syrian starBarks from afar,And with his sultry breath infects the sky;The ground below is parched, the heavens above us fry;The shepherd drives his fainting flockBeneath the covert of a rockAnd seeks refreshing rivulets nigh.The Sylvans to their shade retire,Those very shades and streams new streams require,And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the raging fire.
Thou, what befits the new Lord May'r,And what the City Faction dare,And what the Gallique arms will do,And what the quiverbearing foe,Art anxiously inquisitive to know.But God has wisely hid from human sightThe dark decrees of future fate,And sown their seeds in depth of night:He laughs at all the giddy turns of stateWhen mortals search too soon and learn too late.
Enjoy the present smiling hour,And put it out of Fortune's power.The tide of business, like the running stream,Is sometimes high and sometimes low,A quiet ebb or a tempestuous flow,And always in extreme.Now with a noiseless gentle courseIt keeps within the middle bed,Anon it lifts aloft its headAnd bears down all before it with tempestuous force;
And trunks of trees come rolling down,Sheep and their folds together drown,Both house and homestead into seas are borne,And rocks are from their old foundations torn,And woods, made thin with winds, their scattered honours mourn.
Happy the man—and happy he alone,—He who can call to-day his own,He who, secure within, can say'To-morrow, do thy worst, for I have lived to-day:Be fair or foul or rain or shine,The joys I have possessed in spite of Fate are mine,Not Heaven itself upon the Past has power,But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.'
Fortune, that with malicious joyDoes Man, her slave, oppress,Proud of her office to destroy,Is seldom pleased to bless;Still various and unconstant still,But with an inclination to be ill,Promotes, degrades, delights in strifeAnd makes a lottery of life.
I can enjoy her while she's kind,But when she dances in the wind,And shakes the wings and will not stay,I puff the prostitute away.The little or the much she gave is quietly resigned:Content with poverty my soul I arm,And Vertue, tho' in rags, will keep me warm.
What is't to me,Who never sail in her unfaithful sea,If storms arise and clouds grow black,If the mast split and threaten wrack?Then let the greedy merchant fearFor his ill-gotten gain,And pray to gods that will not hear,While the debating winds and billows bearHis wealth into the main.For me, secure from Fortune's blows,Secure of what I cannot lose,In my small pinnace I can sail,Contemning all the blustering roar:And running with a merry galeWith friendly stars my safety seekWithin some little winding creek,And see the storm ashore.
Dryden.
136
O PRECIOUS Crock, whose summers date,Like mine, from Manlius' consulate,I wot not whether in your breastLie maudlin wit or merry jest,Or sudden choler, or the fireOf tipsy Love's insane desire,Or fumes of soft caressing sleep,Or what more potent charms you keep;But this I know, your ripened powerBefits some choicely festive hour!A cup peculiarly mellowCorvinus asks: so come, old fellow,From your time-honoured bin descend,And let me gratify my friend!No churl is he your charms to slight,Though most intensely erudite:And ev'n old Cato's worth, we know,Took from good wine a nobler glow.Your magic power of wit can spreadThe halo round a dullard's head,Can make the sage forget his care,His bosom's inmost thoughts unbare,And drown his solemn-faced pretenceBeneath your blithesome influence.Bright hope you bring and vigour backTo minds outworn upon the rack,And put such courage in the brainAs makes the poor be men again,Whom neither tyrants' wrath affrightsNor all their bristling satellites.Bacchus, and Venus, so that sheBring only frank festivity,With sister Graces in her train,Twining close in lovely chain,And gladsome taper's living light,Shall spread your treasures o'er the night,Till Phoebus the red East unbars,And puts to rout the trembling stars.
O PRECIOUS Crock, whose summers date,Like mine, from Manlius' consulate,I wot not whether in your breastLie maudlin wit or merry jest,Or sudden choler, or the fireOf tipsy Love's insane desire,Or fumes of soft caressing sleep,Or what more potent charms you keep;But this I know, your ripened powerBefits some choicely festive hour!A cup peculiarly mellowCorvinus asks: so come, old fellow,From your time-honoured bin descend,And let me gratify my friend!No churl is he your charms to slight,Though most intensely erudite:And ev'n old Cato's worth, we know,Took from good wine a nobler glow.
Your magic power of wit can spreadThe halo round a dullard's head,Can make the sage forget his care,His bosom's inmost thoughts unbare,And drown his solemn-faced pretenceBeneath your blithesome influence.Bright hope you bring and vigour backTo minds outworn upon the rack,And put such courage in the brainAs makes the poor be men again,Whom neither tyrants' wrath affrightsNor all their bristling satellites.
Bacchus, and Venus, so that sheBring only frank festivity,With sister Graces in her train,Twining close in lovely chain,And gladsome taper's living light,Shall spread your treasures o'er the night,Till Phoebus the red East unbars,And puts to rout the trembling stars.
Theodore Martin.
139
I give the first stanza of this poem in the effective paraphrase of Herrick, and the first two stanzas in the rather diffuse rendering of Byron. Byron's version is one of his earliest pieces but not altogether wanting in force.
NO wrath of Men, or rage of Seas,Can shake a just man's purposes:No threats of Tyrants, or the GrimVisage of them can alter him;But what he doth at first entendThat he holds firmly to the end.
NO wrath of Men, or rage of Seas,Can shake a just man's purposes:No threats of Tyrants, or the GrimVisage of them can alter him;But what he doth at first entendThat he holds firmly to the end.
Herrick.
THE man of firm and noble soulNo factious clamours can control:No threatening tyrant's darkling browCan swerve him from his just intent;Gales the warring waves which plough,By Auster on the billows spent,To curb the Adriatic mainWould awe his fixed determined mind in vain.Ay, and the red right arm of Jove,Hurtling his lightnings from above,With all his terrors there unfurled,He would unmoved, unawed behold.The flames of an expiring world,Again in crushing chaos rolled,In vast promiscuous ruin hurled,Might light his glorious funeral pile,Still dauntless 'mid the wreck of earth he'd smile.
THE man of firm and noble soulNo factious clamours can control:No threatening tyrant's darkling browCan swerve him from his just intent;Gales the warring waves which plough,By Auster on the billows spent,To curb the Adriatic mainWould awe his fixed determined mind in vain.
Ay, and the red right arm of Jove,Hurtling his lightnings from above,With all his terrors there unfurled,He would unmoved, unawed behold.The flames of an expiring world,Again in crushing chaos rolled,In vast promiscuous ruin hurled,Might light his glorious funeral pile,Still dauntless 'mid the wreck of earth he'd smile.
Byron.
145
BANDUSIA, stainless mirror of the sky!Thine is the flower-crowned bowl, for thee shall dieWhen dawns yon sun, the kidWhose horns, half-seen, half-hid,Challenge to dalliance or to strife—in vain.Soon must the firstling of the wild herd be slain,And these cold springs of thineWith blood incarnadine.Fierce glows the Dog-star, but his fiery beamToucheth not thee: still grateful thy cool streamTo labour-wearied ox,Or wanderer from the flocks:And henceforth thou shalt be a royal fountain:My harp shall tell how from thy cavernous mountain,Where the brown oak grows tallest,All babblingly thou fallest.
BANDUSIA, stainless mirror of the sky!Thine is the flower-crowned bowl, for thee shall dieWhen dawns yon sun, the kidWhose horns, half-seen, half-hid,
Challenge to dalliance or to strife—in vain.Soon must the firstling of the wild herd be slain,And these cold springs of thineWith blood incarnadine.
Fierce glows the Dog-star, but his fiery beamToucheth not thee: still grateful thy cool streamTo labour-wearied ox,Or wanderer from the flocks:
And henceforth thou shalt be a royal fountain:My harp shall tell how from thy cavernous mountain,Where the brown oak grows tallest,All babblingly thou fallest.
C.S. Calverley.
148
The rendering that follows is printed in the author'sIonicanot as a translation, but as a poem, under the titleHypermnestra. It represents our poem of Horace from the 25th line onwards.
LET me tell of Lydè of wedding-law slighted,Penance of maidens and bootless task,Wasting of water down leaky cask,Crime in the prison-pit slowly requited.Miscreant brides! for their grooms they slew.One out of many is not attainted,One alone blest and for ever sainted,False to her father, to wedlock true.Praise her! she gave her young husband the warning.Praise her for ever! She cried, 'Arise!Flee from the slumber that deadens the eyes;Flee from the night that hath never a morning.Baffle your host who contrived our espousing,Baffle my sisters, the forty and nine,Raging like lions that mangle the kine,Each on the blood of a quarry carousing.I am more gentle, I strike not thee,I will not hold thee in dungeon tower.Though the king chain me, I will not cower,Though my sire banish me over the sea.Freely run, freely sail, good luck attend thee;Go with the favour of Venus and Night.On thy tomb somewhere and some day bid writeRecord of her who hath dared to befriend thee.'
LET me tell of Lydè of wedding-law slighted,Penance of maidens and bootless task,Wasting of water down leaky cask,Crime in the prison-pit slowly requited.
Miscreant brides! for their grooms they slew.One out of many is not attainted,One alone blest and for ever sainted,False to her father, to wedlock true.
Praise her! she gave her young husband the warning.Praise her for ever! She cried, 'Arise!Flee from the slumber that deadens the eyes;Flee from the night that hath never a morning.
Baffle your host who contrived our espousing,Baffle my sisters, the forty and nine,Raging like lions that mangle the kine,Each on the blood of a quarry carousing.
I am more gentle, I strike not thee,I will not hold thee in dungeon tower.Though the king chain me, I will not cower,Though my sire banish me over the sea.
Freely run, freely sail, good luck attend thee;Go with the favour of Venus and Night.On thy tomb somewhere and some day bid writeRecord of her who hath dared to befriend thee.'
W. Johnson Cory.
149
UNSHAMED, unchecked, for one so dearWe sorrow. Lead the mournful choir,Melpomene, to whom thy sireGave harp and song-notes liquid-clear!Sleeps he the sleep that knows no morn?O Honour, O twin-born with Right,Pure Faith, and Truth that loves the light,When shall again his like be born?Many a kind heart for him makes moan;Thine, Vergil, first. But ah! in vainThy love bids heaven restore againThat which it took not as a loan.Were sweeter lute than Orpheus' givenTo thee, did trees thy voice obey;The blood revisits not the clayWhich he, with lifted wand, hath drivenInto his dark assemblage, whoUnlocks not fate to mortal's prayer.Hard lot. Yet light their griefs, whobearThe ills which they may not undo.
UNSHAMED, unchecked, for one so dearWe sorrow. Lead the mournful choir,Melpomene, to whom thy sireGave harp and song-notes liquid-clear!
Sleeps he the sleep that knows no morn?O Honour, O twin-born with Right,Pure Faith, and Truth that loves the light,When shall again his like be born?
Many a kind heart for him makes moan;Thine, Vergil, first. But ah! in vainThy love bids heaven restore againThat which it took not as a loan.
Were sweeter lute than Orpheus' givenTo thee, did trees thy voice obey;The blood revisits not the clayWhich he, with lifted wand, hath driven
Into his dark assemblage, whoUnlocks not fate to mortal's prayer.Hard lot. Yet light their griefs, whobearThe ills which they may not undo.
C.S. Calverley.
152, ii
THE snow, dissolv'd, no more is seen,The fields and woods, behold, are green;The changing year renews the plain,The rivers know their banks again;The sprightly Nymph and naked GraceThe mazy dance together trace;The changing year's successive planProclaims mortality to Man.Rough winter's blasts to spring give way,Spring yields to summer's sovran ray;Then summer sinks in autumn's reign,And winter holds the world again.Her losses soon the moon supplies,But wretched Man, when once he liesWhere Priam and his sons are laid,Is naught but ashes and a shade.Who knows if Jove, who counts our score,Will toss us in a morning more?What with your friend you nobly shareAt least you rescue from your heir.Not you, Torquatus, boast of Rome,When Minos once has fixed your doom,Or eloquence or splendid birthOr virtue shall restore to earth.Hippolytus, unjustly slain,Diana calls to life in vain,Nor can the might of Theseus rendThe chains of hell that hold his friend.
THE snow, dissolv'd, no more is seen,The fields and woods, behold, are green;The changing year renews the plain,The rivers know their banks again;The sprightly Nymph and naked GraceThe mazy dance together trace;The changing year's successive planProclaims mortality to Man.Rough winter's blasts to spring give way,Spring yields to summer's sovran ray;Then summer sinks in autumn's reign,And winter holds the world again.Her losses soon the moon supplies,But wretched Man, when once he liesWhere Priam and his sons are laid,Is naught but ashes and a shade.Who knows if Jove, who counts our score,Will toss us in a morning more?What with your friend you nobly shareAt least you rescue from your heir.Not you, Torquatus, boast of Rome,When Minos once has fixed your doom,Or eloquence or splendid birthOr virtue shall restore to earth.Hippolytus, unjustly slain,Diana calls to life in vain,Nor can the might of Theseus rendThe chains of hell that hold his friend.
Samuel Johnson.
153
NOW have I made my monument: and nowNor brass shall longer live, nor loftier raiseThe royallest pyramid its superb brow.Nor ruin of rain or wind shall mar its praise,Nor tooth of Time, nor pitiless pageantryO' the flying years. In death I shall not dieWholly, nor Death's dark Angel all I amMake his; but ever flowerlike my fameShall flourish in the foldings of the MountCapitoline, where the Priests go up, and muteThe maiden Priestesses.From mean accountLifted to mighty, where the resoluteWaters ot Aufidus reverberant ringO'er fields where Daunus once held rustic state,Of barren acres simple-minded king,—There was I born, and first of men did mateTo lyre of Latium Aeolic lay.Clothe thee in glory, Muse, and grandly wearThy hardly-gotten greatness, and my hairCircle, Melpomene, with Delphian bay.
NOW have I made my monument: and nowNor brass shall longer live, nor loftier raiseThe royallest pyramid its superb brow.Nor ruin of rain or wind shall mar its praise,Nor tooth of Time, nor pitiless pageantryO' the flying years. In death I shall not dieWholly, nor Death's dark Angel all I amMake his; but ever flowerlike my fameShall flourish in the foldings of the MountCapitoline, where the Priests go up, and muteThe maiden Priestesses.From mean accountLifted to mighty, where the resoluteWaters ot Aufidus reverberant ringO'er fields where Daunus once held rustic state,Of barren acres simple-minded king,—There was I born, and first of men did mateTo lyre of Latium Aeolic lay.Clothe thee in glory, Muse, and grandly wearThy hardly-gotten greatness, and my hairCircle, Melpomene, with Delphian bay.
H.W.G.
161
HE who sublime in epic numbers rolled,And he who struck the softer lyre of love,By Death's unequal hand alike controlled,Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!
HE who sublime in epic numbers rolled,And he who struck the softer lyre of love,By Death's unequal hand alike controlled,Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!
Byron.
166
HAD he not hands of rare device, whoe'erFirst painted Love in figure of a boy?He saw what thoughtless beings lovers were,Who blessings lose, whilst lightest cares employ.Nor added he those airy wings in vain,And bade through human hearts the godhead fly;For we are tost upon a wavering main;Our gale, inconstant, veers around the sky.Nor, without cause, he grasps those barbed darts,The Cretan quiver o'er his shoulder cast;Ere we suspect a foe, he strikes our hearts;And those inflicted wounds for ever last.In me are fix'd those arrows, in my breast;But sure his wings are shorn, the boy remains;For never takes he flight, nor knows he rest;Still, still I feel him warring through my veins.In these scorch'd vitals dost thou joy to dwell?Oh shame! to others let thy arrows flee;Let veins untouch'd with all thy venom swell;Not me thou torturest, but the shade of me.Destroy me—who shall then describe the fair?This my light Muse to thee high glory brings:When the nymph's tapering fingers, flowing hair,And eyes of jet, and gliding feet she sings.
HAD he not hands of rare device, whoe'erFirst painted Love in figure of a boy?He saw what thoughtless beings lovers were,Who blessings lose, whilst lightest cares employ.
Nor added he those airy wings in vain,And bade through human hearts the godhead fly;For we are tost upon a wavering main;Our gale, inconstant, veers around the sky.
Nor, without cause, he grasps those barbed darts,The Cretan quiver o'er his shoulder cast;Ere we suspect a foe, he strikes our hearts;And those inflicted wounds for ever last.
In me are fix'd those arrows, in my breast;But sure his wings are shorn, the boy remains;For never takes he flight, nor knows he rest;Still, still I feel him warring through my veins.
In these scorch'd vitals dost thou joy to dwell?Oh shame! to others let thy arrows flee;Let veins untouch'd with all thy venom swell;Not me thou torturest, but the shade of me.
Destroy me—who shall then describe the fair?This my light Muse to thee high glory brings:When the nymph's tapering fingers, flowing hair,And eyes of jet, and gliding feet she sings.
Elton.
179
NO longer, Paullus, vex with tears my tomb:There is no prayer can open the black gate.When once the dead have passed beneath the doom,Barred is the adamant and vows too late.E'en though the lord of hell should list thy prayer,Thy tears shall idly soak the sullen shores:Vows may move heaven; when Charon holds his fee,The grass-grown pile stands closed by lurid doors.So the sad trumpets told their funeral taleWhile from the bier the torch dislodged my frame;What did my husband, what my sires avail,Or all these numerous pledges of my fame?Did I, Cornelia, find the fates less harsh?Five fingers now can lift my weight complete.Accursed nights, and stagnant Stygian marsh,And every sluggish wave that clogs my feet,Early yet guiltless came I to this bourne;So let the sire deal gently with my shadeIf Aeacus sit judge with ordered urn,By kin upon my bones be judgement made:There let his brothers sit, the Furies fillBy Minos' seat the Court, an audience grave.Let Sisyphus rest, Ixion's wheel be still,And Tantalus once grasp the fleeting wave;To-day let surly Cerberus hunt no shade,By the mute bar loose let his fetters lie.I plead my cause: if guilty, be there laidOn me that urn, the sisters' penalty.If any may boast trophies of old days,Still Libya tells my sires the Scipios' name;My mother's line their Libo peers displays,And each great house stands propp'd by scrolls of fame.When I doffed maiden garb 'neath torches' glow,And with the nuptial band my locks were tied,'Twas to thy bed I came, doomed thus to go:Let my stone say I was but once a bride.Those ashes by Rome reverenced I attest,Whose titles tell how Afric's pride was shorn,Perseus that feigned his sire Achilles' breast,And him that brought Achilles' house to scorn;For me the censor's rule ne'er swerved from place,Your hearth need never blush for shame of mine:Cornelia brought such relics no disgrace,Herself a model to her mighty line.I never changed, I lived without a stainBetwixt the marriage and the funeral fire:Nature gave laws drawn from my noble strain,Fear of no judge could higher life inspire.Let any urn pass sentence stern on me:None will be shamed that I should sit beside;Not she, rare maid of tower-crowned Cybele,That hauled the lagging goddess up the tide;Not she for whom, when Vesta claimed her fire,The linen white revealed the coals aglow.What changed in me but fate would'st thou desire,Sweet mother mine? I never wrought thee woe.Her tears, the city's grief, applaud my fame:And Caesar's sobs plead for these bones of mine;His daughter's worthy sister's loss they blame,And we saw tears upon that face divine.And yet I won the matron's robe of state,'Twas from no barren house that I was torn:Paullus and Lepidus, balm of my fate,Upon your breast my closing eyes were borne.My brother twice I saw in curule place,Consul what time his sister ceased to be.Child, of thy father's censorship the trace,Cleave to one husband only, copy me.Prop the great race in line: my bark of choiceSets sail, my loss so many to restore.Woman's last triumph is when common voiceApplauds the pyre of her whose work is o'er.These common pledges to thee I commend:Still burned into my ashes breathes this care.Father, the mother's offices attend:This my whole troop thy shoulders now must bear.When thou shalt kiss their tears, kiss too for me:Henceforth thy load must be the house complete.If thou must weep with them not there to see,When present, with dry cheeks their kisses cheat.Enough those nights thou weariest out for me,Those dreams that often shall my semblance feign;And with my shade in secret colloquy,Speak as to one to answer back again.But should the gate confront another bed,And on my couch a jealous step-dame sit,Laud, boys, and praise the bride your sire has wed;She will be won charmed with your ready wit.Nor praise your mother overmuch; she mayFeel contrast and free words to insult turn.But if contented with my shade he stay,And hold my ashes of such high concern;His coming age learn to anticipate,Leave to the widower's cares no path confessed.Be added to your years what mine abate,And in my children Paullus' age be blessed.'Tis well: for child I ne'er wore mourning weed;But my whole troop came to my obsequies.My plea is done. While grateful earth life's meedRepays, in tears ye witnesses arise.Heaven opes to such deserts; may mine me speedTo join my honoured fathers in the skies.
NO longer, Paullus, vex with tears my tomb:There is no prayer can open the black gate.When once the dead have passed beneath the doom,Barred is the adamant and vows too late.
E'en though the lord of hell should list thy prayer,Thy tears shall idly soak the sullen shores:Vows may move heaven; when Charon holds his fee,The grass-grown pile stands closed by lurid doors.
So the sad trumpets told their funeral taleWhile from the bier the torch dislodged my frame;What did my husband, what my sires avail,Or all these numerous pledges of my fame?
Did I, Cornelia, find the fates less harsh?Five fingers now can lift my weight complete.Accursed nights, and stagnant Stygian marsh,And every sluggish wave that clogs my feet,
Early yet guiltless came I to this bourne;So let the sire deal gently with my shadeIf Aeacus sit judge with ordered urn,By kin upon my bones be judgement made:
There let his brothers sit, the Furies fillBy Minos' seat the Court, an audience grave.Let Sisyphus rest, Ixion's wheel be still,And Tantalus once grasp the fleeting wave;
To-day let surly Cerberus hunt no shade,By the mute bar loose let his fetters lie.I plead my cause: if guilty, be there laidOn me that urn, the sisters' penalty.
If any may boast trophies of old days,Still Libya tells my sires the Scipios' name;My mother's line their Libo peers displays,And each great house stands propp'd by scrolls of fame.
When I doffed maiden garb 'neath torches' glow,And with the nuptial band my locks were tied,'Twas to thy bed I came, doomed thus to go:Let my stone say I was but once a bride.
Those ashes by Rome reverenced I attest,Whose titles tell how Afric's pride was shorn,Perseus that feigned his sire Achilles' breast,And him that brought Achilles' house to scorn;
For me the censor's rule ne'er swerved from place,Your hearth need never blush for shame of mine:Cornelia brought such relics no disgrace,Herself a model to her mighty line.
I never changed, I lived without a stainBetwixt the marriage and the funeral fire:Nature gave laws drawn from my noble strain,Fear of no judge could higher life inspire.
Let any urn pass sentence stern on me:None will be shamed that I should sit beside;Not she, rare maid of tower-crowned Cybele,That hauled the lagging goddess up the tide;
Not she for whom, when Vesta claimed her fire,The linen white revealed the coals aglow.What changed in me but fate would'st thou desire,Sweet mother mine? I never wrought thee woe.
Her tears, the city's grief, applaud my fame:And Caesar's sobs plead for these bones of mine;His daughter's worthy sister's loss they blame,And we saw tears upon that face divine.
And yet I won the matron's robe of state,'Twas from no barren house that I was torn:Paullus and Lepidus, balm of my fate,Upon your breast my closing eyes were borne.
My brother twice I saw in curule place,Consul what time his sister ceased to be.Child, of thy father's censorship the trace,Cleave to one husband only, copy me.
Prop the great race in line: my bark of choiceSets sail, my loss so many to restore.Woman's last triumph is when common voiceApplauds the pyre of her whose work is o'er.
These common pledges to thee I commend:Still burned into my ashes breathes this care.Father, the mother's offices attend:This my whole troop thy shoulders now must bear.
When thou shalt kiss their tears, kiss too for me:Henceforth thy load must be the house complete.If thou must weep with them not there to see,When present, with dry cheeks their kisses cheat.
Enough those nights thou weariest out for me,Those dreams that often shall my semblance feign;And with my shade in secret colloquy,Speak as to one to answer back again.
But should the gate confront another bed,And on my couch a jealous step-dame sit,Laud, boys, and praise the bride your sire has wed;She will be won charmed with your ready wit.
Nor praise your mother overmuch; she mayFeel contrast and free words to insult turn.But if contented with my shade he stay,And hold my ashes of such high concern;
His coming age learn to anticipate,Leave to the widower's cares no path confessed.Be added to your years what mine abate,And in my children Paullus' age be blessed.
'Tis well: for child I ne'er wore mourning weed;But my whole troop came to my obsequies.My plea is done. While grateful earth life's meedRepays, in tears ye witnesses arise.Heaven opes to such deserts; may mine me speedTo join my honoured fathers in the skies.
L.J. Latham.
217
I give a part of the version of Stepney, whom Dr. Johnson describes as 'a very licentious translator'.