There are few exercises of poetical talent more frequent than
translations of the Odes of Horace; and there is perhaps none of these
on which more men have tried their pens, than the 22d of the first
book. Of all that we have ever met with, we think none superior to the
following. Were it even inferior to the best efforts of the well
trained pupils of Eton or Westminster, it would be interesting as the
production of a Virginian. It was written some sixty years ago, as a
school exercise by a pupil in the grammar school of William and Mary.
We find it in the hand writing of J. Randolph of Roanoke, on the blank
leaves of an old copy of Horace, where it is recorded that the age of
the writer was fourteen. Comparing it with the early compositions of
Pope or Byron, the reader will be apt to ask, "What became of the
author?" The answer will be found in the history of the Polish wars,
in which he acted a conspicuous part. Late in life he returned to his
native country, and lived and died in voluntary obscurity. It is
believed that few men possessed more of the confidence and esteem of
the unfortunate monarch to whom he devoted his services than _General
Lewis Littlepage_.
We have no reason to believe that these lines were ever published.
They are all that remain of an extraordinary man, and we are pleased
to think that by giving them a place in the Messenger, they may be
preserved.
Fuscus, the Man, whose quiet heart
No conscious crimes molest,
Needs not the Moor's envenomed dart,
To guard his guiltless breast.
Safe he may range Getulia's sands,
Virtue and Peace his guides,
Or where the desart Garma stands,
Or famed Hydaspes glides.
Late, as I ranged the Sabine Grove,
Beyond my usual bounds,
And, void of care, I sang my Love,
In soft melodious sounds,
Sudden I met, without defence,
A Wolf in fierceness bred;
But, awed by peaceful innocence,
The savage monster fled.
Not scorched Numidia's thirsty fields,
Where tawny Lions feed,
Nor warlike Daunia's dreary wilds,
So dire a monster breed.
Remove me far from cheerful day,
To night and endless shades,
Where not a bright celestial ray
The awful gloom pervades:
Or place me near the solar blaze,
Beneath the burning Zone,
Where no refreshing breeze allays
The influence of the Sun.
Still shall the memory of my Love,
Her soft enchanting smile,
Her charming voice, my woes remove,
And all my cares beguile.