Shines out unveil’d, and on the cloud’s dark fleece
Rests;--but her strengthen’d beams appear to increase
The wild disorder of this troubled night.
Redoubling echoes seem yet more to excite
The roaring winds and waters!--Ah! why cease
Resolves, that promis’d everlasting peace,
And drew my steps to this incumbent height?
I wish!--I shudder!--stretch my longing arms
O’er the steep cliff!--My swelling spirits brave
The leap, that quiets all these dire alarms,
And floats me tossing on yon stormy wave!
But Oh! what roots my feet?--what spells, what charms
The daring purpose of my soul enslave?
SONNET XC.
SUBJECT CONTINUED.
My hour is not yet come!--these burning eyes
Have not yet look’d their last!--else, ’mid the roar
Of this wild Storm, what gloomy joy to pour
My freed, exhaling soul!--sublime to rise,
Rend the conflicting clouds, inflame the skies,
And lash the torrents!--Bending to explore
Our evening seat, my straining eye once more
Roves the wide wat’ry waste;--but nought descries
Save the pale flood, o’erwhelming as it strays.
Yet Oh! lest my remorseless fate decree
That all I love, with life’s extinguished rays
Sink from my soul, to sooth this agony,
To balm that life, whose loss may forfeit thee,
Come dear Remembrance of Departed Days
SONNET XCI.
On the fleet streams, the sun, that late arose,
In amber radiance plays;--the tall young grass
No 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 woes
Weigh on my heart!--the joys, that once were mine,
Spring leads not back;--and those that yet remain
Fade while she blooms.--Each hour more lovely shine
Her crystal beams, and feed her floral train;
But ah with pale, and waning fires, decline
Those eyes, whose light my filial hopes sustain.
SONNET XCII.
Behold that tree in Autumn’s dim decay,
Stript by the frequent, chill, and eddying wind;
Where yet some yellow, lonely leaves we find
Lingering and trembling on the naked spray,
Twenty, perchance, for millions whirl’d away!
Emblem, alas! too just, of human kind!
Vain Man expects longevity, design’d
For few indeed; and their protracted day
What is it worth that Wisdom does not scorn?
The blasts of Sickness, Care, and Grief appal,
That laid the friends in dust, whose natal morn
Rose near their own!--and solemn is the call;--
Yet, like those weak, deserted leaves forlorn,
Shivering they cling to life, and fear to fall
SONNET XCIII.
Yon soft star, peering o’er the sable cloud,
Sheds its green lustre thro’ the darksome air.--[98]
Haply in that mild planet’s crystal sphere
Live the freed spirits, o’er whose timeless shroud
Swell’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’er
Your 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.
SONNET XCIV.
All is not right with him, who ill sustains
Retirement’s silent hours.--Himself he flies,
Perchance from that insipid equipoise,
Which always with the hapless mind remains
That feels no native bias; never gains
One energy of will, that does not rise
From some external cause, to which he hies
From his own blank inanity.--When reigns,
With a strong cultur’d mind, this wretched hate
To commune with himself, from thought that tells
Of some lost joy, or dreaded stroke of fate
He struggles to escape;--or sense that dwells
On secret guilt towards GOD, or Man, with weight,
Thrice dire, the self-exiling flight impels.
SONNET XCV.
On the damp margin of the sea-beat shore
Lonely at eve to wander;--or reclined
Beneath a rock, what time the rising wind
Mourns o’er the waters, and, with solemn roar,
Vast billows into caverns surging pour,
And back recede alternate; while combin’d
Loud 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 mounds
Staying the furious main, delight has cast
O’er my rapt spirit, and my thrilling heart,
Dear as the softer joys green vales impart.
SONNET XCVI.
The breathing freshness of the shining morn,
Whose beams glance yellow on the distant fields,
A sweet, unutterable pleasure yields
To my dejected sense, that turns with scorn
From the light joys of dissipation born.
Sacred Remembrance all my bosom shields
Against each glittering lance she gaily wields,
Warring with fond regrets, that silent mourn
The heart’s dear comforts lost.--But, Nature, thou,
Thou art resistless still;--and yet I ween
Thy present balmy gales, and vernal blow,
To Memory owe the magic of their scene;
For with such fragrant breath, such orient rays,
Shone the soft mornings of my youthful days.
SONNET XCVII.
TO A COFFIN-LID.
LICHFIELD, MARCH 1790.
Thou silent door of our eternal sleep,
Sickness, and pain, debility, and woes,
All the dire train of ills existence knows,
Thou shuttest out for ever!--Why then weep
This fix’d tranquillity,--so long!--so deep!
In a dear Father’s clay-cold form?--where rose
No energy, enlivening Health bestows,
Thro’ many a tedious year, that used to creep
In languid deprivation; while the flame
Of intellect, resplendent once confess’d,
Dark, and more dark, each passing day became.
Now that angelic lights the Soul invest,
Calm let me yield to thee a joyless frame,
Thou silent Door of Everlasting Rest.
SONNET XCVIII.
Since my griev’d mind some energy regains,
Industrious habits can, at times, repress
The weight of filial woe, the deep distress
Of life-long separation; yet its pains,
Oft do they throb along these fever’d veins.--
My rest has lost its balm, the fond caress
Wont the dear aged forehead to impress
At midnight, as he slept;--nor now obtains
My uprising the blest news, that could impart
Joy to the morning, when its dawn had brought
Some health to that weak frame, o’er which my heart
With fearful fondness yearn’d and anxious thought.--
Time, and the Hope that robs the mortal dart
Of its fell sting, shall cheer me--as they ought.
SONNET XCIX.
ON THE VIOLENT THUNDER STORMS,
DECEMBER 1790.
Remorseless Winter! in thy iron reign
Comes the loud whirlwind, on thy pinion borne;
The long, long night,--the tardy, leaden morn;
The grey frost, riv’ling lane, and hill, and plain;
Chill silent snows, and heavy pattering rain.
These are thy known allies;--and life forlorn,
Yet patient, droops, nor breathes repinings vain;
But now, usurper, thou hast madly torn
From 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 splendours o’er his night,
To poise the pleasures of his golden day,
Soft gales, blue skies, and long-protracted light.
SONNET C.
WRITTEN DECEMBER 1790.
Lyre of the Sonnet, that full many a time
Amus’d my lassitude, and sooth’d my pains,
When graver cares forbade the lengthen’d strains,
To thy brief bound, and oft-returning chime
A long farewell!--the splendid forms of rhyme
When grief in lonely orphanism reigns,
Oppress the drooping soul.--Death’s dark domains
Throw mournful shadows o’er the Æonian clime;
For in their silent bourne my filial bands
Lie all dissolv’d;--and swiftly-wasting pour
From my frail glass of life, health’s sparkling sands.
Sleep then, my Lyre, thy tuneful tasks are o’er;
Sleep! for my heart bereav’d, and listless hands,
Wake with rapt touch thy glowing strings no more!
PARAPHRASES AND IMITATIONS
OF
HORACE.
Translations scrupulously faithful are apt to be stiff, vapid, and
obscure, from the often irreconcileably 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 power so to
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 that
public abuse are 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.
ODES FROM HORACE.
TO MÆCENAS.
BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE FIRST.
I.
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 soils
His burning cheek and tangled hair!
Mark how he spreads the palm, that crown’d his toils!
Each look the throbbing hope reveals
That his fleet steeds and kindling wheels,
Swept round the skilfully-avoided goal,
Shall with illustrious chiefs his echo’d name enrol.
II.
Who the civic crown obtains,
Or bears into his granaries large
The 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.
I.
The stormy south howls thro’ the sullen cloud,
Contending billows roar aloud!
The merchant sees the gathering danger rise,
And sends a thousand yearning sighs
To his dear shelter’d home.--
Its shades receive him;--but the tides
Grow smooth;--the wild winds cease to roam;
And see!--his new-trimm’d vessel gaily rides!--
Fir’d with the hope of wealth, once more
He quits, so hardly gain’d, the shore;
Watches, with eager eye, th’ unfurling sail,
Nor casts one look behind to the safe, sylvan vale.
II.
The youth of gay, luxurious taste,[99]
Breaks, in the arbutus’ 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 stream
Courts him, as gently the green bank it laves
To blend th’ enfevering draught with its pellucid waves.
I.
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-land Chase desired,
Far other sound 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 inhale
The tainted breeze, or hold the stag at bay,
Or while, from his strong toils, the wild boar bursts away.
II.
Thee bright Learning’s ivy crown[100]
Exalts above a mortal fate;
Me shady 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 the Lyric Choir,
To Glory’s starry heights thy Poet would aspire.--
TO
PYRRHA.
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 odours lave,
Woos thee, exulting in a transient joy?
For whom the simple band dost thou prepare,
That slightly fastens back thy golden hair?
Alas! how soon shall this devoted youth
Love’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,
Ingenuous looks, and ever facile smiles!
He, inexperienc’d mariner! shall gaze
In wild amazement on the stormy deep,
Recall the flattery of those sunny days,
That lull’d each ruder wind to calmest sleep.
’Twas 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,
The walls of Neptune’s fane inscrib’d, declare[101]
That I have dank and dropping garments hung,
Devoted to the GOD, whose kind decree
Snatch’d me to shore, from an o’erwhelming sea.
TO
MUNATIUS PLANCUS.[102]
BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE SEVENTH.
Be far-famed Rhodes the theme of loftier strains,[103]
Or Mitylene, as their bard decrees;[104]
Or Ephesus, where great Diana reigns,
Or Corinth, towering ’twixt the rival seas;
Or Thebes, illustrious in thy birth divine,
Purpureal Bacchus;--or of Phœbus’ shrine,
Delphos oracular; or warbling hail
Thessalian Tempe’s flower-embroider’d vale.
The art-crown’d city, chaste Minerva’s pride,
There are, whose endless numbers have pourtray’d;
They, to each tree that spreads its branches wide,
Prefer the tawny Olive’s scanty shade.[105]
Many, in Juno’s honour, sing thy meads,
Green Argos, glorying in thy agile steeds;
Or opulent Mycene, whose proud fanes
The blood of murder’d AGAMEMNON stains.
Nor patient Lacedæmon wakes my lyre,
Who trains her sons to all the warrior’s toil;
Nor me Larissa’s airy graces fire,[106]
Tho’ round her hills the golden vallies smile:
But my loved mansion, ’mid the circling wood,
On the green bank of clear Albunea’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 grove
Sink in the vales, or sweep along the hills.
Ah, friend! if round my cell such graces shine,[107]
The Palace of 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 vapour 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 ordain
The 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 the Present, and the Past forget!
The walls of Salamis when TEUCER fled,
Driven by a parent’s unrelenting frown,
Hope from his spirit chased 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 friend
“Than 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 favouring skies,
“Another prosp’rous Salamis shall 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.”
TO
LYDIA.
BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE EIGHTH.
O, LYDIA! I conjure thee tell
Why, with persisting zeal, thou dost employ
The strongest power of amorous spell
On Sybaris, belov’d too well,
Wounding his fame amid voluptuous joy?
Why shuns he now the noon-tide glare,
Inur’d to whirling dust, and scorching heat?
Ceases the warrior-vest to wear
In which he us’d, with graceful air,
Aspiring youths, all emulous, to meet?
Why is it now no more his pride
To rein the ardent horse with agile arm?
With new-strung sinews to divide
The yellow Tyber’s angry tide,
When the tempestuous showers its rage alarm?
Why hates he, as the viper’s gore,
The wrestler’s oil, that supples every vein?
Why do we see his arms no more
With livid bruises spotted o’er,
Of manly sports the honourable stain?
’Twas his to whirl, with matchless skill,
The glancing quoit, the certain javelin throw,
While crowds, with acclamations shrill,
The lofty circus joy’d to fill,
And all the honours of the day bestow.
Such fond seclusion why desire?--
Thus Thetis’ care her blooming son conceal’d,
Ere yet commenc’d that contest dire,
When mournful gleam’d the funeral pyre,
Thro’ ten long years, on Ilium’s purpled field.
In vain the female vest he wore,
That Love maternal might avert his fate;
Lest his spear drink the Lycian gore,
Lest sinking Troy his force deplore,
And Death with Glory meet him at her gate.
TO
THALIARCHUS.[108]
BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE NINTH.
In dazzling whiteness, lo! Soracte towers,
As all the mountain were one heap of snow!
Rush from the loaded woods the glittering showers;
The frost-bound waters can no longer flow.
Let plenteous billets, on the glowing hearth,
Dissolve the ice-dart ere it reach thy veins;
Bring mellow wines to prompt convivial mirth,
Nor heed th’ arrested streams, or slippery plains.
High Heaven, resistless in his varied sway,
Speaks!--The wild elements contend no more;
Nor then, from raging seas, the foamy spray
Climbs the dark rocks, or curls upon the shore.
And peaceful then yon aged ash shall stand;
In breathless calm the dusky cypress rise;
To-morrow’s destiny the Gods command,
To-day is thine;--enjoy it, and be wise!
Youth’s radiant tide too swiftly rolls away;
Now, in its flow, let pleasures round thee bloom;
Join the gay dance, awake the melting lay,
Ere hoary tresses blossom for the tomb!
Spears, and the steed, in busy camps impel;
And, when the early darkness veils the groves,
Amid the leafless boughs let whispers steal,
While frolic Beauty seeks the near alcoves.
Soft as thy tip-toe steps the mazes rove,
A laugh, half-smother’d, thy pleas’d ear shall meet,
And, sportive in the charming wiles of love,
Betray the artifice of coy retreat;
And then the ring, or, from her snowy arm,
The promis’d bracelet may thy force employ;
Her feign’d reluctance, height’ning every charm,
Shall add new value to the ravish’d toy.
TO
LEUCONOE.
BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE ELEVENTH.
LEUCONOE, cease presumptuous to inquire
Of grave diviner, if successive years
Onward shall roll, ere yet the funeral pyre,
For thee and me, the hand of Friendship rears!
Ah rather meet, with gay and vacant brow,
Whatever youth, and time, health, love, and fate allow;
If many winters on the naked trees
Drop in our sight the paly wreaths of frost,
Or this for us the last, that from the seas
Hurls the loud flood on the resounding coast.--
Short since thou know’st the longest vital line,
Nurse the near hope, and pour the rosy wine.
E’en while we speak, our swiftly-passing youth
Stretches its wing to cold Oblivion’s shore;
Then shall the future terrify, or sooth,
Whose secrets no vain foresight can explore?
The Morrow’s faithless promise disavow,
And seize, thy only boast, the Golden Now.
TO
APOLLO.
BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE THIRTY-FIRST.
What asks the Poet, when he pours
His first libation in the Delphic Bowers?
Duteous before the altar standing,
With lively hope his soul expanding,
O! what demands he, when the crimson wine
Flows sparkling from the vase, and laves the golden shrine?
Not the rich and swelling grain
That yellows o’er Sardinia’s isle;
Nor snowy herds, slow winding thro’ the plain,
When warm Calabria’s rosy mornings smile;
Nor gold, nor gems, that India yields,
Nor yet those fair and fertile fields,
Which, thro’ their flow’ry banks as calm he glides;
The silent Liris’ azure stream divides.[109]
Let those, for whom kind fortune still
Leads lavish tendrils o’er the sloping hill,
Let such, with care their vineyard dressing,
Their bursting grapes assiduous pressing,
Gather, self-gratulant, the costly store,
And of the future year propitious suns implore!
May luscious wines, in cups of gold,
Oft for the wealthy merchant flow!
Nor let cold Thrift those plenteous draughts with-hold
That prosperous Commerce shall again bestow.
The flowing bowl he safely drains,
Since every favouring God ordains
That more than once, within the circling year,[110]
His prow shall o’er the smooth Atlantic steer.
Me, let tawny olives feed!
Me, lenient mallows from the simple mead!
Son of Latona, grant the blessing,
That, a cloudless mind possessing,
And not infirm of frame, in soft decay,
Cheer’d by the breathing lyre, my life may pass away!
TO HIS
ATTENDANT.
BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE THIRTY-EIGHTH.
Boy, not in these Autumnal bowers
Shalt thou the Persian vest dispose,
Of artful fold, and rich brocade;
Nor tie in gaudy knots the sprays and flowers.
Ah! search not where the latest rose
Yet lingers, in the sunny glade;
Plain be the vest, and simple be the braid!
I charge thee, with the myrtle wreath
Not one resplendent bloom entwine;
We both become that modest band,
As stretch’d my vineyard’s ample shade beneath,
Jocund I quaff the rosy wine;
While near me thou shalt smiling stand,
And fill the sparkling cup with ready hand.
TO
SALLUST.
BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE SECOND.
Dark in the Miser’s chest in hoarded heaps,
Can gold, my SALLUST, one true joy bestow,
Where sullen, dim, and valueless it sleeps,
Whose worth, whose charms, from circulation flow?
Ah! then it shines attractive on the thought,
Rises, with such resistless influence fraught
As puts to flight pale Fear, and Scruple cold,
Till Life, e’en Life itself, becomes less dear than Gold.
Rome, of this power aware, thy honour’d name
O Proculeius! ardently adores,
Since thou did’st bid thy ruin’d brothers claim
A filial right in all thy well-earn’d stores.--
To make the good deed deathless as the great,
Yet fearing for her plumes Icarian fate,[111]
This record, Fame, of precious trust aware,
Shall long, on cautious wing, solicitously bear.
And thou, my SALLUST, more complete thy sway,
Restraining the insatiate lust of gain,
Than should’st thou join, by Conquest’s proud essay,
Iberia’s hills to Libya’s sandy plain;
Than if the Carthage sultry Afric boasts,
With that which smiles on Europe’s lovelier coasts,
Before the Roman arms, led on by thee,
Should bow the yielding head, the tributary knee.