"H_oratius Flaccus_, B.C. 8,"
T_here's not a doubt about the date_,--
Y_ou're dead and buried_:
A_s you observed, the seasons roll_;
A_nd 'cross the Styx full many a soul_
H_as Charon ferried_,
S_ince, mourned of men and Muses nine_,
T_hey laid you on the Esquiline_.
A_nd that was centuries ago!_
Y_ou'd think we'd learned enough, I know_,
T_o help refine us_,
S_ince last you trod the Sacred Street_,
A_nd tacked from mortal fear to meet_
T_he bore Crispinus_;
O_r, by your cold Digentia, set_
T_he web of winter birding-net_.
O_urs is so far-advanced an age!_
S_ensation tales, a classic stage_,
C_ommodious villas!_
W_e boast high art, an Albert Hall_,
A_ustralian meats, and men who call_
T_heir sires gorillas!_
W_e have a thousand things, you see_,
N_ot dreamt in your philosophy_.
A_nd yet, how strange! Our "world," today_,
T_ried in the scale, would scarce outweigh_
Y_our Roman cronies_;
W_alk in the Park,--you'll seldom fail_
T_o find a Sybaris on the rail_
B_y Lydia's ponies_,
O_r hap on Barrus, wigged and stayed_,
O_gling some unsuspecting maid_.
T_he great Gargilius, then, behold!_
H_is "long-bow" hunting tales of old_
A_re now but duller_;
F_air Neobule too! Is not_
O_ne Hebrus here,--from Aldershot?_
A_ha, you colour!_
B_e wise. There old Canidia sits_;
N_o doubt she's tearing you to bits_.
A_nd look, dyspeptic, brave, and kind_,
C_omes dear Maecenas, half behind_
T_erentia's skirting_;
H_ere's Pyrrha, "golden-haired" at will_;
P_rig Damasippus, preaching still_;
A_sterie flirting_,--
R_adiant, of course. We'll make her black_,--
A_sk her when Gyges' ship comes back_.
S_o with the rest. Who will may trace_
B_ehind the new each elder face_
D_efined as clearly_;
S_cience proceeds, and man stands still_;
O_ur "world" today's as good or ill_,--
A_s cultured_ (_nearly_),
A_s yours was, Horace! You alone_,
U_nmatched, unmet, we have not known_.
But it is not only to comparatively independent creation that we must
look. The dynamic power of Horace is to be found at work even in the
translation of the poet. The fact that he has had more translators than
any other poet, ancient or modern, is itself an evidence of
inspirational quality, but a greater proof lies in the variety and
character of his translators and the quality of their achievement. A
list of those who have felt in this way the stirrings of the Horatian
spirit would include the names not only of many great men of letters,
but of many great men of affairs, whose successes are to be counted
among examples of genuine inspiration. Translation at its best is not
mere craftsmanship, but creation,--in Roscommon's lines,
'T_is true, composing is the Nobler Part_,
B_ut good Translation is no easy Art_.
Theodore Martin's rendering of I. 21, _To a Jar of Wine_, already quoted
in part, is an example. Another brilliant success is Sir Stephen E. De
Vere's I. 31, _Prayer to Apollo_, quoted in connection with the poet's
religious attitude. No less felicitous are Conington's spirited twelve
lines, reproducing III. 26, _Vixi puellis_: