Odes and Carmen Saeculare | Page 9

interval between the two has been too short to admit of my altering my judgment in any large number of instances; but I have been glad to employ the present opportunity in amending, as I hope, an occasional word or expression, and, in one or two cases, recasting a stanza. The notices which my book has received, and the opinions communicated by the kindness of friends, have been gratifying to me, both in themselves, and as showing the interest which is being felt in the subject of Horatian translation. It is not surprising that there should be considerable differences of opinion about the manner in which Horace is to be rendered, and also about the metre appropriate to particular Odes; but I need not say that it is through such discussion that questions like these advance towards settlement. It would indeed be a satisfaction to me to think that the question of translating Horace had been brought a step nearer to its solution by the experiment which I again venture to submit to the public.
PREFACE TO THIRD EDITION.
The changes which I have made in this impression of my translation are somewhat more numerous than those which I was able to introduce into the last, as might be expected from the longer interval between the times of publication; but the work may still be spoken of as substantially unaltered.
THE ODES OF HORACE.
BOOK I.
I.
MAECENAS ATAVIS.
Maecenas, born of monarch ancestors,?The shield at once and glory of my life!?There are who joy them in the Olympic strife?And love the dust they gather in the course;?The goal by hot wheels shunn'd, the famous prize,?Exalt them to the gods that rule mankind;?This joys, if rabbles fickle as the wind?Through triple grade of honours bid him rise,?That, if his granary has stored away?Of Libya's thousand floors the yield entire;?The man who digs his field as did his sire,?With honest pride, no Attalus may sway?By proffer'd wealth to tempt Myrtoan seas,?The timorous captain of a Cyprian bark.?The winds that make Icarian billows dark?The merchant fears, and hugs the rural ease?Of his own village home; but soon, ashamed?Of penury, he refits his batter'd craft.?There is, who thinks no scorn of Massic draught,?Who robs the daylight of an hour unblamed,?Now stretch'd beneath the arbute on the sward,?Now by some gentle river's sacred spring;?Some love the camp, the clarion's joyous ring,?And battle, by the mother's soul abhorr'd.?See, patient waiting in the clear keen air,?The hunter, thoughtless of his delicate bride,?Whether the trusty hounds a stag have eyed,?Or the fierce Marsian boar has burst the snare.?To me the artist's meed, the ivy wreath?Is very heaven: me the sweet cool of woods,?Where Satyrs frolic with the Nymphs, secludes?From rabble rout, so but Euterpe's breath?Fail not the flute, nor Polyhymnia fly?Averse from stringing new the Lesbian lyre.?O, write my name among that minstrel choir,?And my proud head shall strike upon the sky!
II.
JAM SATIS TERRIS.
Enough of snow and hail at last?The Sire has sent in vengeance down:?His bolts, at His own temple cast,
Appall'd the town,?Appall'd the lands, lest Pyrrha's time?Return, with all its monstrous sights,?When Proteus led his flocks to climb
The flatten'd heights,?When fish were in the elm-tops caught,?Where once the stock-dove wont to bide,?And does were floating, all distraught,
Adown the tide.?Old Tiber, hurl'd in tumult back?From mingling with the Etruscan main,?Has threaten'd Numa's court with wrack
And Vesta's fane.?Roused by his Ilia's plaintive woes,?He vows revenge for guiltless blood,?And, spite of Jove, his banks o'erflows,
Uxorious flood.?Yes, Fame shall tell of civic steel?That better Persian lives had spilt,?To youths, whose minish'd numbers feel
Their parents' guilt.?What god shall Rome invoke to stay?Her fall? Can suppliance overbear?The ear of Vesta, turn'd away
From chant and prayer??Who comes, commission'd to atone?For crime like ours? at length appear,?A cloud round thy bright shoulders thrown,
Apollo seer!?Or Venus, laughter-loving dame,?Round whom gay Loves and Pleasures fly;?Or thou, if slighted sons may claim
A parent's eye,?O weary--with thy long, long game,?Who lov'st fierce shouts and helmets bright,?And Moorish warrior's glance of flame
Or e'er he smite!?Or Maia's son, if now awhile?In youthful guise we see thee here,?Caesar's avenger--such the style
Thou deign'st to bear;?Late be thy journey home, and long?Thy sojourn with Rome's family;?Nor let thy wrath at our great wrong
Lend wings to fly.?Here take our homage, Chief and Sire;?Here wreathe with bay thy conquering brow,?And bid the prancing Mede retire,
Our Caesar thou!
III.
SIC TE DIVA.
Thus may Cyprus' heavenly queen,?Thus Helen's brethren, stars of brightest sheen,?Guide thee! May the Sire of wind?Each truant gale, save only Zephyr, bind!?So do thou, fair ship, that ow'st?Virgil, thy precious freight, to Attic coast,?Safe restore thy loan and whole,?And save from death the partner of my soul!?Oak and brass of triple fold?Encompass'd sure that heart, which first made bold?To the raging sea to trust?A fragile bark, nor fear'd the Afric gust?With its Northern mates at strife,?Nor Hyads' frown, nor South-wind fury-rife,?Mightiest power