The best built bark that cleaves the watery way,
Laid useless by, would moulder and decay,—
No hope remains that time shall me restore,
Mean as I was, to what I was before.
Think how a series of desponding cares
Benumbs the genius and its force impairs.
How oft, as now, on this devoted sheet,
My verse constrain'd to move with measured feet,
Reluctant and laborious limps along,
And proves itself a wretched exile's song.
What is it tunes the most melodious lays?
'Tis emulation and the thirst of praise,
A noble thirst, and not unknown to me,
While smoothly wafted on a calmer sea.
But can a wretch like Ovid pant for fame?
No, rather let the world forget my name.
Is it because that world approved my strain,
You prompt me to the same pursuit again?
No, let the Nine the ungrateful truth excuse,
I charge my hopeless ruin on the Muse,
And, like Perillus, meet my just desert,
The victim of my own pernicious art;
Fool that I was to be so warn'd in vain,
And shipwreck'd once, to tempt the deep again!
Ill fares the bard in this unletter'd land,
None to consult, and none to understand.
The purest verse has no admirers here,
Their own rude language only suits their ear.
Rude as it is, at length familiar grown,
I learn it, and almost unlearn my own ;—
Yet to say truth, even here the Muse disdains
Confinement, and attempts her former strains,
But finds the strong desire is not the power,
And what her taste condemns, the flames devour.
A part, perhaps, like this, escapes the doom,
And though unworthy, finds a friend at Rome;
But oh the cruel art, that could undo
Its votary thus! would that could perish too!
Vides, ut altâ stet nive candidum
Soructe;
SEEST thou yon mountain laden with deep snow,
The groves beneath their fleecy burthen bow,
The streams, congeal'd, forget to flow;
Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile
Of fuel on the hearth;
Broach the best cask, and make old Winter smile
With seasonable mirth.
This be our part,-let Heaven dispose the rest;
If Jove command, the winds shall sleep
That now wage war upon the foamy deep,
And gentle gales spring from the balmy west.
Even let us shift to-morrow as we may,
When to-morrow's pass'd away,
We at least shall have to say,
We have lived another day;
Your auburn locks will soon be silver'd o'er,
is at our heels, and youth returns no more.
HOR. LIB. I. ODE XXXVIII.
Persicos odi, puer, apparatus.
Boy, I hate their empty shows;
Persian garlands I detest;
Bring not me the late-blown rose,
Lingering after all the rest.
Plainer myrtle pleases me,
Thus outstretch'd beneath my vine;
Myrtle more becoming thee,
Waiting with thy master's wine.
ANOTHER VERSION OF THE SAME ODE. Boy! I detest all Persian fopperies, Fillet-bound garlands are to me disgusting; Task not thyself with any search, I charge thee, Where latest roses linger;
Bring me alone, (for thou wilt find that readily,) Plain myrtle. Myrtle neither will disparage Thee occupied to serve me, or me drinking Beneath my
Otium Divos rogat in patenti.
weary merchant's prayer,
Who ploughs by night the Ægean flood,
When neither moon nor stars appear,
Or faintly glimmer through the cloud.
For ease the Mede with quiver graced,
For ease the Thracian hero sighs;
Delightful ease all pant to taste,
A blessing which no treasure buys.
For neither gold can lull to rest,
Nor all a Consul's guard beat off
The tumults of a troubled breast,
The cares that haunt a gilded roof.
Happy the man whose table shows
A few clean ounces of old plate,
No fear intrudes on his repose,
No sordid wishes to be great.
Poor short lived things, what plans we lay!
Ah, why forsake our native home,
To distant climates speed away,
For self sticks close where'er we roam!
Care follows hard and soon o'ertakes
The well rigg'd ship, the warlike steed; Her destined quarry ne'er forsakes;
Not the wind flies with half her speed.
From anxious fears of future ill
Guard well the cheerful, happy now;
Gild e'en your sorrows with a smile,
No blessing is unmix'd below.
Thy neighing steeds and lowing herds,
Thy numerous flocks around thee graze,
And the best purple Tyre affords
Thy robe magnificent displays.
On me indulgent Heaven bestow'd
A rural mansion, neat and small;
This lyre; and as for yonder crowd,
The happiness to hate them all.
TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF OWEN.
ON ONE IGNORANT AND ARROGANT.
THOU mayst of double ignorance boast,
Who know'st not, that thou nothing know'st.
PRUDENT SIMPLICITY.
THAT thou mayst injure no man, dove-like be,
And serpent-like, that none may injure thee!
TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS.
I WISH thy lot, now bad, still worse, my friend; For when at worst, they say, things always mend.
THE works of ancient bards divine,
Aulus, thou scorn'st to read;
And should posterity read thine,
It would be strange indeed!
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