Original sonnets on various subjects; and odes paraphrased from Horace Part 20

Thus can l.u.s.t of gold controul, Tho' the Heart urge a wiser choice, By force of habit lord it o'er the Soul, And stifle e'en Conviction's powerful voice.

See, with sighs the Miser yield The promis'd joys of wood, and field; Against experienc'd disappointment, try With Gold to purchase _that_, which Gold can never buy!

1: The Reader will remember, that in the course of these Paraphrases the design has been _avowed_ of stretching the pictures of Horace upon a _wider_ canva.s.s, of filling up what are so often mere outlines. If learned eyes ever glance over this Ode, it is hoped they will not _frown_ upon the many circ.u.mstances and reflections which have been _added_, upon a presumption, induced by the pleasing nature of the subject, since the Roman customs and manners are preserved with fidelity. Those customs and manners, resulting from their festal, gay, and picturesque Religion, cannot surely be presented without proving interesting. Yet, to _create_ this interest, _stronger_ and more _circ.u.mstantial_ description seems required than can be found in Horace, if the Paraphraser may be allowed to judge of the poetic feelings of others by her own. It was doubtless sufficient for his contemporary Readers, and for those of some succeeding Generations, that he slightly alluded to events and ceremonies, which were familiar to _their_ recollection. In _our_ day more precision is demanded, at least by those who have poetic taste without knowledge of the dead languages, or intimacy with the national and domestic customs of that Time, and of that People. Also, to strengthen this necessary interest in the mind of the Reader, it must be eligible to infuse a more liberal portion of those sentiments and ideas, which speak to the Heart in _every_ Age, and in every Climate.

To _Scholars_ the fascinating music of the Latin tones and measures, and the elegance with which Horace knew to select, and to regulate them, recompense the obscurity which is so frequent in his allusions, and in the violence of his transitions from one subject to another, between which the line of connexion is with difficulty traced. What is called a _faithful_ translation of these Odes cannot, therefore, be interesting to _unlearned_ Lovers of Verse, how alive soever they may be to _poetic beauty_.--A literal translation in the plainest prose, will always shew the precise quant.i.ty of real poetic matter, contained in _any_ Production, independent of the music of its intonation, and numbers, and the elegance of its style.--The prose translations of Horace' Odes evince that their merit does not consist in the _plenitude_ of poetic matter, or essence, const.i.tuted by circ.u.mstances of startling interest, by exalted sentiment, impa.s.sioned complaint, or appeal, distinct and living imagery, happy apposite allusion, and sublime metaphor; but in certain elegant verbal felicities and general charm of style, produced by the force and sweetness of the Latin Language, subservient to the fine ear, the lively and exquisite taste of Horace. These are the graces which we find so apt to _evaporate_ in Translation, while genuine POETIC MATTER, as defined above, is capable of being transfused into any other Language without losing a _particle_ of its excellence, provided the Chemist, who undertakes the operation, has genius and skill. The more this POETIC MATTER in an Author abounds, the more close and faithful a Translator, who has judgment, may venture to render his version--but to transfuse merely _verbal_ felicities into another Language is an attempt scarcely less fruitless than to clasp the Rainbow. A kindred _nothingness_, as to poetic _value_, ensues.

There _is_, however, a considerable, though not _abounding_ quant.i.ty of poetic matter, or essence in Horace; but it bears no proportion to the profusion of those evanescent glories, which will not bear the grasp of another Language. To give that essence in increased quant.i.ty, and in the freedom of unimitative numbers, is attempted in this selection. Dryden and Pope translated upon that plan, and hence their Paraphrases have the spirit of original Poems.

Ere this note closes, its Author desires to observe, that Painters cannot take a striking likeness of a face, in which there is no _predominant_ feature, and the Poet can only make his image, or description, distinct, animated, and forcible, by bringing forward some characteristic trait of the object he is presenting.

When Horace says in this Ode, "How pleasing is it to see the well-fed sheep hastening home," the observation is not _picturesque_, and therefore does not strongly impress the Imagination; but when he adds--"to see the _weary Oxen dragging, with languid neck, the inverted Ploughshare_," he gives perhaps the most poetic feature in this Ode. Had he only said, "to see the Oxen returning from their labor," his Oxen had been as much without character as his Sheep, and the sentence must have pa.s.sed unimpressive over the mind of the Reader. It is the words--_dragging, with languid_ neck, the inverted ploughshare, that makes the sentence _Poetry_, and empowers it to arrest and charm the fancy. Had Horace always written thus, undeviating fidelity had been the best aim of his Translator, and the sure way of rendering him delightful in every Language.

2: Dacier observes that Vines supported on the _highest_ Trees produce Wines of the most exquisite flavor.

3: The feast of Terminus, one of the rural G.o.ds, was held on the first of February, at which time, in those warm climates, the spring is very forward.

4: The Romans fancied that the struggle and terror of a kid on being seized by the Wolf, made its flesh more tender.

5: _Ides_, the middle of a month.

6: _Calends_, the beginning of the next month.

TO NEAERA.

BOOK THE FIFTH, EPODE THE FIFTEENTH.

'T was night--the moon, upon her sapphire throne, High o'er the waning stars serenely shone, When thou, false Nymph, determin'd to prophane Them, and each Power that rules the earth, and main, As thy soft, snowy arms about me twin'd, Close as round oaks the clasping ivies wind, Swore, while the gaunt wolf shall infest the lea, And red Orion vex the wintry sea, While gales shall fan Apollo's floating locks, That shed their golden light o'er hills and rocks, So long thy breast should burn with purest fires, With mutual hopes, and with unchang'd desires.

Perjur'd Neaera! thou shalt one day prove The worth, the vengeance of my slighted love; For O! if Manhood steels, if Honor warms, Horace shall fly, shall scorn thy faithless charms; Seek some bright Maid, whose soul for him shall glow, Nor art, nor pride, nor wandering wishes know.

Then should'st thou languish, sigh, and weep once more, And with new vows his injur'd heart implore, Nor sighs, nor vows, nor tears shall he regard Cold as the snow and as the marble hard.

And THOU, triumphant Youth, so gay, so vain, Proud of my fate, exulting in my pain, Tho' on thy hills the plenteous Herd should feed, And rich Pactolus roll along thy mead; For thee tho' Science ope the varied store, And Beauty on thy form its graces pour, Ere long shalt thou, while wrongs like these degrade, Droop with my woes, and with my rage upbraid; See on a Rival's brow thy garlands worn, And, with her falsehood, bear my jocund scorn.

TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE,

ON THEIR RENEWING THE CIVIL WARS.

BOOK THE FIFTH, ODE THE SEVENTH.

Where do ye rush, ye impious Trains, Why gleams afar the late-sheath'd sword?

Is it believ'd that Roman veins Their crimson tides have _sparely_ pour'd?

Is not our scorn of safety, health, and ease, Shewn by devasted climes, and blood-stain'd seas?

Those scowling brows, those lifted spears, Bend they against the threat'ning towers Proud Carthage emulously rears?

Or Britain's still unconquer'd sh.o.r.es?

That her fierce Sons, yet free from hostile sway, May pa.s.s in chains along our SACRED WAY?

No!--but that warring Parthia's curse May quickly blast these far-famed Walls; _Accomplish'd_ when, with direful force, By her _own_ strength the City falls; When Foes no more her might resistless feel, But Roman bosoms bleed by Roman steel.

O! worse than Wolves, or Lions fierce, Who ne'er, like you, a.s.sault their kind!

By what wild phrenzy would ye pierce Each other's breast in fury blind?-- Silent, and pale ye stand, with conscious sighs, Your struck soul louring in your down-cast eyes!

The blood our rising walls that stain'd, Shed by the [1]ruthless Fratricide, High Heaven's avenging power ordain'd Should spread the rage of discord wide, Bid kindred Blood in dread profusion flow Thro' darken'd years of expiatory woe.

1: Romulus, who killed his Brother Remus, for ridiculing his Wall by leaping over it.

_FINIS._