Nor Polyhymnia deny

Her harp of Lesbian melody.
So to the stars I shall aspire,

By thee enrolled among the lyric quire.'

Lord Ravensworth.

TO PYRRHA.

What slender youth, bedew'd with liquid odors,
Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave,
Pyrrha? For whom bind'st thou

In wreaths thy golden hair,

Plain in thy neatness? O, how oft shall he
On faith and changed gods complain, and seas,
Rough with black winds, and storms
Unwonted shall admire!

Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold,
Who always vacant, always amiable

Hopes thee, of flattering gales
Unmindful. Hapless they,

To whom thou untried seem'st fair! Me, in my vow'd
Picture, the sacred wall declares to have hung

My dank and dropping weeds

To the stern God of Sea.

TO PYRRHA.

SECOND VERSION.

Milton.

Say, Pyrrha, say, what slender boy,

With locks all dropping balm, on roses laid,
Doth now with thee in pleasant grotto toy?
For whom dost thou thine amber tresses braid,

Array'd with simple elegance?

Alas! alas! How oft shall he deplore?

The alter'd gods, and thy perfidious glance,

And, new to danger, shrink, when sea waves roar,

Chafed by the surly winds, who now

Enjoyeth thee, all golden as thou art;

And hopes, fond fool! through every change, that thou

Wilt welcome him as fondly to thy heart!

This ode is upon Horace's favorite subject-the diversity of tastes and employments in human life, upon the chances and changes of which he seems never to be weary of moralizing.

Nor doth not know, how shift the while

The fairest gales beneath the sunniest skies;
Unhappy he, who weeting not thy guile,

Basks in the sunshine of thy flattering eyes!

My votive tablet, duly set

Against the temple's wall, doth witness keep,
That I, whilere, my vestments dank and wet
Hung at the shrine of Him that rules the deep.

Martin.

TO PYRRHA.

THIRD VERSION.

What youth, O Pyrrha! blooming fair,
With rose-twined wreath and perfumed hair,
Woos thee beneath yon grotto's shade,
Urgent in prayer and amorous glance?
For whom dost thou thy tresses braid,
Simple in thine elegance?

Alas! full soon shall he deplore

Thy broken faith, thine altered mien:
Like one astonished at the roar

Of breakers on a leeward shore,
Whom gentle airs and skies serene
Had tempted on the treacherous deep,
So he thy perfidy shall weep

Who now enjoys thee fair and kind,
But dreams not of the shifting wind.

Thrice wretched they, deluded and betrayed,
Who trust thy glittering smile and Siren tongue!
I have escaped the shipwreck, and have hung
In Neptune's fane my dripping vest displayed
With votive tablet on his altar laid,

Thanking the sea-god for his timely aid.'

Lord Ravensworth.

1

TO LYDIA.

Why, Lydia, why,

I pray, by all the gods above,

Art so resolved that Sybaris should die,

And all for love?

"This inimitable ode has been rendered famous in English literature by Milton's version; but at the risk of provoking unfriendly remarks from that class of critics who take the safe course of founding all their approval upon acknowledged excellence and authority, I must repeat the opinion expressed in my Preface, that this single effort of our greatest poet, in the way of translation, is a failure."-Lord Ravensworth.

460

HORACE

Why doth he shun

The Campus Martius' sultry glare?

[B. c. 65-8.

He that once reck'd of neither dust nor sun,
Why rides he there,

First of the brave,

Taming the Gallic steed no more?

Why doth he shrink from Tiber's yellow wave?
Why thus abhor

The wrestler's oil,

As 'twere from viper's tongue distill'd?

Why do his arms no livid bruises soil,

He, once so skill'd,

The disk or dart

Far, far beyond the mark to hurl?

And tell me, tell me, in what nook apart,

Like baby-girl,

Lurks the poor boy,

Veiling his manhood, as did Thetis' son,
To 'scape war's bloody clang, while fated Troy
Was yet undone?

Martin.

TO LYDIA.

SECOND VERSION.

By all the gods that we adore,
Lydia, tell me, I implore,
Why thou hastenest to destroy
Sybaris, that impassioned boy?

Why hates he now the dusty plain,
Patient late of sun and rain?
Why in military pride

Hath he ceased with friends to ride,
And why, apparelled for the course,
Stands in stall his eager horse?
Why cares he now no more to lave
His limbs in yellow Tiber's wave,
And shuns the oiled wrestler's ring,
Worse than the viper's venomed sting?
No more his stalwart shoulders feel
The weighty breastplate's polished steel;
No more he proudly vaunts his art
With whirling quoit or whizzing dart :
Why skulks he thus, like Thetis' boy,
Far from the fated towers of Troy,
For fear the manly garb and arms
Should hurry him to war's alarms?

Lord Ravensworth.

Receive, dear friend, the truths I teach
So shalt thou live beyond the reach
Of adverse Fortune's power;
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep
Along the treacherous shore.

He that holds fast the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between

Martin.

The little and the great,

Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,
Embittering all his state.

The tallest pines feel most the power
Of wintry blasts; the loftiest tower
Comes heaviest to the ground;

The bolts that spare the mountain's side,
His cloud-capt eminence divide,
And spread the ruin round.

The well-inform'd philosopher
Rejoices with an wholesome fear,
And hopes, in spite of pain;

If Winter bellow from the north,
Soon the sweet Spring comes dancing forth,
And Nature laughs again.

What if thine heaven be overcast?
The dark appearance will not last;
Expect a brighter sky;

The god, that strings the silver bow,
Awakes sometimes the Muses too,
And lays his arrows by.

If hindrances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,

And let thy strength be seen;
But oh! if Fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,
Take half thy canvas in.'

Cowper.

L

TO DELLIUS.

Dellius! since all are born to die,
Remember, in adversity,

To show thyself resigned;

Nor less when Fortune's favoring gale
Impels thy bark with swelling sail,

Maintain a placid mind.

Cowper makes the following just and beautiful reflections on the above Ode:

And is this all? Can reason do no more

Than bid me shun the deep and dread the shore?

Sweet moralist! afloat on life's rough sea

The Christian has an art unknown to thee;

He holds no parley with unmanly fears,

Where duty bids he confidently steers;
Faces a thousand dangers at her call,

And, trusting in his God, surmounts them all.