ODE XV. BOOK I.
Written at Thirteen.
When o’er the seas the treach’rous shepherd bore
His lovely hostess, to the Dardan shore;
Lull’d was each wave, and hush’d each stormy breeze,
By Nereus soften’d to ingrateful ease;
That the dire fate to Priam’s race they bring,
Of mighty woes, the pitying god may sing.
“Ah! hapless Paris, in an evil day,
“Thou bear’st thy burthen from her home away.
“To break thy guilty ties, the Greeks conspire,
“And wrap thy father’s ancient realms in fire.10
“What labour trickles from each warlike face,
“Alas! what carnage dyes the Dardan race;
“Pallas prepares e’en now her flying car,
“The helm, the ægis, and desire of war!
“By guardian Venus’ soft assistance bold,
“In vain, you comb your flowing locks of gold;
“In vain, your finger sweeps th’ unwarlike string,
“And tender measures, loved by females, sing;
“In vain, you fly the Cretan lance; in vain,
“From Ajax swift, you scour your native plain;20
“Though harmless through the airy tide be sped
“The dart, so hateful to the nuptial bed,
“Yet still, though late, th’ adult’rous ringlets must
“Be steep’d in blood, and scatter’d in the dust.
“See stern Ulysses, terror of thy race;
“And Pylian Nestor’s venerable grace;
“Teucer, and Sthenelus, renown’d in war,
“Or skill’d to guide the coursers and the car.
“Ah! hapless Paris, dost thou also see,
“Where godlike Merion scours the plain for thee;30
“Where fierce Tydides, greater than his sire,
“Searches for thee, and burns with vengeful ire?
“As when some stag perceives, with fearful eyes,
“Across the vale the tawny wolf, and flies;
“So shalt thou fly! forgetful of thy fame;—
“Not thus thou promised to the Spartan dame.
“Achilles’ angry fleet may bring delay,
“But not less sure th’ inevitable day;
“The fate-allotted time will soon expire,
“And Troy shall sink beneath the Grecian fire.”40
ODE XVI. BOOK II.
Written at Fourteen.
When shipwreckt, mid the wide Ægean seas,
The wearied sailor prays to heav’n for ease;
When the dark clouds o’er Cynthia’s splendour low’r,
And glimmering stars refuse to lend their pow’r;
For ease, for ease, the warlike Thracian cries,
In vain, for ease, the quiver’d Parthian sighs:
That blessing, Grosphus, never can be sold
For blushing purple, or for blazing gold.
For neither wealth, nor regal power control
The wretched tumults of the madd’ning soul.10
And care, alas! will pour her baleful crowd
Around the vaulted mansions of the proud.
Happy the man, whose humble board is spread
With the coarse viands that his fathers fed.
Nor trembling Fear, nor Av’rice, sordid guest!
Can e’er disturb his lightly-peaceful rest.
Why do we waste, in things that ne’er may be,
The flying hours of short mortality?
Fools that we are!—Oh, wherefore do we run
To climates mellow’d by another sun?20
When roves the exile from his native sky,
Say!—can he ever hope himself to fly?
Ah, no!—for care is swifter than the hind,—
For care is swifter than the eastern wind.
How blest that soul, which, moderately gay,
Unheeds the morrow, and enjoys to-day;—
Sweetens with smiles, the bitterness of strife,
For perfect bliss can ne’er be found in life!
Achilles fell, in life’s primæval day;
The hand of time, Tithonus wore away.30
And that long life, by Fate denied to thee,
Perhaps, indulgent, she may give to me.
A hundred herds adorn thy fertile fields,
For thee, Sicilia, hundred oxen yields;
For thee, the courser eager snuffs the plain,
Bows his proud neck, and seems to court the rein;
For thee, with long, and loosely-sweeping flow,
The Lybian dye reveals its purple glow.
To me, propitious Fate, with kindly hand,
Has giv’n some portion of paternal land,40
And deign’d the lays of Horace to inspire,
With one bright beam of ancient Graia’s fire;
And whilst in talent, and in virtue proud,
To scorn the malice of the vulgar crowd.
Translation
OF THE FIRST CHORUS
IN THE
ŒDIPUS TYRRANNUS OF SOPHOCLES.
Written at Fourteen.