[1]TO TELEPHUS.

BOOK THE THIRD, ODE THE NINETEENTH.

The number of the vanish'd years That mark each famous Grecian reign, This night, my Telephus, appears Thy solemn pleasure to explain;

Or else a.s.siduously to dwell, In conscious eloquence elate, On those who conquer'd, those who fell At sacred Troy's devoted gate.

But at what price the cask, so rare, Of luscious chian may be ours, Who shall the tepid baths prepare, And who shall strew the blooming flowers;

Beneath what roof we next salute, And when shall smile these gloomy skies, Thy wondrous eloquence is mute, Nor here may graver topics rise.--

Fill a bright b.u.mper,--to the Moon!

She's new!--auspicious be her birth!

One to the Midnight!--'t is our noon Of jocund thought, and festal mirth!

And one to him, for whom the feasts This night are held with poignant [2]gust, MURENA, whom his Rome invests With solemn honors, sacred trust!

Kind omens shall his voice convey, That may each rising care beguile; Propitious fled the Birds to-day?

Will Love be ours, and Fortune smile?--

Arrange the cups of various size, The least containing b.u.mpers three, And nine the rest.--Come, no disguise!

Nor yet constraint, the choice is free!

All but the BARD's--the bowl of _nine_ He is, in duty, bound to fill; The _Muses_ number to decline Were treason at Aonia's hill.

For here the Sisters shall preside, So they allow us leave to laugh; Unzon'd the Graces round us glide, While we the liquid ruby quaff.

Yet _they_, in kind and guardian care, Dreading left wild inebriate glee With broils disturb our light career, Would stint us to their number, _three_.

Away ye Prudes!--the caution wise Becomes not this convivial hour, That every dull restraint defies, And laughs at all their frigid power.--

Thou say'st I rave;--and _true_ thou say'st, Nor must thou check the flowing vein, For sprightly nonsense suits him best Whom grave reflection leads to pain.

Why mute the pipe's enlivening note?

Why sleeps the charming lyre so long?

O! let their strains around us float, Mix'd with the sweet and jocund song!

And lavish be the roses strewn!

Ye flutes, ye lyres, exulting breathe!

The festal Hour disdains to own The mournful note, the n.i.g.g.ard wreath.

Old Lycon, with the venal Fair, Who courts yet hates his vile embrace, Our lively strains shall muttering hear, While Envy pales each sullen face:

THOU, with thy dark luxuriant hair, Thou, Telephus, as Hesper bright, Thou art accomplish'd Chloe's care, Whose glance is Love's delicious light.

Thy utmost wish the Fair-One crowns, And thy calm'd heart may well pursue The paths of knowledge;--Lyce frowns, And I, distasteful, shun their view.

From themes, that wake the powers of mind, The wounded Spirit sick'ning turns; To those be then _this_ hour consign'd, That Mirth approves, tho' Wisdom spurns.

They shall disarm my Lyce's frown, The frolic jest, the lively strain, In flowing bowls, shall gaily drown The memory of her cold disdain.

1: At the feast, held in honor of Licinius Murena having been chosen Augur, Horace endeavours to turn the conversation towards gayer subjects than Grecian Chronology, and the Trojan War, upon which his Friend Telephus had been declaiming; and for this purpose seems to have composed the ensuing Ode at table. It concludes with an hint, that the unpleasant state of the Poet's mind, respecting his _then_ Mistress, incapacitates him for abstracted themes, which demand a serene and collected attention, alike inconsistent with the amorous discontent of the secret heart, and with the temporary exhilaration of the spirits, produced by the occasion on which they were met. This must surely be the meaning of Horace in this Ode, however obscurely expressed. People of sense do not, even in their gayest conversation, start from their subject to another of _total_ inconnexion. When the latent meaning in the _concluding_ verses is perspicuously paraphrased, it accounts for the Poet's preference at _that_ period, of trifling to literary subjects. These slight, and often obscure allusions, closely, and what is called _faithfully_ translated, give a wild and unmeaning air to the Odes of Horace, which destroys their interest with the _unlearned_ admirers of Poetry. To give distinct shape and form to these embryo ideas, often capable of acquiring very _interesting_ form and shape, is the aim of these Paraphrases.

Telephus, who was a Greek, appears to have been a Youth of n.o.ble birth--being mentioned as such in the Ode to PHYLLIS, which will be found farther on amongst these Paraphrases. From that to LYDIA, so well known, and so often translated, we learn that he had a beautiful form, and was much admired by the Roman Ladies.

2: The Translator was doubtful about using that word, till she recollected it in the gravest of Pope's Poems,

"Destroy all creatures for thy sport and _gust_; Then cry, If Man's unhappy G.o.d's unjust." ESSAY ON MAN.

TO PHIDYLE.

EXHORTING HER TO BE CONTENT WITH A FRUGAL SACRIFICE.

BOOK THE THIRD, ODE THE TWENTY-THIRD.

My Phidyle, retir'd in shady wild, If thou thy virgin hands shalt suppliant raise, If primal fruits are on thy altars pil'd, And incense pure thy duteous care conveys, To sooth the LARES, when the moon adorns, With their first modest light, her taper horns;

And if we pierce the throat of infant swine, A frugal victim, not the baleful breath Of the moist South shall blast our tender vine; Nor shall the lambs sink in untimely death When the unwholesome gales of Autumn blow, And shake the ripe fruit from the bending bough.

Let snowy Algidum's wide vallies feed, Beneath their stately holme, and spreading oak, Or the rich herbage of Albania's mead, The Steer, whose blood on _lofty_ Shrines shall smoke!

Red may it stain the Priest's uplifted knife, And glut the higher Powers with costly life!

The rosemary and myrtle's simple crown Thou on our household G.o.ds, with decent care Art gently placing; and they will not frown; No _stern_ demand is theirs, that we prepare Rich Flocks, and Herds, at Duty's solemn call, And, in the pomp of slaughter, bid them fall.

O! if an _innocent_ hand approach the shrine, The little votive cake it humbly lays, The crackling salt, that makes the altar shine, Flung on the cheerful sacrificial blaze, To the mild LARES shall be grateful found As the proud Steer, with all his garlands crown'd.

TO MELPOMENE.

BOOK THE FOURTH, ODE THE THIRD.

Not he, O MUSE! whom thy auspicious eyes In his primeval hour beheld, Shall victor in the Isthmian Contest rise; Nor o'er the long-resounding field Impetuous steeds his kindling wheels shall roll, Gay in th' Olympic Race, and foremost at the goal.

Nor in the Capitol, triumphant shown, The victor-laurel on his brow, For Cities storm'd, and vaunting Kings o'erthrown;-- But Tibur's streams, that warbling flow, And groves of fragrant gloom, resound his strains, Whose sweet aeolian grace high celebration gains.

Now that his name, her n.o.blest Bards among, Th' imperial City loudly hails, That proud distinction guards his rising song, When Envy's carping tongue a.s.sails; In sullen silence now she hears his praise, Nor sheds her canker'd spots upon his springing bays.

O MUSE! who rulest each melodious lay That floats along the gilded sh.e.l.l, Who the mute tenant of the watry way Canst teach, at pleasure, to excel The softest note harmonious Sorrow brings, When the expiring Swan her own sad requiem sings.