HE theme in other works, for every part,
Supplies materials to the builder's art:
To build from matter, is fublimely great,
But Gods and Poets only can create;
And fuch are you; their privilege you claim,
To fhow your wonders, but conceal your name.
Like some establish'd king, without control,
You take a general progrefs through the foul;
Survey each part, examine every fide,
Where fhe's fecure, and where unfertify'd.
In faithful lines her hiftory declare,
And trace the caufes of her civil war ;
Your pen no partial prejudices sway,
But truth decides, and virtue wins the day.
Through what gay fields and flowery'scenes we pass,
Where fancy fports, and fiction leads the chace?
Where life, as through her various acts she tends,
Like other comedies, in marriage ends.
What Mufe but yours fo juftly could display
Th' embattled paffions marshal'd in array ?
Bid the rang'd appetites in order move,
Give luft a figure, and a shape to love?
To airy notions folid forms difpenfe,
And make our thoughts the images of sense?
Difcover all the rational machine,
And show the movements, fprings, and wheels within ? But Hymen waves his torch, all difcords cease;
All parley, drop their arms, and fue for peace.
Soon as the fignal flames, they quit the fight,
For all at first but differ'd to unite.
From every part the lines in order move,
And fweetly center in the point of love.
Let blockheads to the musty schools repair,
And poach for morals and the paffions there,
Where virtue, like a dwarf in giant's arms,
Cumber'd with words, and manacled in terms,
Serves to amuse the philofophic fool,
By method dry, and regularly dull..
Who fees thy lines fo vifibly express
The foul herself in fuch a pleafing dress;
May from thy labours be convinc'd and taught,
How Spenfer would have fung, and Plato thought.
The TWELFTH ODE of the Firft Book of HORACE, TRANSLATED.
WHAT man, what hero will you raise,
By the fhrill pipe, or deeper lyre?
What God, O Clio, will you praife,
And teach the echoes to admire?
Amidst the fhades of Helicon,
Cold Hæmus' tops, or Pindus' head,
Whence the glad forefts haften'd down,
And danc'd as tuneful Orpheus play'd.,
Taught by the Mufe, he ftop'd the fall
Of rapid floods, and charm'd the wind;
The listening oaks obey'd the call,
And left their wondering hills behind.
Whom fhould I first record, but Jove,
Whofe fway extends o'er fea and land,
The king of men and gods above,
Who holds the feafons in command ?
To rival Jove, fhall none aspire,
None fhall to equal glory rise;
But Pallas claims beneath her fire,
The fecond honours of the skies.
To thee, O Bacchus, great in war,
To Dian will I ftrike the string,
Of Phoebus wounding from afar,
In numbers like his own I'll fing.
The Mufe Alcides fhall refound;
The twins of Leda fhall fucceed;
This for the standing fight renown'd,
And that for managing the fteed.
Whofe ftar fhines innocently still;
The clouds difperfe, the tempefts cease, The waves obedient to their will,
Sink down, and hufh their rage to peace.
Next fhall I Numa's pious reign,
Or thine, O Romulus, relate:
Or Rome by Brutus free'd again,
Or haughty Cato's glorious fate?
Or dwell on noble Paulus' fame?
Too lavish of the patriot's blood?
Or Regulus' immortal name,
Too obftinately juft and good?
These with Camillus brave and bold,
And other chiefs of matchless might,
Rome's virtuous poverty of old,
Severely feafon'd to the fight.
Like trees, Marcellus' glory grows,
With an infenfible advance;
The Julian ftar, like Cynthia, glows,
Who leads the planetary dance.
The fates, O fire of human race,
Entruft great Cæfar to thy care,
Give him to hold thy fecond place,
And reign thy sole vicegerent here.
And whether India he fhall tame,
Or to his chains the Seres doom;
Or mighty Parthia dreads his name,
And bows her haughty neck to Rome.
While on our groves thy bolts are hurl'd,
And thy loud car shakes heaven above,
He fhall with juftice awe the world,
To none inferior but to Jove.
The TWENTY SECOND ODE of the First
Book of HORACE.
THE man unfully'd with a crime,
Difdains the pangs of fear,
He fcorns to dip the poifon'd fhaft,
Or poife the glittering fpear.
Nor with the loaded quiver goes
To take the dreadful field:
His folid virtue is his helm,
And innocence his fhield.
In vain the fam'd Hydafpes' tides,
Obftruct and bar the road,
He fmiles on danger, and enjoys
The roarings of the flood.
All climes are native, and forgets
Th' extremes of heats and frosts,
The Scythian Caucasus grows warm,
And cool the Libyan coafts.
For while I wander'd through the woods,
And rang'd the lonely grove,
Loft and bewilder'd in the fongs
And pleafing cares of love;
A wolf beheld me from afar,
Of monstrous bulk and might;
But, naked as I was, he fled
And trembled at the fight.
A beaft fo huge, nor Daunia's grove,
Nor Africk ever view'd;
Though nurft by her, the lion reigns
The mona ch of the wood.
Expofe me in thofe horrid climes,
Where not a gentle breeze
Revives the vegetable race,
Or chears the drooping trees.
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