Broken with toils, with ponderous arms oppressed,
The soldier thinks the merchant solely blest.
In opposite extreme, when tempests rise,
"War is a better choice," the merchant cries.
When early clients thunder at his gate,
Te barrister applauds the rustic's fate;
While, by sub-poenas dragged from home, the clown
Thinks the supremely happy dwell in town!
Not to be tedious, mark the moral aim
Of these examples. Should some god proclaim,
"Your prayers are heard: you, soldier, to your seas;
You, lawyer, take that envied rustic's ease,�
Each to his several part�What! Ha! not move
Even to the bliss you wished!" And shall not Jove,
With cheeks inflamed and angry brow, forswear
A weak indulgence to their future prayer?
[Pg 92]
AVARICE
Some, self-deceived, who think their lust of gold
Is but a love of fame, this maxim hold,
"No fortune is enough, since others rate
Our worth proportioned to a large estate."
Say, for their cure what arts would you employ?
Let them be wretched, and their choice enjoy.
Would you the real use of riches know?
Bread, herbs, and wine are all they can bestow.
Or add, what nature's deepest wants supplies;
These and no more thy mass of money buys.
But with continual watching almost dead,
Housebreaking thieves, and midnight fires to dread,
Or the suspected slave's untimely flight
With the dear pelf�if this be thy delight,
Be it my fate, so heaven in bounty please,
Still to be poor of blessings such as these!
A PARAGON OF INCONSISTENCY
Nothing was of a piece in the whole man:
Sometimes he like a frightened coward ran,
Whose foes are at his heels; now soft and slow
He moved, like folks who in procession go.
Now with two hundred slaves he crowds his train;
Now walks with ten. In high and haughty strain,
At morn, of kings and governors he prates;
At night, "A frugal table, O ye Fates,
[Pg 93]
A little shell the sacred salt to hold,
And clothes, though coarse, to keep from me the cold."
Yet give this wight, so frugally content,
A thousand pounds, 'tis every penny spent
Within the week! He drank the night away
Till rising dawn, then snored out all the day.
Sure, such a various creature ne'er was known.
But have you, sir, no vices of your own?
ON JUDGING FRIENDS
A kindly friend, who balances my good
And bad together, as in truth he should,
If haply my good qualities prevail,
Inclines indulgent to the sinking scale:
For like indulgence let his friendship plead,
His merits be with equal measure weighed;
For he who hopes his wen shall not offend
Should overlook the pimples of his friend.
ON LOYALTY TO ABSENT FRIENDS
He who, malignant, tears an absent friend,
Or fails, when others blame him, to defend,
Who trivial bursts of laughter strives to raise
And courts for witty cynicism praise,
Who can, what he has never seen, reveal,
And friendship's secrets knows not to conceal�
Romans beware�that man is black of soul.
HORACE'S DEBT TO HIS FATHER
If some few trivial faults deform my soul
(Like a fair face, when spotted with a mole),
If none with avarice justly brand my fame,
With sordidness, or deeds too vile to name;
If pure and innocent; if dear (forgive
These little praises) to my friends I live,
[Pg 94]
My father was the cause, who, though maintained
By a lean farm but poorly, yet disdained
The country schoolmaster, to whose low care
The mighty captain sent his high-born heir,
With satchel, copy-book, and pelf to pay
The wretched teacher on the appointed day.
To Rome by this bold father was I brought,
To learn those arts which well-born youths are taught,
So dressed, and so attended, you would swear
I was some wealthy lord's expensive heir.
Himself my guardian, of unblemished truth,
Among my tutors would attend my youth,
And thus preserved my chastity of mind�
That prime of virtue in its highest kind.
HORACE'S HABITS IN THE CITY
Alone I saunter, as by fancy led,
I cheapen herbs, or ask the price of bread,
I watch while fortune-tellers fate reveal,
Then homeward hasten to my frugal meal,
Herbs, pulse, and pancakes (each a separate plate),
While three domestics at my supper wait.
A bowl on a white marble table stands,
Two goblets, and a ewer to wash my hands,
And hallowed cup of true Campanian clay
My pure libation to the gods to pay.
I then retire to rest, nor anxious fear
Before dread Marsyas early to appear.
I lie till ten; then take a walk, or choose
A book, perhaps, or trifle with the muse.
For cheerful exercise and manly toil
Anoint my body with the pliant oil�
Yet not with such as Natta's, when he vamps
His filthy limbs and robs the public lamps.
But when the sun pours down his fiercer fire,
And bids me from the toilsome sport retire,
[Pg 95]
I haste to bathe, and in a temperate mood
Regale my craving appetite with food
(Enough to nourish nature for a day);
Then trifle my domestic hours away.
Such is the life from bad ambition free;
Such comfort has one humble born like me:
With which I feel myself more truly blest,
Than if my sires the qu�stor's power possessed.
FOOTNOTES:
Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus), who was born near Venusia, in Apulia, in 65 b.c., and died in 8 b.c., was a southern Italian. When twenty, Horace was a student of philosophy at Athens. A period of poverty-stricken Bohemianism followed his return to Rome, till acquaintance with Virgil opened a path into the circle of M�cenas and of the emperor. His literary career falls into three divisions�that of his "Epodes" and "Satires," down to 30 b.c.; that of his lyrics, down to 23 b.c., when the first three books of the "Odes" appeared; and that of the reflective and literary "Epistles," which include the famous "Art of Poetry," and, with sundry official odes, belong to his later years. Horatian "satire," it should be observed, does not imply ferocious personal onslaughts, but a miscellany containing good-humoured ridicule of types, and lively sketches of character and incident. So varied a performance as satirist, lyrist, moralist and critic, coupled with his vivid interest in mankind, help to account for the appeal which Horace has made to all epochs, countries, and ranks. Of the translations of Horace here given, some are by Prof. Wight Duff, and have been specially made for this selection, whilst a few are by Milton, Dryden, Cowper, and Francis.
Horace and the Bore
Scene.�Rome, on the Sacred Way. The poet is walking down the street, composing some trifle, in a brown study, when a person, known to him only by name, rushes up and seises his hand.
Bore (effusively): How d'ye do, my dear fellow?
Horace (politely): Nicely at present. I'm at your service, sir. (Horace walks on, and as the Bore keeps following, tries to choke him off.) You don't want anything, do you?
Bore: You must make my acquaintance, I'm a savant.
Horace: Then I'll think the more of you. (Horace, anxious to get away, walks fast one minute, halts the next, whispers something to his attendant slave, and is bathed in perspiration all over. Then, quietly to himself) Lucky Bolanus, with your hot temper!
Bore (whose chatter on things in general, and about the streets of Rome in particular, has been received with dead silence): You're frightfully keen to be off. I've noticed it all along. But it's no good. I'm going to stick to you right through. I'll escort you from here to your destination.
Horace (deprecatingly): No need for you to make such a detour. (Inventing fibs as he goes along) There's someone I want to look up�a person you don't know,
[Pg 96]
on the other side of the river�yes, far away�he's confined to bed�near C�sar's Park.
Bore: Oh, I've nothing to do, and I don't dislike exercise. I'll follow you right there. (Horace is as crestfallen as a sulky donkey when an extra heavy load is dumped upon its back. The Bore continues) If I know myself, you'll not value Viscus more highly as a friend, or Varius either; for who can write verses faster, and more of them, than I can? Who's a greater master of deportment? As for my singing, it's enough to make even Hermogenes jealous!
Horace (seizing the chance of interrupting): Have you a mother�any relatives to whom your health is of moment?
Bore: Not one left. I've laid them all to rest.
Horace: Lucky people! Now I'm the sole survivor. Do for me! The melancholy fate draws near which a fortune-telling Sabellian crone once prophesied in my boyhood: "This lad neither dread poison nor hostile sword shall take off, nor pleurisy, nor cough, nor crippling gout. A chatterbox will one day be his death!"
Bore (realising that, as it is the hour for opening the law course, he must answer to his recognisances, or lose a suit to which he is a party): Oblige me with your assistance in court for a little.
Horace: Deuce take me if I've strength to hang about so long, or know any law. Besides, I'm hurrying, you know where.
Bore: I'm in a fix what to do�whether to give you up or my case.
Horace: Me, please.
Bore: Shan't! (Starts ahead of Horace, who, beaten at every point, has to follow. The other opens conversation again.) On what footing do you and M�cenas stand?
Horace (haughtily): He has a select circle, and thoroughly
[Pg 97]
sound judgment.
Bore (unimpressed): Ah! No one ever made a smarter use of his chances. You'd have a powerful supporter, a capable understudy, if you'd agree to introduce your humble servant. Deuce take me if you wouldn't clear everybody out of your way.
Horace (disgusted): We don't live on the terms you fancy. No establishment is more honest than his, or more foreign to such intrigues. It does me no harm, I tell you, because this one has more money or learning than I. Everybody has his own place.
Bore: A tall story�hardly believable.
Horace: A fact, nevertheless.
Bore: You fire my anxiety all the more to be one of his intimate friends.
Horace (sarcastically): You've only got to wish. Such are your qualities, you'll carry him by storm.
Bore (on whom the irony is lost): I'll not fail myself. I'll bribe his slaves. If I find the door shut in my face I'll not give up. I'll watch for lucky moments. I'll meet him at street corners. I'll see him home. Life grants man nothing without hard work.
[Enter Fuscus, a friend of Horace. Knowing the Bore's ways, he reads the situation. Horace furtively tugs at Fuscus's gown, pinches him, nods and winks to Fuscus to rescue him. Fuscus smiles, and with a mischievous fondness for a joke, pretends he does not understand.
Horace (angry with Fuscus): Of course, you did say you wanted to talk over something with me in private.
Fuscus: Ah, yes, I remember; but I'll tell you at a more convenient season. (Inventing an excuse with mock solemnity.) To-day is the "Thirtieth Sabbath." You wouldn't affront the circumcised Jews, would you?
Horace: I have no scruples.
Fuscus: But I have. I'm a slightly weaker brother�one, of many. Pardon, I'll talk about it another time.
[Exit, leaving Horace like a victim under the knife.
[Pg 98]
Horace (to himself): To think this day should have dawned so black for me!
[Suddenly enter the Plaintiff in the suit against the Bore.
Plaintiff (loudly to the Bore): Where are you off to, you scoundrel? (To HORACE) May I call you as a witness to his contempt of court?
[Horace lets his ear be touched, according to legal form. The Bore is hauled away to court, he and the Plaintiff bawling at each other. The arrest attracts a large crowd.
Horace (quietly disappearing): What an escape! Thank Apollo!
The Art of Poetry
UNITY AND SIMPLICITY ARE REQUISITE
Suppose a painter to a human head
Should join a horse's neck, and wildly spread
The various plumage of the feather'd kind
O'er limbs of different beasts, absurdly joined.
Or if he gave to view of beauteous maid
Above the waist with every charm arrayed,
But ending, fish-like, in a mermaid tail,
Could you to laugh at such a picture fail?
Such is the book that, like a sick man's dreams,
Varies all shapes, and mixes all extremes.
"Painters and poets our indulgence claim,
Their daring equal, and their art the same."
I own the indulgence, such I give and take;
But not through nature's sacred rules to break.
Your opening promises some grand design,
And purple patches with broad lustre shine
Sewed on the poem; here in laboured strain
A sacred grove, or fair Diana's fane
[Pg 99]
Rises to view; there through delightful meads
A murmuring stream its winding water leads.
Why will you thus a mighty vase intend,
If in a worthless bowl your labours end?
Then learn this wandering humour to control,
And keep one equal tenour through the whole.
THE FALSEHOOD OF EXTREMES IN STYLE
But oft our greatest errors take their rise
From our best views. I strive to be concise,
And prove obscure. My strength, or passion, flees,
When I would write with elegance and ease.
Aiming at greatness, some to fustian soar:
Some, bent on safety, creep along the shore.
Thus injudicious, while one fault we shun,
Into its opposite extreme we run.
CHOICE OF THEME
Examine well, ye writers, weigh with care,
What suits your genius, what your strength can bear;
For when a well-proportioned theme you choose,
Nor words, nor method shall their aid refuse.
WORDS OLD AND NEW
The author of a promised work must be
Subtle and careful in word-harmony.
To choose and to reject. You merit praise
If by deft linking of known words a phrase
Strikes one as new. Should unfamiliar theme
Need fresh-invented terms, proper will seem
Diction unknown of old. This licence used
With fair discretion never is refused.
As when the forest, with the bending year,
First sheds the leaves, which earliest appear,
So an old race of words maturely dies,
And some, new born, in youth and vigour rise.
[Pg 100]
Many shall rise which now forgotten lie;
Others, in present credit, soon shall die,
If custom will, whose arbitrary sway
Words and the forms of language must obey.
WORDS MUST SUIT CHARACTER
'Tis not enough, ye writers, that ye charm
With pretty elegance; a play should warm
With soft concernment�should possess the soul,
And, as it wills, the listeners control.
With those who laugh, our social joy appears;
With those who mourn, we sympathise in tears;
If you would have me weep, begin the strain,
Then I shall feel your sorrow, feel your pain;
But if your heroes act not what they say,
I sleep or laugh the lifeless scene away.
ON LITERARY BORROWING
If you would make a common theme your own,
Dwell not on incidents already known;
Nor word for word translate with painful care,
Nor be confined in such a narrow sphere.
ON BEGINNING A HEROIC POEM
Begin your work with modest grace and plain,
Not in the cyclic bard's bombastic strain:
"I chant the glorious war and Priam's fate��"
How will the boaster keep this ranting rate?
The mountains laboured with prodigious throes,
And lo! a mouse ridiculous arose.
Far better Homer, who tries naught in vain,
Opens his poem in a humbler strain:
"Muse, tell the many who after Troy subdued,
Manners and towns of various nations viewed."
Right to the great event he speeds his course,
And bears his readers, with impetuous force,
[Pg 101]