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for examples of actual Horatian odes translated into English in the original
meters by Steven J. Willett.
An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return From Ireland
THE
forward youth that would appear
Must now forsake his muses dear,
Nor in the shadows sing,
His numbers languishing.
'Tis
time to leave the books in dust,
And oil the unusèd armour's rust:
Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.
So
restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,
But through adventurous war
Urgèd his active star.
And,
like the three-forked lightning, first
Breaking the clouds where it was nursed,
Did thorough his own side
His fiery way divide.
(For
'tis all one to courage high
The emulous or enemy:
And with such to inclose
Is more than to oppose.)
Then
burning through the air he went,
And palaces and temples rent:
And Cæsar's head at last
Did through his laurels blast.
.
'Tis madness to resist or blame
The force of angry heaven's flame:
And, if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due,
Who
from his private gardens, where
He lived reservèd and austere,
As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot,
Could
by industrious valour climb
To ruin the great work of time,
And cast the kingdoms old
Into another mould.
Though
justice against fate complain,
And plead the ancient rights in vain:
But those do hold or break
As men are strong or weak.
Nature,
that hateth emptiness,
Allows of penetration less:
And therefore must make room
Where greater spirits come.
What
field of all the Civil Wars,
Where his were not the deepest scars?
And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser art,
Where,
twining subtle fears with hope,
He wove a net of such a scope,
That Charles himself might chase
To Carisbrooke's narrow case:
That
then the royal actor born
The tragic scaffold might adorn:
While round the armèd bands
Did clap their bloody hands.
He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene:
But with his keener eye
The axe's edge did try:
Nor
called the gods with vulgar spite
To vindicate his helpless right,
But bowed his comely head,
Down, as upon a bed
.
This was that memorable hour
Which first assured the forcèd power.
So when they did design
The Capitol's first line,
A
bleeding head where they begun,
Did fright the architects to run;
And yet in that the State
Foresaw its happy fate.
And
now the Irish are ashamed
To see themselves in one year tamed:
So much one man can do,
That does both act and know.
They
can affirm his praises best,
And have, though overcome, confessed
How good he is, how just,
And fit for highest trust:
Nor
yet grown stiffer with command,
But still in the Republic's hand:
How fit he is to sway
That can so well obey.
He to the Commons feet presents
A kingdom, for his first year's rents:
And, what he may, forbears
His fame, to make it theirs:
And
has his sword and spoils ungirt,
To lay them at the public's skirt.
So when the falcon high
Falls heavy from the sky,
She,
having killed, no more does search
But on the next green bough to perch,
Where, when he first does lure,
The falc'ner has her sure.
What
may not then our isle presume
While Victory his crest does plume?
What may not others fear
If thus he crowns each year?
A
Cæ.sar, he, ere long to Gaul,
To Italy an Hannibal,
And to all states not free
Shall climactéric be.
The
Pict no shelter now whall find
Within his parti-coloured mind,
But from this valour sad
Shrink underneath the plaid:
Happy,
if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer
.
But thou, the Wars' and Fortune's son,
March indefatigably on,
And for the last effect
Still keep thy sword erect:
Besides
the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night,
The same arts that did gain
A power, must it maintain.
--Andrew Marvell
Ode to Evening
IF
ought of Oaten Stop, or Pastoral Song,
May hope, chaste EVE, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn Springs,
Thy Springs, and dying Gales,
O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd Sun
Sits in yon western Tent, whose cloudy Skirts,
With Brede ethereal wove,
O'erhanh his wavy Bed:
Now Air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd Bat,
With short shrill Shriek flits by on leathern Wing,
Or where the Beetle winds
His small but sullen Horn,
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight Path,
Against the Pilgrim born in heedless Hum:
Now teach me, Maid compos'd,
To breathe some soften'd Strain,
Whose Numbers stealing thro' thy darkning Vale,
May not unseemly with its Stillness suit,
As musing slow, I hail
Thy genial lov'd Return!
For when thy folding Star arising shews
His paly Circlet, at his warning Lamp
The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who slept in flow'rs the day,
And many a Nymph who wreaths her Brows with Sedge,
And sheds the fresh'ning Dew, and lovelier still,
The Pensive Pleasures sweet
Prepare thy shadowy Car.
Then lead, calm vot'ress, where some sheety lake
Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile,
Or up-land fallows grey
Reflect its last cool gleam.
But when chill blustring Winds, or driving Rain,
Forbid my willing Feet, be mine the Hut,
That from the Mountain's Side,
Views Wilds, and swelling Floods,
And Hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd Spires,
And hears their simple Bell, and marks o'er all
Thy Dewy Fingers draw
The gradual dusky Veil.
While Spring shall pour his Show'rs, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing Tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport,
Beneath thy ling'ring Light:
While sallow Autumn fills thy Lap with Leaves,
Or Winter yelling thro' the troublous Air,
Affrights thy shrinking Train,
And rudely rends thy Robes,
So long, sure-found beneath the Sylvan shed,
Shall FANCY, FRIENDSHIP, SCIENCE, rose-lip'd HEALTH,
Thy gentlest Influence own,
And Hymn thy fav'rite Name!
--William Collins
Ode: Slowly the Black Earth Gains
SLOWLY
the black earth gains upon the yellow,
And the caked hill-side is ribbed soft with furrows.
Turn now again, with voice and staff, my ploughman,
Guiding thy oxen.
Lift
the great ploughshare, clear the stones and brambles,
Plant it the deeper, with thy foot upon it,
Uprooting all the flowering weeds that bring not
Food to thy children.
Patience
is good for man and beast, and labour
Hardens to sorrow and the frost of winter.
Turn then again, in the brave hope of harvest,
Singing to heaven.
--George Santayana