As pictures, glowing with a vivid light,
With painful pleasure charm a blemish'd sight;
As chafing soothes the gout, or music cheers
The tingling organs of imposthumed ears.
Your wine grows acid when the cask is foul.
Learn the strong sense of pleasure to control;
With virtuous pride its blandishments disdain;
Hurtful is pleasure when it's bought with pain.
He wants for ever, who would more acquire;
Set certain limits to your wild desire.
The man who envies, must behold with pain
Another's joys, and sicken at his gain :
Nor could Sicilia's tyrants ever find
A greater torment than an envious mind.
The man, unable to control his ire,
Shall wish undone what hate and wrath inspire:
To sate his rage precipitate he flies,
Yet in his breast his rage unsated lies.
Anger's a shorter madness of the mind;
Subdue the tyrant, and in fetters bind.
The docile colt is form'd with gentle skill
To move obedient to his rider's will.
In the loud hall the hound is taught to bay
The buckskin trail'd, then challenges his prey
Through the wild woods. Thus in your hour of youth
From pure instruction quaff the words of truth.
The odours of the wine, that first shall stain
The virgin vessel, it shall long retain.
Whether you prove a lagger in the race,
Or with a vigorous ardour urge your pace,
I shall maintain my usual rate; no more;
Nor wait for those behind, nor press on those before.
EPISTLE III.—TO JULIUS FLORUS.
HORACE exhorts Florus to the study of philosophy. FLORUS, I long to know where Claudius leads The distant rage of war; whether he spreads
His conquering banners o'er the Thracian plains,
Or near the Heber, bound in snowy chains.
Or does the Hellespont's high-tower'd sea,
Or Asia's fertile soil his course delay!
What works of genius do the youth prepare,
Who guard his sacred person?
Who shall dare
To sing great Cæsar's wars, immortal theme!
And give his peaceful honours down to fame?
How fares my Titius? Say, when he intends
To publish? Does he not forget his friends?
He, who disdains the springs of common fame,
And dauntless quaffs the deep Pindaric stream.
But will the muse her favourite bard inspire
To tune to Theban sounds the Roman lyre?
Or with the transports of theatric rage,
And its sonorous language, shake the stage?
Let Celsus be admonish'd, o'er and o'er,
To search the treasures of his native store,
Nor touch what Phoebus consecrates to fame,
Lest, when the birds their various plumage claim,
Stripp'd of his stolen pride, the crow forlorn
Should stand the laughter of the public scorn.
What do you dare, who float with active wing
Around the thymy fragrance of the spring?
Not yours the genius of a lowly strain,
Nor of uncultur'd, or unpolish'd vein,
Whether you plead with eloquence his cause,
Or to your client clear the doubtful laws;
And sure to gain, for amatorious lays,
The wreaths of ivy, with unenvied praise.
Could you the passions, in their rage, control, That damp the nobler purpose of the soul; Could you these soothing discontents allay,
Wisdom heaven-born, at which we all should aim,
The little vulgar, and the known to fame,
Who mean to live within our proper sphere,
Soon should you rise where wisdom points the way;
Dear to ourselves, and to our country dear.
Now tell me whether Plancus holds a part For sure he well deserves it) in your heart? Or was the reconciliation made in vain,
And like an ill-cured wound breaks forth again, While inexperienced youth, and blood inflamed, 45 Drive you, like coursers, to the yoke untamed? Where'er you are, too excellent to prove
The broken union of fraternal love,
A votive heifer gratefully I feed,
For your return, in sacrifice to bleed.
EPISTLE IV.-TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS.
AFTER Complimenting Tibullus on his accomplishments, Horace converts the thought of death into an occasion of pleasantry.
ALBIUS, in whom my satires find
A candid critic, and a kind,
Do you, while at your country seat,
Some rhyming labours meditate,
That shall in volumed bulk arise,
And even from Cassius bear the prize;
Or saunter through the silent wood,
Musing on what befits the wise and good?
Thou art not form'd of lifeless mould,
With breast inanimate and cold;
To thee the gods a form complete,
To thee the gods a fair estate
In bounty gave, with art to know
How to enjoy what they bestow.
Can a fond nurse one blessing more
Even for her favourite boy implore,
With sense and clear expression bless'd,
Of friendship, honour, health possess'd,
A table elegantly plain,
And a poetic, easy vein?
By hope inspired, depress'd with fear,
By passion warm'd, perplex'd with care,
Believe, that every morning's ray
Hath lighted up thy latest day;
Then, if to-morrow's sun be thine,
With double lustre shall it shine.
Such are the maxims I embrace,
And here, in sleek and joyous case,
You'll find, for laughter fitly bred,
A hog by Epicurus fed.
HE poet invites Torquatus to a frugal, but a cleanly and cheerful entertainment.
1r, my Torquatus, you can kindly deign
To lie on beds of simple form, and plain,
And sup on herbs alone, but richly dress'd,
At evening I expect you for my guest.
Nor old, I own, nor excellent, my wine,
Of five years' vintage, and a marshy vine;
If you have better, bring th' enlivening cheer,
Or from an humble friend this summons bear.
In hopes my honour'd guest to entertain,
My fires are lighted, my apartments clean:
Then leave the hope, that, wing'd with folly, flies;
Leave the mean quarrels that from wealth arise;
Leave the litigious bar, for Cæsar's birth
Proclaims the festal hour of ease and mirth,
While social converse, till the rising light,
Shall stretch beyond its length the summer's night.
Say, what are fortune's gifts, if I'm denied
Their cheerful use? for nearly are allied
The nadman, and the fool, whose sordid care
Makes himself poor, to enrich a worthless heir. 20
Give me to drink, and, crown'd with flowers, despise
The grave disgrace of being thought unwise.
What cannot wine perform? It brings to light
The secret soul; it bids the coward fight;
Gives being to our hopes, and from our hearts
Drives the dull sorrow, and inspires new arts.
Is there a wretch, whom bumpers have not taught
A flow of words, and loftiness of thought?
Even in th' oppressive grasp of poverty
It can enlarge, and bid the soul be free.
Cheerful my usual task I undertake,
(And no mean figure in my office make,)
That no foul linen wrinkle up the nose;
That every plate with bright reflection shows
My guest his face; that none, when life grows gay, The sacred hour of confidence betray.
That all in equal friendship may unite,
Your Butra and Septicius I'll invite,
And, if he's not engaged to better cheer,
Or a kind girl, Sabinus shall be here.
Still there is room, and yet the summer's heat
May prove offensive, if the crowd be great:
But write me word how many you desire,
Then instant from the busy world retire,
And while your tedious clients fill the hall,
Slip out at the back door, and bilk them all.
36 An old man at the Lacedæmonian entertainments pointed to the door as the guests entered, and solemnly repeated, "Let nothing said in this company pass through that door." From hence the Grecian proverb, "I hate a drinker with a memory."
EPISTLE VI.-TO NUMICIUS.
HORACE here insists that a wise man is in love with nothing except virtue.
Nor to admire, is of all means the best,
The only means to make, and keep us bless'd.
There are, untainted with the thoughts of fear,
Who see the various changes of the year
Unerring roll; who see the glorious sun,
And the fix'd stars, their annual progress run:
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