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| | The translation from Horace will show, to advantage, Mr Adams’s manner in a lighter measure.—S. K. |
MÆCENAS, whose ennobled veins | |
| The blood of ancient monarchs stains; | |
| My safeguard, beauty and delight. | |
| Some love the chariot’s rapid flight, | |
| To whirl along the dusty ground, | 5 |
| Till with Olympic honors crown’d: | |
| And if their fiery coursers tend | |
| Beyond the goal, they shall ascend | |
| In merit, equal to the gods, | |
| Who people the sublime abodes; | 10 |
| Others, if mingled shouts proclaim | |
| Of jarring citizens their name, | |
| Exalted to some higher post, | |
| Are in the clouds of rapture lost. | |
| This, if his granary contain | 15 |
| In crowded heaps the ripen’d grain, | |
| Rejoicing his paternal field | |
| To plough, a future crop to yield; | |
| In vain his timorous soul you’d move | |
| Though endless sums his choice should prove, | 20 |
| To leave the safety of the land, | |
| And trust him to the wind’s command. | |
| The trembling sailor, when the blue | |
| And boisterous deep his thoughts pursue, | |
| Fearful of tempests, dreads his gain | 25 |
| To venture o’er the threatening main: | |
| But loves the shades and peaceful town | |
| Where joy and quiet dwell alone. | |
| But when impatient to be poor, | |
| His flying vessels leave the shore. | 30 |
| Others the present hour will seize, | |
| And less for business are than ease; | |
| But flowing cups of wine desire, | |
| Which scatter grief, and joy inspire; | |
| Joyful they quaff, and spread their limbs | 35 |
| Along the banks of murm’ring streams, | |
| While trees which shoot their tow’ring heads, | |
| Protect them with their cooling shades. | |
| Some love the camp and furious war, | |
| Where nations, met with nations, jar; | 40 |
| The noise of victors, and the cries | |
| Of vanquish’d, which assault the skies, | |
| While at the trumpet’s piercing ring | |
| Their mounting spirits vigorous spring; | |
| When fainting matrons in a swound, | 45 |
| Receive the martial music’s sound. | |
| The morning hunter seeks his prey, | |
| Though chill’d by heaven’s inclemency | |
| Forgets his house: with dogs pursues | |
| The flying stag in her purlieus. | 50 |
| Or his entangling net contains | |
| The foaming boar in ropy chains. | |
| But me the ivy wreaths which spread | |
| Their blooming honors round the head | |
| Of learned bards, in raptures raise, | 55 |
| And with the gods unite in praise. | |
| The coolness of the rural scenes, | |
| The smiling flowers and evergreens, | |
| And sportful dances, all inspire | |
| My soul with more than vulgar fire. | 60 |
| If sweet Euterpe give her flute, | |
| And Polyhymnia lend her lute— | |
| If you the deathless bays bestow, | |
| And by applauses make them grow, | |
| Toward the stars my winged fame | 65 |
| Shall fly, and strike the heavenly frame. | |
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