Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Samuel Kettell, ed. Specimens of American Poetry. 1829.

By Translation of an Ode of Horace

John Adams (1705–1740)

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,

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;

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

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,

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

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.

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

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;

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,

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.

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,

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.

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

Shall fly, and strike the heavenly frame.