HOR. LIB. I. ODE IX.

Vides, ut altâ stet nive candidum

Soracte;

SEE'ST thou yon mountain laden with deep snow,

The

groves beneath their fleecy burthen bow,

The streams congeal'd forget to flow,

Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile
Of fuel on the hearth;

Broach the best cask, and make old winter

smile

With seasonable mirth.

This be our part-let Heaven dispose the rest; If Jove command, the winds shall sleep, That now wage war upon the foamy deep,

And gentle gales spring from the balmy West.

E'en let us shift to-morrow as we may,

When to-morrow's past away,

We at least shall have to say,

We have liv'd another day;

Your auburn locks will soon be silver'd o'er,

Old age is at our heels, and youth returns no

more.

HOR. LIB. I. ODE XXXVIII.

Persicos odi, puer, apparatus;

Boy, I hate their empty shows,

Persian garlands I detest,

Bring not me the late-blown rose
Ling'ring after all the rest:

Plainer myrtle pleases me

Thus out-stretched beneath my vine,

Myrtle more becoming thee,

Waiting with thy master's wine.

English Sapphics have been attempted, but with little success, because in our language we have no certain rules by which to determine the quantity. The following version was made merely in the way of experiment how far it might be possible to imitate a Latin Sapphic in English without any attention to that circumstance.

HOR. B. I. ODE XXXVIII.

Boy! I detest all Persian fopperies,
Fillet-bound garlands are to me disgusting,
Task not thyself with any search, I charge thee,
Where latest roses linger.

Bring me alone (for thou wilt find that readily) Plain myrtle. Myrtle neither will disparage Thee occupied to serve me, or me drinking Beneath my vine's cool shelter.

HOR. LIB. II. ODE XVI.

Otium Divos rogat in patenti.

EASE is the weary merchant's pray'r,
Who plows beneath th' Ægean flood,
When neither moon nor stars appear,
Or faintly glimmer through the cloud.

For ease the Mede with quiver graced, For ease the Thracian hero sighs, Delightful ease all pant to taste,

A blessing which no treasure buys.

For neither gold can lull to rest,
Nor all a Consul's guard beat off
The tumults of a troubled breast,

The cares that haunt a gilded roof.

Happy the man, whose table shows
A few clean ounces of old plate,
No fear intrudes on his repose,

No sordid wishes to be great.

Poor short-liv'd things, what plans we lay! Ah, why forsake our native home!

To distant climates speed away;

For self sticks close where'er we roam.

Care follows hard; and soon o'ertakes
The well-rigg'd ship, the warlike steed,
Her destin❜d quarry ne'er forsakes,
Not the wind flies with half her speed.

From anxious fears of future ill

Guard well the cheerful, happy Now; Gild e'en your sorrows with a smile, No blessing is unmix'd below.

K