be obliged to tranflate half his works; of which I may fay more truly than in my opinion he did of Homer;
Qui, quid fit pulchrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid non,
Planius & meliùs Chryfippo & Crantore dicit *.
I fhall content myself upon this particular theme with three only, one out of his Odes, the other out of his Satires, the third out of his Epiftles; and fhall forbear to collect the fuffrages of all other poets, which may be found fcattered up and down through all their writings, and especially in Martial's. But I must not omit to make fome excufe for the bold undertaking of my own unfkilful pencil upon the beauties of a face that has been drawn before by fo many great mafters; efpecially, that I should dare to do it in Latin verses (though of another kind), and have the confidence to tranflate them. I can only fay that I love the matter, and that ought to cover many faults; and that I run not to contend with those before me, but follow to applaud them.
A TRANSLATION OUT OF VIRGIL.
GEORG. LIB. II. 458.
OH happy (if his happinefs he knows)
The country fwain, on whom kind Heaven bestows
At home all riches, that wife nature needs;
Whom the just earth with eafy plenty feeds.
'Tis true, no morning tide of clients comes,
And fills the painted channels of his rooms,
Adoring the rich figures, as they pass,
In tapettry wrought, or cut in living brass;
Nor is his wool fuperfluoufly dy'd
With the dear poifon of Affyrian pride:
Nor do Arabian perfumes vainly spoil
The native ufe and sweetness of his oil.
Inftead of thefe, his calm and harmless life,
Free from th' alarms of fear, and storms of strife,
Does with fubftantial bleffedness abound,
And the foft wings of peace cover him round:
Through artless grots the murmuring waters glide;
Thick trees both against heat and cold provide,
From whence the birds falute him; and his ground
With lowing herds and bleating fheep does found;
And all the rivers, and the forefts nigh,
Both food and game, and exercife, fupply.
Here a well-harden'd, active youth we fee,
Taught the great art of cheerful poverty,
Here, in this place alone, there ftill do fhine
Some ftreaks of love, both human and divine;
From hence Aftræa took her flight, and here
Still her laft footsteps upon earth appear.
'Tis true, the first defire, which does control
All the inferior wheels that move my foul,
Is that the Mufe me her high-prieft would mak:,
Into her holieft fcenes of mystery take,
And open there, to my mind's purged eye,
Those wonders, which to fenfe the gods deny :
How in the moon fuch change of fhapes is found,
The moon, the changing world's eternal bound;
What shakes the folid earth, what ftrong disease
Dares trouble the firm centre's ancient eafe;
What makes the fea retreat, and what advance
"(Varieties too regular for chance);"
What drives the chariot on of winter's light,
And flops the lazy waggon of the night,
But, if my dull and frozen blood deny
To fend forth fpirits, that raife a foul fo high,
In the next place, let woods and rivers be
My quiet, though inglorious, deftiny.
In life's coal vale let my low fcene be laid;
Cover me, gods, with Tempe's thickest fhade,
Happy the man, I grant, thrice happy, he,
Who can through grofs effects their caufes fee:
Whofe courage from the deeps of knowledge fprings,
Nor vainly fears inevitable things;
But does his walk of virtue calmly go
Through all th' alarms of death and hell below.
Happy! but, next fuch conquerors, happy they,
Whofe humble life lies not in fortune's way.
They unconcern'd, from their fafe diftant feat,
Behold the rods and fceptres of the great ;
The quarrels of the mighty without fear,
And the delcent of foreign troops, they hear;
Nor can ev'n Rome their fteady courfe mifguide,
With all the luftre of her perifhing pride.
Them never yet did ftrife or avarice draw
Into the noify markets of the law,
The camps of gowned war; nor do they live
By rules of forms, that many madmen give.
Duty for nature's bounty they repay,
And her fole laws religioufly obey.
Some with bold labour plow the faithlefs main,
Some rougher ftorms in princes' courts sustain:
Some fwell up their flight fails with popular fame,
Charm'd with the foolish whistlings of a name :
Some their vain wealth to earth again commit;
With endless cares fome brooding o'er it fit:
Country and friends are by fome wretches fold,
To lie on Tyrian beds, and drink in gold;
No price too high for profit can be shown;
Not brothers' blood, nor hazards of their own;
Around the world in fearch of it they roam,
It makes ev'n their antipodes their home;
Meanwhile, the prudent husbandman is found,
In mutual duties ftriving with his ground,
And half the year he care of that does take,
That half the year grateful returns does make.
Each fertile month does fome new gifts present,
And with new work his industry content.
This the young lamb, that the foft fleece, doth yield;
This loads with hay, and that with corn, the field;
All forts of fruit crown the rich autumn's pride:
And on a fwelling hill's warm ftony fide,
The powerful princely purple of the vine,
Twice dy'd with the redoubled fun, does shine.
In th' evening to a fair enfuing day,
With joy he fees his flocks and kids to play:
And loaded kine about his cottage ftand,
Inviting with known found the milker's hand;
And when from wholefome labour he doth come,
With wishes to be there, and wish'd-for home,
He meets at door the fofteft human bliffes,
His chafte wife's welcome, and dear children's kiffes.
When any rural holi 'ays invite
His genius forth to innocent delight,
On earth's fair bed, beneath fome facred fhade,
Amidst his equal friends carelessly laid,
He fings thee, Bacchus, patron of the vine;
The beechen bowl foams with a flood of wine,
Not to the lofs of reafon, or of ftrength:
To active games and manly fport, at length,
Their mirth afcends, and with fill'd veins they fee
Who can the best at better trials be.
From fuch the old Hetrurian virtue rofe;
Such was the life the prudent Sabins chofe :
Such, Remus, and the god, his brother, led;
From fuch firm-footing Rome grew the world's head.
Such was the life that, ev'n till now, does raise
The honour of poor Saturn's golden days:
Before men, born of earth, and buried there,
Let-in the fea their mortal fate to fhare:
Before new ways of perishing were fought;
Before unskilful death on anvils wrought;
'Before those beasts, which human life sustain,
By men, unlefs to the gods ufe, were flain.
HAPPY the man, whom bounteous gods allow With his own hands paternal grounds to plough! Like the first golden mortals happy, he, From bufinefs and the cares of money free! No human forms break off at land his fleep; No loud alarms of nature, on the deep: From all the cheats of law he lives fecure, Nor does th' affronts of palaces endure. Sometimes, the beauteous, marriageable vine He to the lufty bridegroom elm does join; Sometimes he lops the barren trees around, And grafts new life into the fruitful wound; Sometimes he fhears his flock, and fometimes he Stores up the golden treasures of the bee. He fees his lowing herds walk o'er the plain, Whilft neighbouring hills lowe back to them again;
And, when the feafon, rich as well as gay,
All her autumnal bounty does display,
How is he pleas'd th' increafing ufe to fee
Of his well-trufted labours bend the tree!
Of which large fhares, on the glad facred days,
He gives to friends, and to the gods repays.
With how much joy does he, beneath some shade
By aged trees' reverend embraces made,
His carclefs head on the fresh green recline,
His head uncharg'd with fear or with defign.
By him a river conftantly complains,
The birds above rejoice with various ftrains,
And in the folemn fcene their orgies keep,
Like dreams, mix'd with the gravity of fleep;
Sleep, which does always there for entrance wait,
And nought within against it fhuts the gate.
Nor does the rougheit feafon of the sky,
Or fullen Jove, all fports to him deny.
He runs the mazes of the nimble hare,
His well-mouth'd dogs' glad concert rends the air
Or with game bolder, and rewarded more,
He drives into a toil the foaming boar;
Here flies the hawk t' affault, and there the net
To intercept, the travailing fowl, is fet;
And all his malice, all his craft, is shown
In innocent wars on beafts and birds alone.
This is the life from all misfortunes free,
From thee, the great one, tyrant Love, from thee;
And, if a chafte and clean, though homely, wife
Be added to the bleffings of this life-
Such as the ancient fun-burnt Sabins were,
Such as Apulia, frugal ftill, does bear-
Who makes her children and the houfe her care,
And joyfully the work of life does share,
Nor thinks herself too noble or too fine
To pin the fheepfold or to milch the kine;
Who waits at door against her husband come
From rural duties, late and wearied, home,
Where she receives him with a kind embrace,
A cheerful fire, and a more cheerful face;
And fills the bowl up to her homely lord,
And with domeftic plenty loads the board;
Not all the luftful fhell-fish of the fea,
Drefs'd by the wanton hand of luxury,
Not ortolans, nor godwits, nor the reft
Of coftly names that glorify a feast,
Are at the princely tables better cheer,
Than lamb and kid, lettuce and olives, here.
THE COUNTRY MOUSE.
A PARAPHRASE UPON HORACE, BOOK II. SAT. VI.
AT the large foot of a fair hollow tree,
Close to plough'd ground, feated commodiously,
His ancient and hereditary houfe,
There dwelt a good fubftantial country moufe;
Frugal, and grave, and careful of the main,
Yet one who once did nobly entertain
A city moufe, well-coated, fleek, and gay,
A moufe of high degree, which loft his way,
Wantonly walking forth to take the air,
And arriv'd early, and belighted, there,
For a day's lodging: the good hearty hoft
(The ancient plenty of his hall to buait)
Did all the ftores produce, that might excite,
With various taftes, the courtier's appetite.
Fitches and beans, peafon and oats, and wheat,
And a large chefnut, the delicious meat
Which Jove himself, were he a mouse, would eзt.
And, for a haut gouft, there was mixt with these
The fwerd of bacon, and the coat of cheefe:
The precious reliques which, at harvest, he
Had gather'd from the reaper's luxury.
Freely (faid he) fall on, and never spare,
The bounteous gods will for to-morrow care.
And thus at eafe, on beds of ftraw, they lay,
And to their genius facrific'd the day:
Yet the nice guett's Epicurean mind,
(Though breeding made him civil feem and kind)
Defpis'd this country feaft; and ftill his thought
Upon the cakes and pies of London wrought.
Your bounty and civility (faid he),
Which I'm furpriz'd in thefe rude parts to fee,
Shews that the gods have given you a mind
Too noble for the fate which here you find.
Why fhould a foul, fo virtuous and fo great,
Lofe itself thus in an obfcure retreat?
Let favage beafts lodge in a country den;
You fhould fee towns, and manners know, and men ; And tafte the generous luxury of the court,.
Where all the mice of quality resort ;
Where thousand beauteous fhes about you move,
And, by high fare, are pliant made to love.
We all, ere long, muft render up our breath;
No cave or hole can fhelter us from death.
Since life is fo uncertain, and fo fhort,
Let's spend it all in feafting and in fport.
Come, worthy fir, come with me and partake
All the great things that mortals happy make.
Alas! what virtue hath fufficient arms
T'oppofe bright honour, and foft pleafure's charms:
What wisdom can their magic force repel?
It draws this reverend hermit from his cell.
It was the time, when witty poets tell,
"That Phoebus into Thetis' bofom fell:
"She blush'd at first, and then put out the light, "And drew the modeft curtains of the night."
Plainly the truth to tell, the fun was fet,
When to the town our wearied travellers get:
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