Horæ Cantabrigienses .

No V.

I trust I am not taking an unpardonable liberty in sending you, for your
Horæ Cantabrigienses, my versions of an ode or two of Horace, as a specimen
of some thirty or forty which I have lately endeavoured to exhibit in octo-
syllabic verse. I trust, at least, you will give the translator credit for that
first virtue of a translator, fidelity. To elegance of any kind, still more to
Horace’s elegance, I fear I have slight pretension.
Yours ever,

Book First, Ode Ninth.

See’st thou, my friend, how white with snow,1
Towers in mid air Soracte’s brow ;2
How with their load the forests bend,3
And frost the torrent’s force has chain’d !4
The season’s chilling cold to chase,5
Bid on thy hearth huge faggots blaze ;6
And from the twin-ear’d pitcher pour7
Thy inmost bin’s time-mellow’d store.8
Leave to the Gods all cares beside :9
Soon as their voice has quell’d the pride10
Of storms wild-raving o’er the sea,11
Stirs not a breath the aspen-tree.12
To trace to-morrow’s doom forego,13
And count as gain each granted Now ;14
Nor then the joys of love’s young morn,15
Or dance of sprightly damsels scorn,16
While still with gray unstain’d thine hair.17
Now to the public mall repair,18
Assiduous ; in the appointed bower19
Now breathe thy tale at eve’s soft hour20
Dear now the titter arch which tells21
What nook the ambush’d maid conceals,22
Sweet from the struggling yielding fair23
The ring or bracelet-pledge to bear.24