1 The man, my friend, whose conscious heart
      With virtue’s sacred ardour glows,
    Nor taints with death the envenom’d dart,
      Nor needs the guard of Moorish bows: 

  2 Though Scythia’s icy cliffs he treads,
      Or horrid Afric’s faithless sands;
    Or where the famed Hydaspes spreads
      His liquid wealth o’er barbarous lands.

  3 For while, by Chloee’s image charm’d,
      Too far in Sabine woods I stray’d;
    Me singing, careless and unarm’d,
      A grisly wolf surprised, and fled.

  4 No savage more portentous stain’d
      Apulia’s spacious wilds with gore;
    None fiercer Juba’s thirsty land,
      Dire nurse of raging lions, bore.

  5 Place me where no soft summer gale
      Among the quivering branches sighs;
    Where clouds condensed for ever veil
      With horrid gloom the frowning skies: 

  6 Place me beneath the burning line,
      A clime denied to human race;
    I’ll sing of Chloee’s charms divine,
      Her heavenly voice, and beauteous face.

* * * * *

  TRANSLATION OF HORACE.

BOOK II.  ODE IX.

  1 Clouds do not always veil the skies,
      Nor showers immerse the verdant plain;
    Nor do the billows always rise,
      Or storms afflict the ruffled main.

  2 Nor, Valgius, on the Armenian shores
      Do the chain’d waters always freeze;
    Not always furious Boreas roars,
      Or bends with violent force the trees.

  3 But you are ever drown’d in tears,
      For Mystes dead you ever mourn;
    No setting Sol can ease your cares,
      But finds you sad at his return.

  4 The wise, experienced Grecian sage
      Mourn’d not Antilochus so long;
    Nor did King Priam’s hoary age
      So much lament his slaughter’d son.
  5 Leave off, at length, these woman’s sighs,
      Augustus’ numerous trophies sing;
    Repeat that prince’s victories,
      To whom all nations tribute bring.

  6 Niphates rolls an humbler wave,
      At length the undaunted Scythian yields,
    Content to live the Romans’ slave,
      And scarce forsakes his native fields.

* * * * *

  TRANSLATION

OF PART OF THE DIALOGUE BETWEEN HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.—­FROM THE SIXTH BOOK OF HOMER’S ILIAD.

  She ceased:  then godlike Hector answer’d kind,
  (His various plumage sporting in the wind): 
  That post, and all the rest, shall be my care;
  But shall I then forsake the unfinish’d war? 
  How would the Trojans brand great Hector’s name,
  And one base action sully all my fame,
  Acquired by wounds and battles bravely fought! 
  Oh! how my soul abhors so mean a thought!