To His Slave. - Translations From Horace.

OD. i. 38.


Persian grandeur I abhor;
Linden-wreathed crowns, avaunt:
Boy, I bid thee not explore
Woods which latest roses haunt:

Try on nought thy busy craft
Save plain myrtle; so arrayed
Thou shalt fetch, I drain, the draught
Fitliest 'neath the scant vine-shade.

Charles Stuart Calverley

Charles Stuart Calverley was an English poet and wit, known for his parodies and skillfully light verse. Educated at Harrow and Oxford, he became immensely popular for his humorous poems. His notable works include 'Verses and Translations' and 'Fly Leaves.' Calverley's light-hearted approach and playful use of classical references made him a celebrated figure in Victorian literary circles.

Charles Stuart Calverley

Leaves Have Their Time To Fall.

Charles Stuart Calverley, Simple Poetry

Ode - 'On A Distant Prospect' Of Making A Fortune.

Charles Stuart Calverley, Simple Poetry

Isabel.

Charles Stuart Calverley, Simple Poetry

Dirge.

Charles Stuart Calverley, Simple Poetry

English

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To Virgil. - Translations From Horace.

OD. i. 24.


Unshamed, unchecked, for one so dear
We sorrow. Lead the mournful choir,
Melpomene, to whom thy sire
Gave harp, and song-notes liquid-clear!

Sleeps He the sleep that knows no morn?
Oh Honour, oh twin-born with Right,
Pure Faith, and Truth that loves the light,
When shall again his like be born?

Many a kind heart for Him makes moan;
Thine, Virgil, first. But ah! in vain
Thy love bids heaven restore again
That which it took not as a loan:

Were sweeter lute than Orpheus given
To thee, did trees thy voice obey;
The blood revisits not the clay
Which He, with lifted wand, hath driven

Into his dark assemblage, who
Unlocks not fate to mortal's prayer.
Hard lot! Yet light their griefs who BEAR
The ills ...

Charles Stuart Calverley

To A Ship. - Translations From Horace.

OD. i. 14.

Yet on fresh billows seaward wilt thou ride,
O ship? What dost thou? Seek a hav'n, and there
Rest thee: for lo! thy side
Is oarless all and bare,

And the swift south-west wind hath maimed thy mast,
And thy yards creak, and, every cable lost,
Yield must thy keel at last
On pitiless sea-waves tossed

Too rudely. Goodly canvas is not thine,
Nor gods, to hear thee now, when need is sorest:-
Though thou - a Pontic pine,
Child of a stately forest, -

Boastest high name and empty pedigree,
Pale seamen little trust the gaudy sail:
Stay, unless doomed to be
The plaything of the gale.

Flee - what of late sore burden was to me,
Now a sad memory and a bitter pain, -
Those shining Cyclads flee
That stud the far-off...

Charles Stuart Calverley

To Lyce. - Translations From Horace.

OD. iv. 13.


Lyce, the gods have listened to my prayer;
The gods have listened, Lyce. Thou art grey,
And still would'st thou seem fair;
Still unshamed drink, and play,

And, wine-flushed, woo slow-answering Love with weak
Shrill pipings. With young Chia He doth dwell,
Queen of the harp; her cheek
Is his sweet citadel:-

He marked the withered oak, and on he flew
Intolerant; shrank from Lyce grim and wrinkled,
Whose teeth are ghastly-blue,
Whose temples snow-besprinkled:-

Not purple, not the brightest gem that glows,
Brings back to her the years which, fleeting fast,
Time hath once shut in those
Dark annals of the Past.

Oh, where is all thy loveliness? soft hue
And motions soft? Oh, what of Her doth rest,
Her, who...

Charles Stuart Calverley

Odes From Horace. - To His Attendant. Book The First, Ode The Thirty-Eighth.

Boy, not in these Autumnal bowers
Shalt thou the Persian Vest dispose,
Of artful fold, and rich brocade;
Nor tie in gaudy knots the sprays and flowers.
Ah! search not where the latest rose
Yet lingers in the sunny glade;
Plain be the vest, and simple be the braid!
I charge thee with the myrtle wreath
Not one resplendent bloom entwine;
We both become that modest band,
As stretch'd my vineyard's ample shade beneath,
Jocund I quaff the rosy wine;
While near me thou shalt smiling stand,
And fill the sparkling cup with ready hand.

Anna Seward

Soracte. - Translations From Horace.

OD. i. 9.


One dazzling mass of solid snow
Soracte stands; the bent woods fret
Beneath their load; and, sharpest-set
With frost, the streams have ceased to flow.

Pile on great faggots and break up
The ice: let influence more benign
Enter with four-years-treasured wine,
Fetched in the ponderous Sabine cup:

Leave to the Gods all else. When they
Have once bid rest the winds that war
Over the passionate seas, no more
Grey ash and cypress rock and sway.

Ask not what future suns shall bring,
Count to-day gain, whate'er it chance
To be: nor, young man, scorn the dance,
Nor deem sweet Love an idle thing,

Ere Time thy April youth hath changed
To sourness. Park and public walk
Attract thee now, and whispered talk
At...

Charles Stuart Calverley

To Ibycus's Wife. - Translations From Horace.

OD. ii. 15.


Spouse of penniless Ibycus,
Thus late, bring to a close all thy delinquencies,
All thy studious infamy:-
Nearing swiftly the grave - (that not an early one) -
Cease girls' sport to participate,
Blurring stars which were else cloudlessly brilliant.
What suits her who is beautiful
Suits not equally thee: rightly devastates
Thy fair daughter the homes of men,
Wild as Thyad, who wakes stirred by the kettle-drums.
Nothus' beauty constraining her,
Like some kid at his play, holds she her revelry:
Thy years stately Luceria's
Wools more fitly become - not din of harpsichords,
Not pink-petalled roseblossoms,
Not casks drained by an old lip to the sediment.

Charles Stuart Calverley