Men of letters have often observed to me, that in paraphrasing Horace, my sex would be an unpardonable crime with every Pedant, whether within, or without the pale of professional criticism. It is not in their power to speak or write more contemptuously of my Horatian Odes than the Critics of Dryden's and Pope's time, in the literary journals of that Period, wrote of their Translations from Homer, Virgil, Horace, Boccace, and Chaucer. Instances of that _public abuse_ are triumphantly inserted by Warburton in his Edition of Pope's works. See Appendix to the Dunciad. It is re-published there, to justify some of the personal severities of Pope's celebrated Satire. Most of the notes to the ensuing Paraphrases are addressed to their unlearned Readers, since no allusion can interest which is not perfectly comprehended. ODES FROM HORACE. TO MÆCENAS. BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE FIRST. I. Mæcenas, from Etrurian Princes sprung, For whom my golden lyre I strung, Friend, Patron, Guardian of its rising song, O mark the Youth, that towers along, With triumph in his air; Proud of Olympic dust, that soils His burning cheek and tangled hair! Mark how he spreads the palm, that crown'd his toils! Each look the throbbing hope reveals That his fleet steeds and kindling wheels, Swept round the skilfully-avoided goal, Shall with illustrious Chiefs his echo'd name enrol. II. Who the civic crown obtains, Or bears into his granaries large The plenteous tribute of the Libyan Plains; Or he, who watches still a rural charge, O'er his own fields directs the plough, Sees his own fruitage load the bough; These would'st thou tempt to brave the faithless main, And tempt with regal wealth, thy effort should be vain. I. The stormy South howls thro' the sullen cloud, Contending billows roar aloud! The Merchant sees the gathering danger rise, And sends a thousand yearning sighs To his dear shelter'd home.-- Its shades receive him;--but the tides Grow smooth;--the wild winds cease to roam; And see!--his new-trimm'd vessel gaily rides!-- Fir'd with the hope of wealth, once more He quits, so hardly gain'd, the shore; Watches, with eager eye, th' unfurling sail, Nor casts one look behind to the safe, sylvan vale. II. [1]The youth of gay, luxurious taste, Breaks, in the ārbutus' soft shade, The precious day with interrupting feast; Or quaffs, by some clear fountain in a glade, The mellow wine of ruby gleam, While in vain the purer stream Courts him, as gently the green bank it laves, To blend th' enfevering draught with its pellucid waves. I.