ODES - I.22 THE MAN OF LIFE UPRIGHT ...
Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus) trans. Wentworth Dillon,
......................Earl of Roscommon
Integer uitae scelerisque purus
non eget Mauris laculis neque arcu
nec uenenatis grauida sagittis,
Fusce, pharetra,

siue per Syrtis iter aestuosas
siue facturus per inhospitalem
Caucasum uel quae loca fabulosus
lambit Hydaspes.

Namque me silua lupus in Sabina,
dum meam canto Lalagem et ultra
terminum curis uagor expeditis,
fugit inermem,

quale portentum neque militaris
Daunias latis alit aesculetis
nec Iubae tellus generat, leonum
arida nutrix.

Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis
arbor aestiua recreatur aura,
quod latus mundi nebulae malusque
Iuppiter urget;

pone sub curru nimium propinqui
solis in terra domibus negata:
dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
dulce loquentem.
Virtue, dear friend, needs no defence,
No arms, but its own innocence;
Quivers and bows, and poison'd darts,
Are only us'd by guilty hearts.

An honest mind safely alone
May travel through the burning zone;
Or thro' the deepest Scythian snows,
Or where the fam'd Hydaspes flows.

While rul'd by a resistless fire,
Our great Orinda I admire,
The hungry wolves that see me stray,
Unarm'd and single, run away.

Set me in the remotest place
That ever Neptune did embrace;
When there her image fills my breast,
Helicon is not half so blest.

Leave me upon some Lybian plain,
So she my fancy entertain,
And when the thirsty monsters meet,
They'll all pay homage to my feet.

The magic of Orinda's name
Not only can their fierceness tame,
But if that mighty word I once rehearse,
They seem submissively to roar in verse.

Click here 4 for another translation of this poem.

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