  George Beck, classicist, born in England in 1749, became instructor of mathematics at Woolwich Academy, near London, at the age of twenty-seven years; but he was later dismissed. Beck married an English woman of culture and emigrated to the United States in 1795, reaching these shores in time to serve "Mad Anthony" Wayne as a scout in his Indian campaign. The wanderlust was upon George Beck, and he became one of the first of that little band of nomadic painters that came early to the Blue Grass country, and having once come remained. He arrived at Lexington in 1800; and it was not long before he began to send short original poems and spirited translations of Anacreon, Homer, Horace, and Virgil to old John Bradford's Gazette. At about this time, too, Beck was doing many portraits and a group of landscapes in oils of the Kentucky river country, a few of which have come down to posterity. Eighteen hundred and six seems to have been Beck's best year in Kentucky from the literary viewpoint, as the Gazette is full of his verses and translations. He was widely known as the "Lexington Horace." Besides painting and poetry, George Beck was a rather learned astronomer, as his Observations on the Comet of 1811 prove. With his wife he conducted an "Academy for Young Ladies" for several years. His last years were much embittered by the lack of appreciation upon the part of the Western public. The Kentucky of 1800 was not a whirlpool of art or literature by any means, and this cultured man languished and finally died among
FIFTEENTH ODE OF HORACE
[From The Kentucky Gazette (October 27, 1806)] What time the fair perfidious shepherd bore The beauteous Helen back to Ilion's shore, To sleep the howling waves were won By Nerceus, Ocean's hoary son, While round the liquid realms he sung, From guilty love, what dire disasters sprung. Thee, tainted Youth, what omens dire attend! Thy neck and Ilion's soon to Greece shall bend. To man and horse what sweat and blood, What carnage float down Xanthus' flood! What wrath on Troy shall Greece infuriate turn! What glittering domes, and spires, and temples burn! In vain you boast the Queen of beauty's smiles, Her charms, her floating curls, her amourous wiles, These, these alas! will nought avail While Cretan arrows round you sail! And, tho' the fates awhile such guilt may spare, Vile dust at length shall smear that golden hair! Trace back, vain Youth! sad Ilion's fate of old! Teucer's and Diomede's more dread Horrific war shall round you shed; Then shall ye trembling fly like timid deer When hungry wolves are howling in their rear. By promise Vain of Universal Sway Lur'd you from Greece the beauteous Queen away? In less than ten revolving years Achilles' dreadful fleet appears! His bloody trains of Myrmidonians dire Shall wrap proud Ilion's domes in Grecian fire! ANACREON'S FIFTY-FIFTH ODE [From The Kentucky Gazette (November 3, 1806)] What deathless Artist's mimic hand Shall paint me here the Ocean bland, Shall give the waves such kindling glows As when immortal Venus rose? Who, in phrenzy's flight of mind Such touch and tinctures bright may find To match her form and golden hair And naked paint the heavenly fair? While every amorous rival billow Strives her buoyant breast to pillow? 'Tis done! behold the wavelets green Softly press the Paphian Queen, Around her heavenly bosom play, Kiss its warm blush and melt away. Her graceful neck of pearl behold, Her wavy curls of floating gold: But none but lips divine may tell What Graces on that bosom dwell! Such bloom a bed of lilies shows Illumin'd by the crimson'd rose. Rounding off with grace divine Like hills of snow her shoulders shine. While streaming thro' the waves she swims Else where's the eye that durst behold Such beauty stream'd on heavenly mold? Th' enamour'd Triton's glittering train Sporting round the liquid main Waving their gold and silver pinions, Bear her o'er their deep dominions, While infant Loves and young desires Dancing 'mid the choral choirs Clasp the beauteous Queen around And sail in triumph o'er the bright profound. ANACREON'S FIRST ODE [From The Western Review (Lexington, March, 1821)] I would Atrides' glory tell, I would to Cadmus strike my shell; I try the vocal cords—in vain! Love, only love, breathes through the strain. I strip away the truant wire, And string with deeper chords the lyre, Then great Alcides' toils would sing: Soft love still sighs through every string. Hence, themes of Glory, hence! adieu! For what have I to do with you? My heart and lyre in union make Resounding Love and only Love. |
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