The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace

XIV
O NAVIS, REFERENT

 
     O LUCKLESS bark! new waves will force you back
     To sea. O, haste to make the haven yours!
          E'en now, a helpless wrack,
            You drift, despoil'd of oars;
     The Afric gale has dealt your mast a wound;
       Your sailyards groan, nor can your keel sustain,
          Till lash'd with cables round,
             A more imperious main.
     Your canvass hangs in ribbons, rent and torn;
       No gods are left to pray to in fresh need.
          A pine of Pontus born
            Of noble forest breed,
     You boast your name and lineage—madly blind!
       Can painted timbers quell a seaman's fear?
          Beware! or else the wind
            Makes you its mock and jeer.
     Your trouble late made sick this heart of mine,
       And still I love you, still am ill at ease.
          O, shun the sea, where shine
            The thick-sown Cyclades!
 

XV
PASTOR CUM TRAHERET

 
     When the false swain was hurrying o'er the deep
       His Spartan hostess in the Idaean bark,
     Old Nereus laid the unwilling winds asleep,
         That all to Fate might hark,
     Speaking through him:—"Home in ill hour you take
       A prize whom Greece shall claim with troops untold,
     Leagued by an oath your marriage tie to break
         And Priam's kingdom old.
     Alas! what deaths you launch on Dardan realm!
       What toils are waiting, man and horse to tire!
     See! Pallas trims her aegis and her helm,
         Her chariot and her ire.
     Vainly shall you, in Venus' favour strong,
       Your tresses comb, and for your dames divide
     On peaceful lyre the several parts of song;
         Vainly in chamber hide
     From spears and Gnossian arrows, barb'd with fate,
       And battle's din, and Ajax in the chase
     Unconquer'd; those adulterous locks, though late,
         Shall gory dust deface.
     Hark! 'tis the death-cry of your race! look back!
       Ulysses comes, and Pylian Nestor grey;
     See! Salaminian Teucer on your track,
            And Sthenelus, in the fray
     Versed, or with whip and rein, should need require,
       No laggard. Merion too your eyes shall know
     From far. Tydides, fiercer than his sire,
            Pursues you, all aglow;
     Him, as the stag forgets to graze for fright,
       Seeing the wolf at distance in the glade,
     And flies, high panting, you shall fly, despite
            Boasts to your leman made.
     What though Achilles' wrathful fleet postpone
       The day of doom to Troy and Troy's proud dames,
     Her towers shall fall, the number'd winters flown,
            Wrapp'd in Achaean flames."
 

XVI
O MATRE PULCHRA

 
     O lovelier than the lovely dame
       That bore you, sentence as you please
     Those scurril verses, be it flame
       Your vengeance craves, or Hadrian seas.
     Not Cybele, nor he that haunts
       Rich Pytho, worse the brain confounds,
     Not Bacchus, nor the Corybants
       Clash their loud gongs with fiercer sounds
     Than savage wrath; nor sword nor spear
       Appals it, no, nor ocean's frown,
     Nor ravening fire, nor Jupiter
       In hideous ruin crashing down.
     Prometheus, forced, they say, to add
       To his prime clay some favourite part
     From every kind, took lion mad,
       And lodged its gall in man's poor heart.
     'Twas wrath that laid Thyestes low;
       'Tis wrath that oft destruction calls
     On cities, and invites the foe
       To drive his plough o'er ruin'd walls.
     Then calm your spirit; I can tell
       How once, when youth in all my veins
     Was glowing, blind with rage, I fell
       On friend and foe in ribald strains.
     Come, let me change my sour for sweet,
       And smile complacent as before:
     Hear me my palinode repeat,
       And give me back your heart once more.
 

XVII
VELOX AMOENUM

 
     The pleasures of Lucretilis
       Tempt Faunus from his Grecian seat;
     He keeps my little goats in bliss
       Apart from wind, and rain, and heat.
     In safety rambling o'er the sward
       For arbutes and for thyme they peer,
     The ladies of the unfragrant lord,
       Nor vipers, green with venom, fear,
     Nor savage wolves, of Mars' own breed,
       My Tyndaris, while Ustica's dell
     Is vocal with the silvan reed,
       And music thrills the limestone fell.
     Heaven is my guardian; Heaven approves
       A blameless life, by song made sweet;
     Come hither, and the fields and groves
       Their horn shall empty at your feet.
     Here, shelter'd by a friendly tree,
       In Teian measures you shall sing
     Bright Circe and Penelope,
       Love-smitten both by one sharp sting.
     Here shall you quaff beneath the shade
       Sweet Lesbian draughts that injure none,
     Nor fear lest Mars the realm invade
       Of Semele's Thyonian son,
     Lest Cyrus on a foe too weak
       Lay the rude hand of wild excess,
     His passion on your chaplet wreak,
       Or spoil your undeserving dress.
 

XVIII
NULLAM, VARE

 
   Varus, are your trees in planting? put in none before the vine,
     In the rich domain of Tibur, by the walls of Catilus;
   There's a power above that hampers all that sober brains design,
     And the troubles man is heir to thus are quell'd, and only thus.
   Who can talk of want or warfare when the wine is in his head,
     Not of thee, good father Bacchus, and of Venus fair and bright?
   But should any dream of licence, there's a lesson may be read,
     How 'twas wine that drove the Centaurs with the Lapithae to fight.
   And the Thracians too may warn us; truth and falsehood, good and
          ill,
     How they mix them, when the wine-god's hand is heavy on them laid!
   Never, never, gracious Bacchus, may I move thee 'gainst thy will,
     Or uncover what is hidden in the verdure of thy shade!
   Silence thou thy savage cymbals, and the Berecyntine horn;
       In their train Self-love still follows, dully, desperately
          blind,
   And Vain-glory, towering upwards in its empty-headed scorn,
       And the Faith that keeps no secrets, with a window in its mind.
 

XIX
MATER SAEVA CUPIDINUM

 
         Cupid's mother, cruel dame,
     And Semele's Theban boy, and Licence bold,
         Bid me kindle into flame
     This heart, by waning passion now left cold.
         O, the charms of Glycera,
     That hue, more dazzling than the Parian stone!
         O, that sweet tormenting play,
     That too fair face, that blinds when look'd upon!
         Venus comes in all her might,
     Quits Cyprus for my heart, nor lets me tell
         Of the Parthian, hold in flight,
     Nor Scythian hordes, nor aught that breaks her spell.
         Heap the grassy altar up,
     Bring vervain, boys, and sacred frankincense;
         Fill the sacrificial cup;
     A victim's blood will soothe her vehemence.
 

XX
VILE POTABIS

 
     Not large my cups, nor rich my cheer,
         This Sabine wine, which erst I seal'd,
     That day the applauding theatre
         Your welcome peal'd,
     Dear knight Maecenas! as 'twere fain
       That your paternal river's banks,
     And Vatican, in sportive strain,
         Should echo thanks.
     For you Calenian grapes are press'd,
       And Caecuban; these cups of mine
     Falernum's bounty ne'er has bless'd,
         Nor Formian vine.
 

XXI
DIANAM TENERAE

 
       Of Dian's praises, tender maidens, tell;
         Of Cynthus' unshorn god, young striplings, sing;
           And bright Latona, well
             Beloved of Heaven's high King.
     Sing her that streams and silvan foliage loves,
       Whate'er on Algidus' chill brow is seen,
           In Erymanthian groves
             Dark-leaved, or Cragus green.
     Sing Tempe too, glad youths, in strain as loud,
       And Phoebus' birthplace, and that shoulder fair,
           His golden quiver proud
             And brother's lyre to bear.
     His arm shall banish Hunger, Plague, and War
       To Persia and to Britain's coast, away
           From Rome and Caesar far,
             If you have zeal to pray.
 

XXII
INTEGER VITAE

 
     No need of Moorish archer's craft
       To guard the pure and stainless liver;
     He wants not, Fuscus, poison'd shaft
         To store his quiver,
     Whether he traverse Libyan shoals,
       Or Caucasus, forlorn and horrent,
     Or lands where far Hydaspes rolls
         His fabled torrent.
     A wolf, while roaming trouble-free
       In Sabine wood, as fancy led me,
     Unarm'd I sang my Lalage,
         Beheld, and fled me.
     Dire monster! in her broad oak woods
       Fierce Daunia fosters none such other,
     Nor Juba's land, of lion broods
         The thirsty mother.
     Place me where on the ice-bound plain
       No tree is cheer'd by summer breezes,
     Where Jove descends in sleety rain
         Or sullen freezes;
     Place me where none can live for heat,
       'Neath Phoebus' very chariot plant me,
     That smile so sweet, that voice so sweet,
         Shall still enchant me.
 

XXIII
VITAS HINNULEO

 
     You fly me, Chloe, as o'er trackless hills
       A young fawn runs her timorous dam to find,
         Whom empty terror thrills
           Of woods and whispering wind.
     Whether 'tis Spring's first shiver, faintly heard
       Through the light leaves, or lizards in the brake
         The rustling thorns have stirr'd,
           Her heart, her knees, they quake.
     Yet I, who chase you, no grim lion am,
       No tiger fell, to crush you in my gripe:
         Come, learn to leave your dam,
           For lover's kisses ripe.
 

XXIV
QUIS DESIDERIO

 
     Why blush to let our tears unmeasured fall
       For one so dear? Begin the mournful stave,
     Melpomene, to whom the Sire of all
         Sweet voice with music gave.
     And sleeps he then the heavy sleep of death,
       Quintilius? Piety, twin sister dear
     Of Justice! naked Truth! unsullied Faith!
         When will ye find his peer?
     By many a good man wept. Quintilius dies;
       By none than you, my Virgil, trulier wept:
     Devout in vain, you chide the faithless skies,
         Asking your loan ill-kept.
     No, though more suasive than the bard of Thrace
       You swept the lyre that trees were fain to hear,
     Ne'er should the blood revisit his pale face
         Whom once with wand severe
     Mercury has folded with the sons of night,
       Untaught to prayer Fate's prison to unseal.
     Ah, heavy grief! but patience makes more light
         What sorrow may not heal.
 

XXVI
MUSIS AMICUS

 
     The Muses love me: fear and grief,
       The winds may blow them to the sea;
     Who quail before the wintry chief
       Of Scythia's realm, is nought to me.
     What cloud o'er Tiridates lowers,
       I care not, I. O, nymph divine
     Of virgin springs, with sunniest flowers
       A chaplet for my Lamia twine,
     Pimplea sweet! my praise were vain
       Without thee. String this maiden lyre,
     Attune for him the Lesbian strain,
       O goddess, with thy sister quire!
 

XXVII
NATIS IN USUM

 
     What, fight with cups that should give joy?
      'Tis barbarous; leave such savage ways
     To Thracians. Bacchus, shamefaced boy,
       Is blushing at your bloody frays.
     The Median sabre! lights and wine!
       Was stranger contrast ever seen?
     Cease, cease this brawling, comrades mine,
       And still upon your elbows lean.
     Well, shall I take a toper's part
       Of fierce Falernian? let our guest,
     Megilla's brother, say what dart
       Gave the death-wound that makes him blest.
     He hesitates? no other hire
       Shall tempt my sober brains. Whate'er
     The goddess tames you, no base fire
       She kindles; 'tis some gentle fair
     Allures you still. Come, tell me truth,
       And trust my honour.—That the name?
     That wild Charybdis yours? Poor youth!
       O, you deserved a better flame!
     What wizard, what Thessalian spell,
       What god can save you, hamper'd thus?
     To cope with this Chimaera fell
       Would task another Pegasus.
 

XXVIII
TE MARIS ET TERRA

 
     The sea, the earth, the innumerable sand,
       Archytas, thou couldst measure; now, alas!
     A little dust on Matine shore has spann'd
       That soaring spirit; vain it was to pass
     The gates of heaven, and send thy soul in quest
       O'er air's wide realms; for thou hadst yet to die.
     Ay, dead is Pelops' father, heaven's own guest,
       And old Tithonus, rapt from earth to sky,
     And Minos, made the council-friend of Jove;
       And Panthus' son has yielded up his breath
     Once more, though down he pluck'd the shield, to prove
       His prowess under Troy, and bade grim death
     O'er skin and nerves alone exert its power,
       Not he, you grant, in nature meanly read.
     Yes, all "await the inevitable hour;"
       The downward journey all one day must tread.
     Some bleed, to glut the war-god's savage eyes;
       Fate meets the sailor from the hungry brine;
     Youth jostles age in funeral obsequies;
       Each brow in turn is touch'd by Proserpine.
     Me, too, Orion's mate, the Southern blast,
       Whelm'd in deep death beneath the Illyrian wave.
     But grudge not, sailor, of driven sand to cast
       A handful on my head, that owns no grave.
     So, though the eastern tempests loudly threat
       Hesperia's main, may green Venusia's crown
     Be stripp'd, while you lie warm; may blessings yet
       Stream from Tarentum's guard, great Neptune, down,
     And gracious Jove, into your open lap!
       What! shrink you not from crime whose punishment
     Falls on your innocent children? it may hap
       Imperious Fate will make yourself repent.
     My prayers shall reach the avengers of all wrong;
       No expiations shall the curse unbind.
     Great though your haste, I would not task you long;
       Thrice sprinkle dust, then scud before the wind.
 

XXIX
ICCI, BEATIS

 
     Your heart on Arab wealth is set,
       Good Iccius: you would try your steel
     On Saba's kings, unconquer'd yet,
       And make the Mede your fetters feel.
     Come, tell me what barbarian fair
       Will serve you now, her bridegroom slain?
     What page from court with essenced hair
       Will tender you the bowl you drain,
     Well skill'd to bend the Serian bow
       His father carried? Who shall say
     That rivers may not uphill flow,
       And Tiber's self return one day,
     If you would change Panaetius' works,
       That costly purchase, and the clan
     Of Socrates, for shields and dirks,
       Whom once we thought a saner man?
 

XXX
O VENUS

 
     Come, Cnidian, Paphian Venus, come,
         Thy well-beloved Cyprus spurn,
     Haste, where for thee in Glycera's home
         Sweet odours burn.
     Bring too thy Cupid, glowing warm,
       Graces and Nymphs, unzoned and free,
     And Youth, that lacking thee lacks charm,
         And Mercury.
 

XXXI
QUID DEDICATUM

 
     What blessing shall the bard entreat
       The god he hallows, as he pours
     The winecup? Not the mounds of wheat
       That load Sardinian threshing floors;
     Not Indian gold or ivory—no,
       Nor flocks that o'er Calabria stray,
     Nor fields that Liris, still and slow,
       Is eating, unperceived, away.
     Let those whose fate allows them train
       Calenum's vine; let trader bold
     From golden cups rich liquor drain
       For wares of Syria bought and sold,
     Heaven's favourite, sooth, for thrice a-year
       He comes and goes across the brine
     Undamaged. I in plenty here
       On endives, mallows, succory dine.
     O grant me, Phoebus, calm content,
       Strength unimpair'd, a mind entire,
     Old age without dishonour spent,
       Nor unbefriended by the lyre!
 

XXXII
POSCIMUR

 
     They call;—if aught in shady dell
       We twain have warbled, to remain
     Long months or years, now breathe, my shell,
         A Roman strain,
     Thou, strung by Lesbos' minstrel hand,
       The bard, who 'mid the clash of steel,
     Or haply mooring to the strand
         His batter'd keel,
     Of Bacchus and the Muses sung,
       And Cupid, still at Venus' side,
     And Lycus, beautiful and young,
         Dark-hair'd, dark-eyed.
     O sweetest lyre, to Phoebus dear,
       Delight of Jove's high festival,
     Blest balm in trouble, hail and hear
         Whene'er I call!
 

XXXIII
ALBI, NE DOLEAS

 
     What, Albius! why this passionate despair
       For cruel Glycera? why melt your voice
     In dolorous strains, because the perjured fair
         Has made a younger choice?
     See, narrow-brow'd Lycoris, how she glows
       For Cyrus! Cyrus turns away his head
     To Pholoe's frown; but sooner gentle roes
         Apulian wolves shall wed,
     Than Pholoe to so mean a conqueror strike:
       So Venus wills it; 'neath her brazen yoke
     She loves to couple forms and minds unlike,
         All for a heartless joke.
     For me sweet Love had forged a milder spell;
       But Myrtale still kept me her fond slave,
     More stormy she than the tempestuous swell
         That crests Calabria's wave.
 

XXXIV
PARCUS DEORUM

 
     My prayers were scant, my offerings few,
       While witless wisdom fool'd my mind;
     But now I trim my sails anew,
       And trace the course I left behind.
     For lo! the Sire of heaven on high,
       By whose fierce bolts the clouds are riven,
     To-day through an unclouded sky
       His thundering steeds and car has driven.
     E'en now dull earth and wandering floods,
       And Atlas' limitary range,
     And Styx, and Taenarus' dark abodes
       Are reeling. He can lowliest change
     And loftiest; bring the mighty down
       And lift the weak; with whirring flight
     Comes Fortune, plucks the monarch's crown,
       And decks therewith some meaner wight.
 

XXXV
O DIVA, GRATUM

 
     Lady of Antium, grave and stern!
       O Goddess, who canst lift the low
     To high estate, and sudden turn
       A triumph to a funeral show!
     Thee the poor hind that tills the soil
       Implores; their queen they own in thee,
     Who in Bithynian vessel toil
       Amid the vex'd Carpathian sea.
     Thee Dacians fierce, and Scythian hordes,
       Peoples and towns, and Koine, their head,
     And mothers of barbarian lords,
       And tyrants in their purple dread,
     Lest, spurn'd by thee in scorn, should fall
       The state's tall prop, lest crowds on fire
     To arms, to arms! the loiterers call,
       And thrones be tumbled in the mire.
     Necessity precedes thee still
       With hard fierce eyes and heavy tramp:
     Her hand the nails and wedges fill,
       The molten lead and stubborn clamp.
     Hope, precious Truth in garb of white,
       Attend thee still, nor quit thy side
     When with changed robes thou tak'st thy flight
       In anger from the homes of pride.
     Then the false herd, the faithless fair,
       Start backward; when the wine runs dry,
     The jocund guests, too light to bear
       An equal yoke, asunder fly.
     O shield our Caesar as he goes
       To furthest Britain, and his band,
     Rome's harvest! Send on Eastern foes
       Their fear, and on the Red Sea strand!
     O wounds that scarce have ceased to run!
       O brother's blood! O iron time!
     What horror have we left undone?
       Has conscience shrunk from aught of crime?
     What shrine has rapine held in awe?
       What altar spared? O haste and beat
     The blunted steel we yet may draw
       On Arab and on Massagete!
 

XXXVI
ET THURE, ET FIDIBUS

 
         Bid the lyre and cittern play;
     Enkindle incense, shed the victim's gore;
         Heaven has watch'd o'er Numida,
     And brings him safe from far Hispania's shore.
         Now, returning, he bestows
     On each, dear comrade all the love he can;
         But to Lamia most he owes,
     By whose sweet side he grew from boy to man.
         Note we in our calendar
     This festal day with whitest mark from Crete:
         Let it flow, the old wine-jar,
     And ply to Salian time your restless feet.
         Damalis tosses off her wine,
     But Bassus sure must prove her match to-night.
         Give us roses all to twine,
     And parsley green, and lilies deathly white.
         Every melting eye will rest
     On Damalis' lovely face; but none may part
         Damalis from our new-found guest;
     She clings, and clings, like ivy, round his heart.
 

XXXVII
NUNC EST BIBENDUM

 
     Now drink we deep, now featly tread
       A measure; now before each shrine
     With Salian feasts the table spread;
       The time invites us, comrades mine.
    'Twas shame to broach, before to-day,
       The Caecuban, while Egypt's dame
     Threaten'd our power in dust to lay
       And wrap the Capitol in flame,
     Girt with her foul emasculate throng,
       By Fortune's sweet new wine befool'd,
     In hope's ungovern'd weakness strong
       To hope for all; but soon she cool'd,
     To see one ship from burning 'scape;
       Great Caesar taught her dizzy brain,
     Made mad by Mareotic grape,
       To feel the sobering truth of pain,
     And gave her chase from Italy,
       As after doves fierce falcons speed,
     As hunters 'neath Haemonia's sky
       Chase the tired hare, so might he lead
     The fiend enchain'd; SHE sought to die
       More nobly, nor with woman's dread
     Quail'd at the steel, nor timorously
       In her fleet ships to covert fled.
     Amid her ruin'd halls she stood
       Unblench'd, and fearless to the end
     Grasp'd the fell snakes, that all her blood
       Might with the cold black venom blend,
     Death's purpose flushing in her face;
       Nor to our ships the glory gave,
     That she, no vulgar dame, should grace
       A triumph, crownless, and a slave.