The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace

XXXVIII
PERSICOS ODI

 
     No Persian cumber, boy, for me;
         I hate your garlands linden-plaited;
     Leave winter's rose where on the tree
         It hangs belated.
     Wreath me plain myrtle; never think
       Plain myrtle either's wear unfitting,
     Yours as you wait, mine as I drink
         In vine-bower sitting.
 

BOOK II

I
MOTUM EX METELLO

 
     The broils that from Metellus date,
       The secret springs, the dark intrigues,
     The freaks of Fortune, and the great
       Confederate in disastrous leagues,
     And arms with uncleansed slaughter red,
       A work of danger and distrust,
     You treat, as one on fire should tread,
       Scarce hid by treacherous ashen crust.
     Let Tragedy's stern muse be mute
       Awhile; and when your order'd page
     Has told Rome's tale, that buskin'd foot
       Again shall mount the Attic stage,
     Pollio, the pale defendant's shield,
       In deep debate the senate's stay,
     The hero of Dalmatic field
       By Triumph crown'd with deathless bay.
     E'en now with trumpet's threatening blare
       You thrill our ears; the clarion brays;
     The lightnings of the armour scare
       The steed, and daunt the rider's gaze.
     Methinks I hear of leaders proud
       With no uncomely dust distain'd,
     And all the world by conquest bow'd,
       And only Cato's soul unchain'd.
     Yes, Juno and the powers on high
       That left their Afric to its doom,
     Have led the victors' progeny
       As victims to Jugurtha's tomb.
     What field, by Latian blood-drops fed,
       Proclaims not the unnatural deeds
     It buries, and the earthquake dread
       Whose distant thunder shook the Medes?
     What gulf, what river has not seen
       Those sights of sorrow? nay, what sea
     Has Daunian carnage yet left green?
       What coast from Roman blood is free?
     But pause, gay Muse, nor leave your play
       Another Cean dirge to sing;
     With me to Venus' bower away,
       And there attune a lighter string.
 

II
NULLUS ARGENTO

 
     The silver, Sallust, shows not fair
       While buried in the greedy mine:
     You love it not till moderate wear
           Have given it shine.
     Honour to Proculeius! he
       To brethren play'd a father's part;
     Fame shall embalm through years to be
           That noble heart.
     Who curbs a greedy soul may boast
       More power than if his broad-based throne
     Bridged Libya's sea, and either coast
           Were all his own.
     Indulgence bids the dropsy grow;
       Who fain would quench the palate's flame
     Must rescue from the watery foe
           The pale weak frame.
     Phraates, throned where Cyrus sate,
       May count for blest with vulgar herds,
     But not with Virtue; soon or late
           From lying words
     She weans men's lips; for him she keeps
       The crown, the purple, and the bays,
     Who dares to look on treasure-heaps
           With unblench'd gaze.
 

III
AEQUAM, MEMENTO

 
     An equal mind, when storms o'ercloud,
       Maintain, nor 'neath a brighter sky
     Let pleasure make your heart too proud,
       O Dellius, Dellius! sure to die,
     Whether in gloom you spend each year,
       Or through long holydays at ease
     In grassy nook your spirit cheer
       With old Falernian vintages,
     Where poplar pale, and pine-tree high
       Their hospitable shadows spread
     Entwined, and panting waters try
       To hurry down their zigzag bed.
     Bring wine and scents, and roses' bloom,
       Too brief, alas! to that sweet place,
     While life, and fortune, and the loom
       Of the Three Sisters yield you grace.
     Soon must you leave the woods you buy,
       Your villa, wash'd by Tiber's flow,
     Leave,—and your treasures, heap'd so high,
       Your reckless heir will level low.
     Whether from Argos' founder born
       In wealth you lived beneath the sun,
     Or nursed in beggary and scorn,
       You fall to Death, who pities none.
     One way all travel; the dark urn
       Shakes each man's lot, that soon or late
     Will force him, hopeless of return,
       On board the exile-ship of Fate.
 

IV
NE SIT ANCILLAE

 
      Why, Xanthias, blush to own you love
       Your slave? Briseis, long ago,
     A captive, could Achilles move
           With breast of snow.
     Tecmessa's charms enslaved her lord,
       Stout Ajax, heir of Telamon;
     Atrides, in his pride, adored
           The maid he won,
     When Troy to Thessaly gave way,
       And Hector's all too quick decease
     Made Pergamus an easier prey
           To wearied Greece.
     What if, as auburn Phyllis' mate,
       You graft yourself on regal stem?
     Oh yes! be sure her sires were great;
           She weeps for THEM.
     Believe me, from no rascal scum
       Your charmer sprang; so true a flame,
     Such hate of greed, could never come
           From vulgar dame.
     With honest fervour I commend
       Those lips, those eyes; you need not fear
     A rival, hurrying on to end
           His fortieth year.
 

VI
SEPTIMI, GADES

 
     Septimius, who with me would brave
       Far Gades, and Cantabrian land
     Untamed by Home, and Moorish wave
           That whirls the sand;
     Fair Tibur, town of Argive kings,
       There would I end my days serene,
     At rest from seas and travellings,
           And service seen.
     Should angry Fate those wishes foil,
       Then let me seek Galesus, sweet
     To skin-clad sheep, and that rich soil,
           The Spartan's seat.
     O, what can match the green recess,
       Whose honey not to Hybla yields,
     Whose olives vie with those that bless
           Venafrum's fields?
     Long springs, mild winters glad that spot
       By Jove's good grace, and Aulon, dear
     To fruitful Bacchus, envies not
           Falernian cheer.
     That spot, those happy heights desire
       Our sojourn; there, when life shall end,
     Your tear shall dew my yet warm pyre,
           Your bard and friend.
 

VII
O SAEPE MECUM

 
     O, Oft with me in troublous time
       Involved, when Brutus warr'd in Greece,
     Who gives you back to your own clime
       And your own gods, a man of peace,
     Pompey, the earliest friend I knew,
       With whom I oft cut short the hours
     With wine, my hair bright bathed in dew
       Of Syrian oils, and wreathed with flowers?
     With you I shared Philippi's rout,
       Unseemly parted from my shield,
     When Valour fell, and warriors stout
       Were tumbled on the inglorious field:
     But I was saved by Mercury,
       Wrapp'd in thick mist, yet trembling sore,
     While you to that tempestuous sea
       Were swept by battle's tide once more.
     Come, pay to Jove the feast you owe;
       Lay down those limbs, with warfare spent,
     Beneath my laurel; nor be slow
       To drain my cask; for you 'twas meant.
     Lethe's true draught is Massic wine;
       Fill high the goblet; pour out free
     Rich streams of unguent. Who will twine
       The hasty wreath from myrtle-tree
     Or parsley? Whom will Venus seat
       Chairman of cups? Are Bacchants sane?
     Then I'll be sober. O, 'tis sweet
       To fool, when friends come home again!
 

VIII
ULLA SI JURIS

 
     Had chastisement for perjured truth,
       Barine, mark'd you with a curse—
     Did one wry nail, or one black tooth,
           But make you worse—
     I'd trust you; but, when plighted lies
       Have pledged you deepest, lovelier far
     You sparkle forth, of all young eyes
           The ruling star.
     'Tis gain to mock your mother's bones,
       And night's still signs, and all the sky,
     And gods, that on their glorious thrones
           Chill Death defy.
     Ay, Venus smiles; the pure nymphs smile,
       And Cupid, tyrant-lord of hearts,
     Sharpening on bloody stone the while
           His fiery darts.
     New captives fill the nets you weave;
       New slaves are bred; and those before,
     Though oft they threaten, never leave
           Your godless door.
     The mother dreads you for her son,
       The thrifty sire, the new-wed bride,
     Lest, lured by you, her precious one
           Should leave her side.
 

IX
NON SEMPER IMBRES

 
     The rain, it rains not every day
       On the soak'd meads; the Caspian main
     Not always feels the unequal sway
       Of storms, nor on Armenia's plain,
     Dear Valgius, lies the cold dull snow
       Through all the year; nor northwinds keen
     Upon Garganian oakwoods blow,
       And strip the ashes of their green.
     You still with tearful tones pursue
       Your lost, lost Mystes; Hesper sees
     Your passion when he brings the dew,
       And when before the sun he flees.
     Yet not for loved Antilochus
       Grey Nestor wasted all his years
     In grief; nor o'er young Troilus
       His parents' and his sisters' tears
     For ever flow'd. At length have done
       With these soft sorrows; rather tell
     Of Caesar's trophies newly won,
       And hoar Niphates' icy fell,
     And Medus' flood, 'mid conquer'd tribes
       Rolling a less presumptuous tide,
     And Scythians taught, as Rome prescribes,
       Henceforth o'er narrower steppes to ride.
 

X
RECTIUS VIVES

 
     Licinius, trust a seaman's lore:
       Steer not too boldly to the deep,
     Nor, fearing storms, by treacherous shore
         Too closely creep.
     Who makes the golden mean his guide,
       Shuns miser's cabin, foul and dark,
     Shuns gilded roofs, where pomp and pride
           Are envy's mark.
     With fiercer blasts the pine's dim height
       Is rock'd; proud towers with heavier fall
     Crash to the ground; and thunders smite
           The mountains tall.
     In sadness hope, in gladness fear
       'Gainst coming change will fortify
     Your breast. The storms that Jupiter
           Sweeps o'er the sky
     He chases. Why should rain to-day
       Bring rain to-morrow? Python's foe
     Is pleased sometimes his lyre to play,
           Nor bends his bow.
     Be brave in trouble; meet distress
       With dauntless front; but when the gale
     Too prosperous blows, be wise no less,
           And shorten sail.
 

XI
QUID BELLICOSUS

 
     O, Ask not what those sons of war,
       Cantabrian, Scythian, each intend,
     Disjoin'd from us by Hadria's bar,
       Nor puzzle, Quintius, how to spend
     A life so simple. Youth removes,
       And Beauty too; and hoar Decay
     Drives out the wanton tribe of Loves
       And Sleep, that came or night or day.
     The sweet spring-flowers not always keep
       Their bloom, nor moonlight shines the same
     Each evening. Why with thoughts too deep
       O'ertask a mind of mortal frame?
     Why not, just thrown at careless ease
       'Neath plane or pine, our locks of grey
     Perfumed with Syrian essences
       And wreathed with roses, while we may,
     Lie drinking? Bacchus puts to shame
       The cares that waste us. Where's the slave
     To quench the fierce Falernian's flame
       With water from the passing wave?
     Who'll coax coy Lyde from her home?
       Go, bid her take her ivory lyre,
     The runaway, and haste to come,
       Her wild hair bound with Spartan tire.
 

XII
NOLIS LONGA FERAE

 
     The weary war where fierce Numantia bled,
       Fell Hannibal, the swoln Sicilian main
     Purpled with Punic blood—not mine to wed
           These to the lyre's soft strain,
     Nor cruel Lapithae, nor, mad with wine,
       Centaurs, nor, by Herculean arm o'ercome,
     The earth-born youth, whose terrors dimm'd the shine
           Of the resplendent dome
     Of ancient Saturn. You, Maecenas, best
       In pictured prose of Caesar's warrior feats
     Will tell, and captive kings with haughty crest
           Led through the Roman streets.
     On me the Muse has laid her charge to tell
       Of your Licymnia's voice, the lustrous hue
     Of her bright eye, her heart that beats so well
           To mutual passion true:
     How nought she does but lends her added grace,
       Whether she dance, or join in bantering play,
     Or with soft arms the maiden choir embrace
           On great Diana's day.
     Say, would you change for all the wealth possest
       By rich Achaemenes or Phrygia's heir,
     Or the full stores of Araby the blest,
           One lock of her dear hair,
     While to your burning lips she bends her neck,
       Or with kind cruelty denies the due
     She means you not to beg for, but to take,
           Or snatches it from you?
 

XIII
ILLE ET NEFASTO

 
     Black day he chose for planting thee,
        Accurst he rear'd thee from the ground,
     The bane of children yet to be,
       The scandal of the village round.
     His father's throat the monster press'd
       Beside, and on his hearthstone spilt,
     I ween, the blood of midnight guest;
       Black Colchian drugs, whate'er of guilt
     Is hatch'd on earth, he dealt in all—
       Who planted in my rural stead
     Thee, fatal wood, thee, sure to fall
       Upon thy blameless master's head.
     The dangers of the hour! no thought
       We give them; Punic seaman's fear
     Is all of Bosporus, nor aught
       Recks he of pitfalls otherwhere;
     The soldier fears the mask'd retreat
       Of Parthia; Parthia dreads the thrall
     Of Rome; but Death with noiseless feet
       Has stolen and will steal on all.
     How near dark Pluto's court I stood,
       And AEacus' judicial throne,
     The blest seclusion of the good,
       And Sappho, with sweet lyric moan
     Bewailing her ungentle sex,
       And thee, Alcaeus, louder far
     Chanting thy tale of woful wrecks,
       Of woful exile, woful war!
     In sacred awe the silent dead
       Attend on each: but when the song
     Of combat tells and tyrants fled,
       Keen ears, press'd shoulders, closer throng.
     What marvel, when at those sweet airs
       The hundred-headed beast spell-bound
     Each black ear droops, and Furies' hairs
       Uncoil their serpents at the sound?
     Prometheus too and Pelops' sire
       In listening lose the sense of woe;
     Orion hearkens to the lyre,
       And lets the lynx and lion go.
 

XIV
EHEU, FUGACES

 
     Ah, Postumus! they fleet away,
       Our years, nor piety one hour
     Can win from wrinkles and decay,
       And Death's indomitable power;
     Not though three hundred bullocks flame
       Each year, to soothe the tearless king
     Who holds huge Geryon's triple frame
       And Tityos in his watery ring,
     That circling flood, which all must stem,
       Who eat the fruits that Nature yields,
     Wearers of haughtiest diadem,
       Or humblest tillers of the fields.
     In vain we shun war's contact red
       Or storm-tost spray of Hadrian main:
     In vain, the season through, we dread
       For our frail lives Scirocco's bane.
     Cocytus' black and stagnant ooze
       Must welcome you, and Danaus' seed
     Ill-famed, and ancient Sisyphus
       To never-ending toil decreed.
     Your land, your house, your lovely bride
       Must lose you; of your cherish'd trees
     None to its fleeting master's side
       Will cleave, but those sad cypresses.
     Your heir, a larger soul, will drain
       The hundred-padlock'd Caecuban,
     And richer spilth the pavement stain
       Than e'er at pontiff's supper ran.
 

XV
JAM PAUCA ARATRO

 
     Few roods of ground the piles we raise
       Will leave to plough; ponds wider spread
     Than Lucrine lake will meet the gaze
       On every side; the plane unwed
     Will top the elm; the violet-bed,
       The myrtle, each delicious sweet,
     On olive-grounds their scent will shed,
       Where once were fruit-trees yielding meat;
     Thick bays will screen the midday range
       Of fiercest suns. Not such the rule
     Of Romulus, and Cato sage,
       And all the bearded, good old school.
     Each Roman's wealth was little worth,
       His country's much; no colonnade
     For private pleasance wooed the North
       With cool "prolixity of shade."
     None might the casual sod disdain
       To roof his home; a town alone,
     At public charge, a sacred fane
       Were honour'd with the pomp of stone.
 

XVI
OTIUM DIVOS

 
     For ease, in wide Aegean caught,
       The sailor prays, when clouds are hiding
     The moon, nor shines of starlight aught
         For seaman's guiding:
     For ease the Mede, with quiver gay:
       For ease rude Thrace, in battle cruel:
     Can purple buy it, Grosphus? Nay,
         Nor gold, nor jewel.
     No pomp, no lictor clears the way
      'Mid rabble-routs of troublous feelings,
     Nor quells the cares that sport and play
         Round gilded ceilings.
     More happy he whose modest board
       His father's well-worn silver brightens;
     No fear, nor lust for sordid hoard,
         His light sleep frightens.
     Why bend our bows of little span?
       Why change our homes for regions under
     Another sun? What exiled man
         From self can sunder?
     Care climbs the bark, and trims the sail,
       Curst fiend! nor troops of horse can 'scape her,
     More swift than stag, more swift than gale
         That drives the vapour.
     Blest in the present, look not forth
       On ills beyond, but soothe each bitter
     With slow, calm smile. No suns on earth
         Unclouded glitter.
     Achilles' light was quench'd at noon;
       A long decay Tithonus minish'd;
     My hours, it may be, yet will run
         When yours are finish'd.
     For you Sicilian heifers low,
       Bleat countless flocks; for you are neighing
     Proud coursers; Afric purples glow
         For your arraying
     With double dyes; a small domain,
       The soul that breathed in Grecian harping,
     My portion these; and high disdain
         Of ribald carping.
 

XVII
CUR ME QUERELIS

 
     Why rend my heart with that sad sigh?
       It cannot please the gods or me
     That you, Maecenas, first should die,
       My pillar of prosperity.
     Ah! should I lose one half my soul
       Untimely, can the other stay
     Behind it? Life that is not whole,
       Is THAT as sweet? The self-same day
     Shall crush us twain; no idle oath
       Has Horace sworn; whene'er you go,
     We both will travel, travel both
       The last dark journey down below.
     No, not Chimaera's fiery breath,
       Nor Gyas, could he rise again,
     Shall part us; Justice, strong as death,
       So wills it; so the Fates ordain.
     Whether 'twas Libra saw me born
       Or angry Scorpio, lord malign
     Of natal hour, or Capricorn,
       The tyrant of the western brine,
     Our planets sure with concord strange
       Are blended. You by Jove's blest power
     Were snatch'd from out the baleful range
       Of Saturn, and the evil hour
     Was stay'd, when rapturous benches full
       Three times the auspicious thunder peal'd;
     Me the curst trunk, that smote my skull,
       Had slain; but Faunus, strong to shield
     The friends of Mercury, check'd the blow
       In mid descent. Be sure to pay
     The victims and the fane you owe;
       Your bard a humbler lamb will slay.
 

XVIII
NON EBUR

 
         Carven ivory have I none;
     No golden cornice in my dwelling shines;
         Pillars choice of Libyan stone
     Upbear no architrave from Attic mines;
         'Twas not mine to enter in
     To Attalus' broad realms, an unknown heir,
         Nor for me fair clients spin
     Laconian purples for their patron's wear.
         Truth is mine, and Genius mine;
     The rich man comes, and knocks at my low door:
         Favour'd thus, I ne'er repine,
     Nor weary out indulgent Heaven for more:
         In my Sabine homestead blest,
     Why should I further tax a generous friend?
         Suns are hurrying suns a-west,
     And newborn moons make speed to meet their end.
         You have hands to square and hew
     Vast marble-blocks, hard on your day of doom,
         Ever building mansions new,
     Nor thinking of the mansion of the tomb.
         Now you press on ocean's bound,
     Where waves on Baiae beat, as earth were scant;
         Now absorb your neighbour's ground,
     And tear his landmarks up, your own to plant.
         Hedges set round clients' farms
     Your avarice tramples; see, the outcasts fly,
         Wife and husband, in their arms
     Their fathers' gods, their squalid family.
         Yet no hall that wealth e'er plann'd
     Waits you more surely than the wider room
         Traced by Death's yet greedier hand.
     Why strain so far? you cannot leap the tomb.
         Earth removes the impartial sod
     Alike for beggar and for monarch's child:
         Nor the slave of Hell's dark god
     Convey'd Prometheus back, with bribe beguiled.
         Pelops he and Pelops' sire
     Holds, spite of pride, in close captivity;
         Beggars, who of labour tire,
     Call'd or uncall'd, he hears and sets them free.