University of Virginia Library

THE FIFTH BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE. COMMONLY CALLED THE EPODES.

ODE I. To Mæcenas.

You in Liburnian Barks, my Friend,
With Antony's tall Vessels will contend;
Boldly to hazard all prepar'd,
From every Danger Cæsar's Life to guard.
But how shall I the Hours amuse,
Or now what pleasing Entertainment chuse,
The tedious Minutes to beguile,
Which in Mæcenas' Presence always smile?
Shall I, by your Command, pursue
My Ease? but what is Ease unshar'd by you?
Or shall I all the Toils of War,
As suits the Brave, with dauntless Courage bear?
They shall be borne—O'er Alpine Snow,
With you, my Friend, I chearfully will go;
With you, wild Caucasus explore,
And view the Limits of the Western Shore.
What Aid, you'll ask, can you afford,
Weak, and unskill'd to wield the Warrior's Sword?
But then my Anguish will be less
With you; nor Fears my tortur'd Soul possess.
Thus the fond Dove, in Search of Food,
With greater Dread forsakes her callow Brood,
Lest in her Absence Snakes devour,
Whom, present, to protect she wants the Power.
Ardent your Friendship to maintain,
I'll serve with Pleasure this, and each Campaign:
But not, that, to my Traces bound,
A larger Team may labour in my Ground;
Or that my Flocks Calabria change,
In Summer o'er Lucanian Meads to range;
Or that such ample Lands be mine,
As might to Tusculum my Villa join.
Your Bounty has enlarg'd my Store
Beyond my utmost Wish; nor ask I more,
To hide, like Chremes in the Play,
Or, like a Spendthrift, squander it away.

ODE II. The Praises of a Country Life.

The Same ODE Imitated.

[Thrice happy, who free from Ambition and Pride]

ODE III. To Mæcenas.

ODE IV. To Menas, Pompey's Freed-man.

When Wolves no longer Lambs pursue,
Then I'll be reconcil'd to you.
Still on your Back and Legs remain
The Furrows of the Scourge and Chain.
Though Store of Wealth you now possess,
Condition changes not with Dress.
Behold, when on the Sacred Way
Your Gown, wide-trailing, you display,
How every free-born Passer-by
Turns from the Slave his scornful Eye!
“Shall he, who tir'd the Lictor's Hand,
“Scourg'd by the Magistrate's Command,
“With Corn a thousand Acres load,
“With Chariots wear the Appian Road,
“And, in Contempt of Otho, sit
“With the Knights' Order in the Pit?”
Why arm we then, our Coasts to guard,
And wherefore are our Ships prepar'd
From Slaves and Thieves the Trade to free,
While you, as Tribune, rule the Sea?

ODE V. Canidia.

ODE VI. To Cassius Severus.

Why bark'st thou at the harmless Guest?
The Wolf would prove thy Courage best.
On Me thy empty Threats bestow;
Here thou wilt find an equal Foe:
For, like a Mastiff, which attends
The Shepherd, and his Flock defends,
With Ears erect I well can chase,
Through Depths of Snow, the savage Race.
Though Forests with thy Voice have rung,
Thou, pleas'd, can'st snap the Morsel flung.
Beware; I always am prepar'd
To give the Wicked their Reward.
Keen as Archilochus am I,
Or Bupalus's Enemy:
For, injur'd, why should I contain
My Spleen, and, like a Boy, complain?

ODE VII. To the Roman People.

Say, ye vile Race, what Frenzy draws
Your daring Faulchions in Sedition's Cause?
Has not enough of Roman Blood
Been pour'd on every Land and every Flood?
Nor fight we now to quell the Powers
Of Carthage, and destroy her rival Towers,
Nor that the Briton, who remains
Unconquer'd, through the Sacred Way in Chains
Be led; but, to the Parthians Joy,
Against ourselves our frantic Arms employ.
Tygers more gently are inclin'd;
They prey on other Brutes, but spare their Kind.
Does Rage, or some avenging Star,
Or your own Crimes, provoke so dire a War?
Lo! mute they stand, and wildly gaze;
The downcast Eye the conscious Heart betrays!
'Tis so; the Gods with righteous Doom
For Remus' Death pursue unhappy Rome;
And on this Age avenge the Guilt
Of Blood, by Romulus unjustly spilt.

ODE IX. To Mæcenas.

ODE X. On Mævius.

In an unlucky Hour, the Ship
Of filthy Mævius sails;
His Voyage may the South oppose
With inauspicious Gales!
Let the rough East his Cordage tear,
And splinter all his Oars;
And Boreas rage, as on the Hills
Through shatter'd Oaks he roars!
When sad Orion sets, let no
Propitious Star appear,
To guide his Vessel through the Night,
And the thick Darkness chear!
May such tempestuous Billows rise,
As those the Grecians knew,
When Pallas all her Rage from Troy
On impious Ajax threw!
Your Sailors sweat; and, yellow-pale,
To Jove averse you pray
With Female Clamours, while the Leaks
Admit the foaming Sea.
If your gross Carcass shall become
To Cormorants a Prize,
I to the Winds a lustful Goat
And Lamb will sacrifice.

ODE XI. To Pettius.

Ah! Pettius, I no more indite
My Lyric Numbers with Delight,
Nor think of aught but Love.
Since first I spurn'd Inachia's Chain
Thrice Winter has resum'd his Reign
O'er every leafless Grove.
I blush, reflecting how my Name
The Topic of Discourse became
Through all this spacious Town;
Where by a downcast Look, and Breast
That heav'd with Sighs, at every Feast
The Lover soon was known.
‘Merit, if poor, can nought avail,
‘When weigh'd with Riches in the Scale,’
Tears streaming from my Eyes,
I thus to you complain'd, when Bowls
Of generous Liquor from our Souls
Had banish'd all Disguise.
‘If, therefore, I enrag'd can strive,
‘For such Indignities, to drive
‘This Passion from my Mind,
‘I'll cease henceforward to contend
‘On such unequal Terms, and send
‘My Sorrows to the Wind.’
When me thus resolute you saw,
And warn'd me homeward to withdraw;
With heedless Steps I stray'd
To her ah! too unfriendly Door,
Near which, for sleepless Nights before,
My Limbs have oft been laid.
Now soft Lycisca I prefer,
Unchang'd by gross Affronts from her,
Or free Advice of Friends,
‘'Till Dotage on some other Fair,
Who ties in Knots her Length of Hair,
My present Passion ends.

ODE XIII. To a Friend.

ODE XIV. To Mæcenas.

I grieve to hear you oft enquire
What thus has damp'd my youthful Fire,
And why my Soul, in every Sense,
Is lull'd asleep by Indolence,
As if, my ardent Thirst to slake,
I'd drank of silent Lethe's Lake.
But, O! a God, a God indeed,
Forbids your Poet to proceed
In finishing the Work, to you
So long ago, by Promise, due.
Such was the Fate Anacreon prov'd,
So fondly he Bathyllus lov'd,
Accustom'd his Complaints to suit
In easy Measures to the Lute.
You too are caught; and since the Dame
That kindled Ilium's fatal Flame
In Beauty ne'er could yours outshine,
Rejoice; while I for Phryne pine,
A haughty Jilt of mean Descent,
And not with one Gallant content.

ODE XV. To Neæra.

'Twas Night; and Cynthia with her starry Train
Serenely grac'd th'ætherial Plain,
When with fond Arms around my Neck you clung,
Close as on Oak is Ivy hung;
And, as I dictated, you falsely swore
By the dread Name of every Power,
‘That long as Wolves pursue the fearful Sheep,
‘Or fierce Orion swells the Deep,
‘Or Phœbus' Tresses wanton in the Wind,
‘You would to Me continue kind.’
But if my Breast the Sparks of Manhood warm,
Soon will I break Neæra's Charm;
Nor her disdainful Cruelty will bear,
But seek, incens'd, some faithful Fair.
And you, more favour'd Youth, whoe'er you be,
Who vainly triumph over Me,
Rich though you were in Herds and fertile Lands,
Lord of Pactolus' golden Sands;
Of Wisdom, like the twice-born Sage possest,
And with each Grace of Nireus blest,
Yet shall you mourn the fickle Fair's Disdain,
While I shall mock your fruitless Pain.

ODE XVI. To the Roman People.

A second Age in Wars we waste away,
And Rome must fall to Rome a Prey.
She, whom in vain the Marsian Foe engag'd,
With whom in vain Porsenna wag'd
The War; whom Capua's State could ne'er subdue,
Nor Spartacus's servile Crew;
Nor (courting new Allies, but to the Call
Of Honour deaf) the perjur'd Gaul;
Nor Germany, of blue-ey'd Sons the Nurse,
Nor Hannibal, the Parents' Curse,
Grieves, here at home, more cruel Foes to meet,
Where Beasts shall prowl in every Street.
Barbarian Coursers o'er the Dust shall bound,
While with their Hoofs the Stones resound.
Nor will they, Romulus! thy Ashes spare,
But rudely scatter in the Air.
But some, or all, perhaps, may wish to know,
How we must ward th'impending Blow.
My Counsel is—to go where prosperous Gales
Point out the Way, and court our Sails;
To curse, Phocæan-like, our old Abodes,
And leave to Beasts our Fields and Gods.
Give your Advice, or else to mine agree:
Then, with glad Omens, put to Sea.
But swear we never to return again,
'Till Rocks shall float upon the Main;
'Till Apennine is cover'd by the Waves,
And Po Matinus' Summit laves;
'Till different Kinds in Bands of Love are join'd,
Hawks, Doves; the Tyger, and the Hind;
'Till Sheep their Dread of Lions lay aside,
And Goats shall swim the briny Tide.
Thus, of each Hope of sweet Return bereft,
By all shall this curs'd Town be left;
At least the better Sort; but let the Base
Still cleave to this devoted Place.
But you, brave Friends! unmanly Tears give o'er,
And sail beyond the Tuscan Shore,
Where, in the spacious Bosom of the Main,
Rise happy Islands, crown'd with Grain,
Which every Year adorns th'uncultur'd Land;
Nor Vineyards ask the Pruner's Hand;
Where never-failing Shoots of Olive blow,
And Figs the Parent Trees bestow;
Where hollow Oaks drop Honey, and the Rills
In Murmurs trickle down the Hills.
Homeward the Goats with swelling Udders bend,
And, pleas'd, the Milker's Hand attend;
No prowling Bear growls round the nightly Fold,
Nor Snakes are in huge Volumes roll'd.
And, farther still our Wonder to command,
Nor Showers, too frequent, drown the Land,
Nor too much Drought burns up the thirsty Meads,
But kindly each to each succeeds.
Among the Herds no dire Contagions reign,
Nor Rots destroy the fleecy Train.
Hither the Colchian Sorceress never stray'd,
Nor Argo her bold Chiefs convey'd;
This Land the Tyrian Sailors never knew,
Nor sage Ulysses' toilsome Crew.
This, for the virtuous, Jove reserv'd of old,
Changing the Times to Brass from Gold;
To Iron now, whence, as the Gods inspire,
Your Bard thus warns you to retire.

ODE XVII. To Canidia.

At length thy powerful Arts I own,
But O! by gloomy Pluto's Throne,
By chaste Diana's dreadful Sway,
And Spells, which falling Stars obey,
Let me no more thy Vengeance feel,
But backward roll thy magic Wheel.
To Pity Telephus inclin'd,
By Prayers, ev'n stern Achilles' Mind,
Though Troops against him he had led,
And launch'd his Javelin at his Head:
And though the slaughtering Hector lay
Condemn'd to Dogs and Birds of Prey,
Yet with due Pomp the Trojan Dames
Beheld his Coarse in funeral Flames
Involv'd, when Priam, at the Fleet,
Had bath'd with Tears Achilles' Feet.
The wise Ulysses' bristly Train,
By Circe's Will, from Swine again
To Men were chang'd; resum'd the Grace
Of godlike Reason, Speech, and Face.
To Sailors and to Pedlars dear,
Ah! why, Canidia, thus severe
On Me? Behold, my youthful Boast
Is fled, and all my Colour lost.
Thy magic Oyl has on my Head
The Snow of Age untimely shed.
Day chases Night, and Night the Day,
But no Relief to Me convey:
For, lab'ring in the Pangs of Death,
I pant in vain, and heave for Breath.
Thy powerful Charms ('tis now confest)
Can tear the Head, and fire the Breast.
What would'st thou more? O Land and Sea!
Alcides never burnt like Me,
When smear'd with Nessus' putrid Gore;
Nor flaming Ætna rages more.
O thou fell Shop of Poisons dire,
Me wilt thou scorch with Colchian Fire,
'Till my dry Ashes round are cast,
The Sport of every baneful Blast?
Declare, what Ransom shall I pay?
Speak; and thy Slave will strait obey.
Shall then, to expiate my Guilt,
A hundred Heifers' Blood be spilt?
Or shall I thy unspotted Fame
Upon the lying Harp proclaim?
Chaste and untainted thou shalt rise
A golden Star, and deck the Skies.
Who injur'd Helen could asswage
By Force of Prayer her Brothers' Rage;
For when their Mercy he implor'd,
They to the Bard his Sight restor'd.
Thou too (whom nothing can controul)
Restore to Sense my frantic Soul!
No Offspring of th'adulterous Bed
Art thou; nor wont abroad to spread
The poor Man's Dust, deny'd a Tomb:
With timely Issue teems thy Womb;
Never did Blood thy Conscience stain;
Pure are thy Hands, thy Heart humane.

Canidia's Answer.

Why do thy Prayers thus stun my Ear?
Sooner th'obdurate Rocks shall hear,
When loud the wintry Billows roar,
And shipwreck'd Sailors seek the Shore.
Safely shalt thou Cotytto's Rites
Divulge, and lawless Love's Delights;
And, Pontiff-like, the City fill
With Secrets of th'Esquilian Hill?
Have I the Sisterhood in vain
Enrich'd, and brew'd the speedy Bane?—
By tardy Tortures thou shalt die,
And wear out Life in Misery.
With endless Thirst and Hunger prest,
The Sire of Pelops prays for Rest;
For Rest the Wretch pours forth his Prayers,
Whose Breast the clinging Vulture tears.
In vain the Stone's recoiling Weight
To settle on the Mountain's Height
Toils Sisyphus—for Jove has spoke,
Nor ever will the Doom revoke.
Headlong thou now shalt wish to leap
From some high Rock's tremendous Steep;
And now to perish by the Sword,
Or by the neck-encircling Cord;
Then shall the World in thy Distress
Canidia's dreaded Power confess—
Could I with Life the Dead inform,
Though burnt, with Life an Image warm,
Beheld by thy too curious Eyes;
Could I force Cynthia from the Skies,
And Philters mix to fire the Heart,
And shalt thou baffle all my Art?