The odes, epodes and Carmen Seculare of Horace (1719)

Bold is your Muse, to sing in lofty Strain
The Terrors of a Civil War;
How far it rag'd, and whence it first began:
What various Turns distinguish'd every Year:
To what a height the Factious Senate ran:
What Streams of Blood were split, whose Vengeance yet we fear.

Hard is the Task, yet worthy such a Pen:
You tread on Quick-sands, pass through Fires;
Defer awhile the bloody Tragick Scene,
To guard the State, the State thy Aid requires:
Then take th' Athenian Buskin once again,
And finish the great Work thy Godlike Muse inspires.

In thee the Injur'd a sure Patron find:
Thy Voice the awful Senate sways;
Dalmatia's Conquest did thy Temples bind
With never-fading Green and deathless Praise.
Such is thy Genius, such thy Warlike Mind,
No Art to nobler Heights the pompous tail can raise.

Methinks I hear the horrid Dinn of Arms:
Bright gleaming Armour paints the Field:
The ratling Trumpet pours its dread Alarms:
The Brave lye low in Dust, the Valiant yield:
Revenge and Honour the stern Warrior warms,
And ev'ry Breast but Cato's is with Horror fill'd.

Juno, or some revengeful angry Pow'r,
That lately guarded Lybia's Coast,
Unable to protect her Fav'rite Shore,
Repays at last whatever Africk lost;
Satiates her thirsty Rage with Roman Gore,
And with our slaughter'd Sons attones Jugurtha's Ghost.

Each Latian Province, ev'ry Field and Plain,
The Marks of Civil Fury show;
What Coast, what Countrey wants that bloody Stain?
Whilst the proud Persian triumphs in our Woe.
The blushing Rivers, and discolour'd Main,
With Roman Slaughter dy'd, in Sanguine Surges flow.

Intestine Broils, and bloody Camps and Fights
But ill become the wanton Muse:
In Sports and Am'rous Pleasures she delights,
Nor farther the Heroick Strain pursues,
But droops her Wings, and near the Shades alights,
And for the gentle Lyre a softer Theme shall chuse.

ODE II. To C. Crispus Sallustius.

How dim is Gold, how faint it shines,
When hid below in dirty Mines?
Still as it spends, more bright it shews,
And takes its Value from its Use.

When Fame of Proculeïus sings,
She mounts on Everlasting Wings;
His free and gen'rous Actions prove
A Father's in a Brother's Love.

The Man who curbs his vicious Mind,
When to base Avarice inclin'd,
A nobler Empire far maintains,
Than he who o'er all Africk reigns.

'Tis great this Passion to controul,
For 'tis the Dropsie of the Soul:
Unless you purge each sickly Vein,
'Twill Thirst, and Drink, and Thirst again.

Virtue ne'er reckons with the Blest,
The Man who sways the potent East:
No specious Names, no false Disguise
Can cheat her clear unerring Eyes:

Only to him she gives the Crown,
And puts the Laurel Garland on,
Who against Bribes undaunted stands,
That neither touch his Eyes nor Hands.

ODE III. To Delius.

Be calm, my Friend! be easie and sedate,
And bend your Soul to ev'ry State:
However Fortune smiles or knits her Brow,
Let not your Passions rise too high, or sink too low.

Be calm, tho' heavily thy Moments pass,
Or tho' reclining on the Grass
You spend the Day in Mirth, and chear your Soul
With rich Falernian Liquor from the sparkling Bowl.

There, where the Poplar and the stately Pine
Meet in the Shade, and closely twine,
To form the Bow'r with thick intangled Bows,
And where the limpid Stream in curling Murmurs flows;

Now let your Slaves their Wines and Odours bring,
And all the Flow'rs that grace the Spring,
Whilst Plenty lasts, whilst you are gay and young,
And the indulgent Fates your Silken Thread prolong.

You must your Fields and pleasant Seat forego,
Where Tiber's yellow Waters flow;
You must to Pluto's gloomy Realm repair,
And leave your heaps of Wealth to a luxurious Heir.

What matters your high Blood and noble Birth,
When you are tumbled low in Earth?
'Tis the same thing, if naked on the Shore
You lye expos'd a Prey to Hell's relentless Pow'r.

In the eternal Urn our Lots are cast,
And to the Shades below we haste;
The grisly Ferryman shall waft us o'er,
Thence never to return to Earth's bright Confines more.

ODE IV. To Xanthias Phoceus.

Blush not to own the gentle Dame,
Who wins your Heart, yet stains your Blood;
When nothing in the World could tame
Achilles, to a Slave he bow'd.

Stern Ajax stoop'd from all his Pride,
To wear Tecmessa's humble Chain;
Atrides midst a Triumph dy'd,
By one of his own Captives slain.

'Twas then, when Illium's lofty Tow'r
Was lay'd in Dust, her Forces kill'd,
And Troy, when Hector was no more,
No longer could maintain the Field.

Perhaps when Phyllis is your Bride,
You'll find your Blood much higher run,
Your self to some great House ally'd,
Whose fall her present Tears bemoan.

Think not, a Nymph so free and fair
Could ever come of vulgar Race:
There's something Noble in her Air,
We read her Lineage in her Face.

I gaze, when in full Bloom she shines,
Her Eyes her Charms can safely bear:
My Age to forty Years inclines,
In me you need no Rival fear.

ODE V.

The Nymph you love is Young and Wild,
In Cupid's active Game unskill'd;

Her Limbs are yet too weak to prove
The vig'rous Feats of sprightly Love.

She in the Meads, or on the Grass,
Among the Girls securely plays;
Or near some River's cooling side,
Where Willows grow, and Waters glide.

How can you taste what's Raw and Green,
A tender Thing, not yet Fifteen?
Stay till you see the Bloom arise,
And Ripeness wanton in her Eyes;

She'll meet you then in full-blown Charms,
And spring with Joy into your Arms,
When Time has borrow'd from your Years,
And plac'd the full Account to hers.

Not Pholoe the Coy and Fair
In Beauty shall with her compare;
Not Gyges shall more Conquests own,
Whose Form outshines the Silver Moon.

Him if among the Maids you place,
His flowing Hair and blushing Face
Would hide his doubtful Sex so well,
Who only looks, could never tell.

ODE VI. To Septimius.

Though I am bound with you for Spain,
Resolv'd to make one more Campaign,
To see the Straights, and sunny Moor,
That never felt the Roman Pow'r:
Yet still I wish, that Tibur's Seat
May be my last, my sweet Retreat,
Where I may rest from Dangers free,
Weary'd with Toils by Land and Sea:

Or let the Fates indulgent bless
Their Fav'rite with a safe Recess,
Where fair Galesus Waters run,
And fam'd Phalantus fix'd his Throne:
There's not a Corner of the Earth,
So form'd for Plenty, Joy and Mirth;
No richer Land, no better Soil,
Afford such Honey or such Oil;
Here neither Heat nor Cold can hurt,
The Springs are long, the Winters short:
Nor can Falernian Hills produce
A better Vine, a nobler Juice.
Here you and I may gently pass
The sweet Remainder of our Days:
Here, when your Friend, your Horace dies,
You shall observe his Obsequies;
Kindly his glowing Ashes mourn,
And drop a Tear into his Urn.

ODE VII. To Pompeius Varus.

Which of the Gods my gen'rous Friend preserv'd,
And brought him to his Native Land?
With whom so long ago in Arms I serv'd,
When Brutus did our Troops Command:
With whom such Toils I bore, such Dangers try'd:
Thou dearest to my Soul of all Mankind beside!

With thee I march'd to fam'd Philippi's Plain,
But could not stand the Bloody Field;
Whilst daring Heroes mingled with the Slain,
Unmade for Arms, I dropt my Shield.
With thee the smiling Hours I oft consum'd,
With sprightly Joy inspir'd, with Syrian Oil perfum'd.

Me, midst the dreadful Rout and Dinn of Arms,
The God of Wit and Eloquence

Wrapt in a Cloud, and sav'd from fighting Harms,
And timely came to my Defence:
Whilst War's strong Tide returning as before
Thee in her Whirlpool caught, and to new Slaughter bore.

Now then, to Jove make good your solemn Vows,
And underneath my Laurel rest:
Spare not the Hogshead destin'd for your use,
Forget your Toils, and crown the Feast;
From costly Shells the breathing Odours pour,
And let the pond'rous Bowl with sprightly Wine run oe'r.

What Slave with Myrtle Wreaths shall crown our Brows?
What Sovereign, what drunken Lord,
Shall the fair Queen of Love and Beauty chuse,
To rule the Feast, and sway the Board?
Since you are come, with Freedom I resign
Each Faculty and Sense, to Friendship and to Wine.

ODE VIII. To Barine.

I should believe whate'er you swore,
Had Vengeance from some injur'd Pow'r
With the least spot your Beauties stain'd,
Your Iv'ry Teeth, or snowy Hand:

But you, though perjur'd and forsworn,
Your Gods as well as Lovers scorn,
And still shine out more Bright and Fair,
The publick Grief and publick Care.

'Tis your Delight to break your Vows,
Though by the Urn that does enclose
Your Mother's sacred Dust you swear,
By ev'ry God, and ev'ry Star.

You think, the Queen of Beauty smiles,
To see your little wanton Wiles:

The harmless Nymphs admire your Arts,
And Cupid laughs, and whets his Darts.

Your Lovers with your Crimes increase,
And still pursue and still address;
Whilst of your Falshood they complain,
And curse, but cannot break the Chain.

The aged Sire and tender Maid,
Are of your brighter Charms afraid;
Each Bride observes her Husband's Eyes,
Lest your's his wandring Heart surprize.

ODE IX. To Valgius.

The Show'rs that beat upon the dreery Plain,
Soon spend their Rage and quickly cease;
The Storms are lay'd that vex'd the rolling Main,
And a new Calm succeeds, and smooths the smiling Seas;

Armenia's Fields shake off their Chains of Ice,
Nor labour with eternal Snows:
The Winds are hush'd that lately shook tne Trees,
And stript the verdant Honours from their naked Bows:

But you with endless Grief, incessant Moan,
That knows no Measure and no End,
Salute the rising and the setting Sun,
Still weep your mighty Loss, your dear departed Friend.

Not so old Nestor once bewail'd his Son,
Nor wept incessant o'er the dead;
Nor so, when youthful Troïlus was gone,
Their everlasting Tears his Phrygian Sisters shed.

Then be appeas'd: let Girls and Children mourn;
A nobler Theme demands your Care,

To sing what Laurels Cæsar's Head adorn,
What Spoils and Trophies won, to grace the present Year:

What Captive Streams in humble Murmurs glide,
To kiss the mighty Victor's Feet;
What vanquish'd Troops on narrow Confines ride,
Whose Lands to Roman Arms and Roman Bounds submit.

ODE X. To Licinius Murena.

'Tis best the middle way to keep,
And not decline to either Hand,
Nor launch too far into the Deep,
Nor steer your Course too near the Land.

Who neither wants nor wishes more
Than what befits an even State,
Avoids the Curse of being Poor,
The Plague and Torments of the Great.

On the tall Pine, and stately Tow'r.
Its force the raging Tempest spends;
When Lightnings play, and Thunders roar,
The highest Mountains soonest bends.

The Man, who arms his steady Breast
To stand unmov'd the worst of Ills,
When Fortune frowns, still hopes the best,
And fears the worst, whene'er she smiles.

The Pow'rs above the Seasons guide;
Though now it rains 'twill quickly shine,
Apollo lays his Arms aside,
And tunes his Harp to Lays Divine.

When Clouds grow thick, be bravely wise,
With Patience guard your constant Mind:

But if a merry Gale arise,
Contract your Sails, nor trust the Wind.

ODE XI. To Quintius Hirpinius.

What is't, my Friend! to you or me,
What's done on t'other side the Sea?
Whether our Armies push the War
To Realms unconquer'd and unknown?
Be easie still, and free from Care:
Life is soon satisfy'd, and quickly done.

Beauty and Youth fly fast away,
And with 'em Love and wanton Play:
The Flow'rs forego their fading Green,
The Silver Moon declining wains:
Mind not what's future and unseen,
Nor anxiously enquire what Jove or Fate ordains.

Here underneath some shady Tree,
Let's stretch at Ease, from Sorrow free;
With Odours grace the verdant Bed,
With fragrant Flow'rs our Foreheads crown;
Weave rosie Garlands for the Head,
And in full Bowls our Cares and Troubles drown.

Whilst yonder limpid River strays,
What Slave shall cool each flagrant Glass?
Or who to our Embraces bring
Fair Lyde, with her Iv'ry Lyre?
Bid her make haste, to toy and sing,
Drest in full Beauty and her loose Attire.

ODE XII. To Mæcenas.

It ill becomes the Lyrick Strain
Of Battels and of Camps to tell,
What Slaughter dy'd the Punick Main,
How Hannibal was slain, and Carthage fell;

How the mad drunken Centaurs warr'd,
And pour'd at once their Wine and Blood:
How, when the Gods their Safety fear'd,
Alcides' Arm the Rebel Race withstood.

You in just History and Prose,
Can best describe a Mortal God:
What Triumphs Rome to Cæsar owes:
How on the Necks of Captive Kings he trod.

I, by the Muse's strict Command,
Sing of Licimnia's Magick Voice,
Her Eyes, whose Beams no Heart can stand,
Her Soul, how true, how faithful to its Choice!

How sweet her Wit, how great her Mien!
When in the active Dance she treads:
And midst the Nymphs distinctly seen,
At chaste Diana's Feast the Revels leads.

For one so Constant, and so Fair,
You would all Phrygia's Wealth forego:
And justly prize her fragrant Hair
Above the Sweets that in Arabia grow,

See how her Snowy Neck she turns,
To meet the fiery eager Kiss!
She sometimes snatches what she scorns,
And dearly loves the Pleasure she denies.

ODE XIII.

Upon a Day by Fate accurs'd
Thou, a pernicious Plant, wert nurs'd;
Set by some vile unlucky Hand,
A Plague and Burden to the Land.

That guilty Hand was surely dy'd
With the deep Crime of Parricide;
Or with the Slaughter of some Guest
Defil'd the bloody imp'ous Feast.

Poyson or something worse had stain'd
With lasting Guilt that luckless Hand,
Which on my harmless Grounds and me
Bestow'd this fatal falling Tree.

Who can foresee what is to come?
Or who prevent impending Doom?
The Sailor minds the Winds and Tide,
And dares all Elements beside.

The Parthian fears a Roman Foe;
The Roman dreads a Parthian Bow;
While silent Death still sweeps away
The World, her everlasting Prey.

How near was I to Realms of Night?
Where Minos does in Judgment sit;
Where pious Shades walk o'er the Plains;
Where Proserpine and Darkness reigns:

Where Sappho's warbling Measures tell,
By what disastrous Cause she fell:
Alcæus in sublimer Strains
Of Toils by Sea and Land complains.

The Ghosts stand round them, and admire
The Virgin's Voice, the Hero's Lyre;
The listning Crowds with Pleasure hear
The Fall of Kings and Feats of War.

Ev'n Hydra does his Rage unbend,
And all his hundred Heads attend:
Such Musick charms each knotted Snake
Which in long Curls the Furies shake.

The tortur'd Ghosts forget their Pains,
And catch with Joy the Heav'nly Strains;
Orion all his Care forgoes,
And lets his bridled Lyons loose.

ODE XIV. To Posthumus.

The fleeting Years post on apace,
And grey Old-age draws near,
Death knows no Mercy, no Delays,
Nor Vertue's self will spare.

No Hecatombs can e'er attone
The sullen King of Hell;
He calls all Human kind his own,
Since the first Heroes fell.

All, who of Breath and Food partake,
Must cross the gloomy Shore;
Be ferry'd o'er the Stygian Lake,
The Wealthy and the Poor.

In vain we fly the Toils of War,
And Dangers of the Main;
Or Autumn's sickly Season fear,
When Plagues and Fevers reign.

Down to Cocytus we must go,
Where Ghosts are doom'd to turn,
With fruitless Toil and endless Woe,
The rolling Stone and Urn.

Here you must leave the Nymph you love,
Your Fields, and pleasant Home;
And only Cypress from the Grove
Attend you to your Tomb.

Then your rich Wines, your hoarded Store,
Fit for a Prelate's Feast,
Your Heir shall on the Pavement pour,
When you are gone to Rest.

ODE XV.

What Piles and stately Domes are rais'd
Where late the shining Plow-share pass'd?
What vast Canals, dug deep and far,
Like mighty Lakes or Seas appear?

The Flower-bed and Myrtle Shade
The Olive and the Elm invade:
In Scents and Show we grow profuse,
Careless of Plenty and of Use.

Thick Ever-greens luxurious grown,
Produce no Fruit, admit no Sun:
When Romulus' and Cato's Rules
Prevail'd, the Age knew no such Fools.

Their Faults were few, their Fortunes small,
For on the State they lavish'd all;
Then no new modish Seats were built,
Founded on Vanity and Guilt:

Some City or some Shrine was rear'd;
For Gods and Men their Bounty shar'd;
Whilst they enjoy'd, with sweet Content,
What Fruits and Simples Nature lent.

ODE XVI. To Grosphus.

The Sailor longs and prays for Ease,
When Storms grow loud on every side,
And far from Shore his Vessel seize,
Whilst all the Lights of Heav'n are hid.

For Ease the Warlike Thracian fights,
That never can be bought or sold;
For this the Mede in Arms delights,
Preferring Ease to heaps of Gold.

Nor Wealth nor Honours can allay
The inward Troubles of the Great;
Nor chace those Swarms of Cares away,
That still attend on Pomp and State.

He, who is happily possess'd
Of what the Golden Mean requires,
Never resigns his balmy Rest
To slavish Fears or vain Desires.

'Tis foolish to enlarge our Views,
Since Life is short and quickly done;
In vain we would new Climates chuse,
But never from our selves can run.

Nor Martial Troops, nor Ships of War,
Can ever leave black Care behind,
That still pursues them in the Rear,
Outstrips the Stag, outflies the Wind.

'Gainst future Ills there's no Relief;
The present Good is always best:
Be wise, and mingle Joy with Grief,
Since nothing is compleatly blest.

Achilles was untimely slain;
Tithonus felt a slow Decay;
The Gods in various Lots to Man
Their Favours and their Frowns convey.

You num'rous Flocks and Herds possess,
The fruitful Cow and neighing Mare;
You in your Chariot loll at ease;
You the best richest Scarlet wear.

I with my Little am content,
And of my Lyrick Genius proud;
Since the good Gods their Vot'ry lent
A Soul, that can despise the Crowd.

ODE XVII. To Mæcenas.

Do not oppose a just Decree;
The Fates ordain, and I have vow'd,
Not to out-live the Day you die;
You my best Friend and sweetest Good.

Think not, since you and I are one,
That Horace can himself desert;
Or live when half his Soul is gone,
Or stay behind his better Part.

Thus Hand in Hand we'll greet the Shades:
'Tis so resolv'd and fix'd by Fate:
I'll follow where Mæcenas leads;
Our Lives shall have one common Date.

Should dire Chimæra guard the Way,
Or he who wields a hundred Hands,
Still I'd rush on without Delay,
So Justice, and so Fate commands.

What-ever luckless Planet sways
My Birth, the Scorpion or the Scales,
Or Capricorn's portentous Rays,
Who o'er the western Main prevails;

Your fatal Star agrees with mine,
And both our Lives and Deaths unite:
Jove did on you indulgent shine,
And sav'd you from old Saturn's Spite.

For you the Crowds their Raptures tell,
Your Safety and their Joy proclaim;
On me a Trunk unheeded fell,
But Faunus to my Succour came:

He favours Wit, to him I'll yield
The Off'rings which my Vows decreed:
Whilst you some Shrine or Temple build,
For me a tender Lamb shall bleed.

ODE XVIII.

Nor Ivory, nor glittering Plate
Enrich my House with pompous State;
No Columns from the Parian Mine
Beneath a Roof of Cedar shine;
I nor the gaudy Structures boast,
Nor Wealth that Attalus engrost;
No Purple Robes my Limbs adorn,
By numerous Attendants born:
But still I plead my well-known Right
To Friendship, Honesty, and Wit;

The Wealthy court me though I'm poor,
Nor will I ask the Gods for more:
My Sabine Farm supplies my Wants,
I need no Places, beg no Grants.
The Hours and Days glide swiftly on,
And ev'ry Month renews the Moon.
You make your Seat more gay and fine,
Just as your sinking Years decline,
Build on new Plans for those to come,
Unmindful of your Grave and Tomb;
Destroy the Lands you now possess,
To dig Canals as wide as Seas;
Remove the ancient sacred Bounds,
Encroaching on your Neighbour's Grounds.
Your Tenants quit their peaceful Home,
And for their haughty Lord make Room;
They and their Wives seek new Abodes,
Their wretched Sons, and exil'd Gods.
Give o'er this Vanity and Pride;
The Fates another Home provide;
Pluto's capacious gloomy Seat
Must be your last, your sure Retreat:
The Prince and Peasant, Rich and Poor,
March Hand in Hand on Lethe's Shore:
No Gold could bribe the Pow'rs below,
To let the fam'd Prometheus go;
The God of Hell in endless Chains
All Tantalus's Race detains,
And frees the Poor from Toil and Woe,
Whether they worship him or no.

ODE XIX.

The God of Wine on a wild Mountain stood;
(Let future Times the mystick Tale approve)
He taught the Nymphs and Satyrs of the Wood,
Who to attend his Songs forsook the Grove:
With Ears erect all to the Audience crowd;
Ev'n I his Raptures feel and dread the God I love.

Great Pow'r! who wields the sacred Ivy Spear;
Ease my full Breast, thy wonted Rage restrain:
Let me proclaim the Beauties of the Year,
And sing thy Rites, thy frantick Virgin Train:
How Wine and Milk compleat our plenteous Cheer,
Whilst thro' the luscious Comb the Trees their Honey strain.

I'll sing how Pentheus and Lycurgus fell,
And by their Deaths thy just Revenge confess'd;
Of thy Ariadne's Silver Locks I'll tell,
Whose Charms the number of the Stars increas'd:
By thee the fruitful Hills the Vale excell;
Thou turn'st the rapid Streams, and lull'st the Sea to rest.

Thee the mad Crew of Bacchanals adore,
That shake in twisted Knots their dangling Hair:
When Heav'n was scal'd, thy single Arm and Pow'r
Rescu'd the Gods, and turn'd the doubtful War;
The Giants felt thy Force and heard thee roar,
Wrapt in a Lions Form that sill'd their Troops with Fear.

Till then thy mighty Godhead was asperst,
As only bent on Luxury and Ease,
Distinguish'd at the Gambol and the Feast;
But now thy warlike Arm insur'd Success,
Redeem'd thy Brother Gods, their Foes dispers'd,
And gave the World above a sure and lasting Peace.

Thee Cerberus with Awe and Dread beheld,
Bearing aloft thy Horns of beamy Light;
He wagg'd his fawning Tail, with Pleasure fill'd;
Did at thy Feet his forked Tongue submit,
And as you travers'd the Elysian Field,
Welcom'd so great a Guest, and spoke his fond Delight.

ODE XX. To Mæcenas.

On new uncommon Pinions born,
To nobler heights I rise;
My former Shape and Residence I scorn,
I kick the subject Earth, and mount the upper Skies.

My high Descent and Birth I boast;
These earthy Dregs defie:
I'll not be banish'd to the Stygian Coast,
Nor own the Pow'r of Fate, nor condescend to die.

Chang'd to a Swan in Milk-white Down,
I feel my Legs grow light:
My Arms and Shoulders put new Feathers on;
I clap my New-born Wings, and urge th' impetuous Flight.

Like Icarus I float in Air;
Thence with a curious Eye,
Survey the Hellespontick Straights from far,
And whence the North begins, and where the Syrtes lye.

From Colchis and Gelonia's Shore,
I pass to Realms unknown;
To Dacia, priding in her warlike Pow'r,
Thence to the rough Iberian, and the rapid Rhone.

Say not, I dy'd; nor shed a Tear,
Nor round my Ashes mourn,
Nor of my needless Obsequies take care;
All Pomp and State is lost upon an empty Urn.

The End of the Second Book of ODES.

University of Virginia Library

BOOK II.

ODE I. To Asinius Pollio.