The works of Horace, translated into verse With a prose interpretation, for the help of students. And occasional notes. By Christopher Smart ... In four volumes |
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| 2. | THE SECOND BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE. |
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 | The works of Horace, translated into verse |  |
139
THE SECOND BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE.
ODE I. TO C. ASINIUS POLLIO.
He advises Pollio to forbear the writing of tragedy for a “season, till the state should be settled. And afterwards he praises his compositions.
In that Metellian consulate,
Our vices, measures, and the sport of chance,
The famous triple league, the Roman shield and lance,
With gore unexpiated, smear'd,
A work whose fate is to be fear'd
You treat, and on those treacherous ashes tread,
Beneath whose seeming surface glow the embers red.
141
Your tragic verse severely sweet;
Soon, when the public weal you shall replace,
Your grand Athenian works again the stage shall grace.
Thou who defend'st the poor with zeal,
To whom the conscript house appeal,
For whom the fertile laurels, that you wore
In that Dalmatian triumph, deathless honour bore.
E'en now you make my tingling ear
The din of martial trumpets hear,
Now clarions bray, and men in armour bright
The routed horse and horsemen with their lightning fright.
Now mighty captains I perceive,
In clouds of glorious dust atchieve
Eternal fame, and all the world their own,
Save the ferocious fire of Cato's soul alone.
Juno and every pow'r propense,
Like her, for Africa's defence,
When unreveng'd they left their darling coast,
Offer'd the victor's grandsons to Jugurtha's ghost.
Say where the blood of Romans slain,
Has not made fertile every plain
143
And our great downfal heard by the remotest Medes?
What gulphs, what rivers in their flow
Do not our dire dissensions know?
What sea is not discolour'd by the gore
Of Romans basely slain, what climate, or what shore?
But leaving mirth, O do not urge
My Pollio's muse, the Cean dirge—
In some cool grotto sacred to the fair,
With me and sweet Dione touch a lighter air.
145
ODE II. TO C. SALLUSTIUS CRISPUS.
He applauds Proculeius for his generosity to his brethren. The contempt of money makes the wise-man and the monarch.
Thou foe to metal in the mine,
Unless by circulation bright
And mod'rate use it shine.
Let Proculeius live in song,
A father to his brethren known;
Fame jealous-wing'd, shall bear along
The bounty, he has shown.
A vaster realm you shall subdue,
By conq'ring of a greedy mind,
Than Lybia and the Gades too
With either Carthage join'd.
—The self-indulging dropsy grows,
Nor slacks its thirst, until the cause
From out the pallid body flows,
And watry pain withdraws.
147
Not like the crowd fair virtue views,
Nor numbers him amongst the bless'd,
The language to abuse;
The laurel, diadem and reign
She more to that great man applies,
Who looks upon immod'rate gain
With unaffected eyes.
This generous Roman, having several brothers divested of their fortunes, for bearing arms against Cæsar, divided his substance amongst them.
149
ODE III. TO DELLIUS.
Either fortune is to be borne with moderation, since the same condition of mortality equally impends on all.
On equanimity rely,
As well in adverse days your spirits buoy,
As keep the hour of wealth from light presumptuous joy.
Whether you lead a life of woes—
Or in your distant mead repose,
And bless the festal days in rural state,
With right Falernian wine of more interior date,
Where the tall pine, and pop'lar white,
To form a social bow'r delight
With blending boughs, and diligent to glide,
The riv'let urges haste against its winding side.
To wine and unguents here exhort,
And roses of a bliss too short,
While circumstance and age allow their leave,
And those black threads of death the fatal sisters weave.
You must from purchas'd park and seat,
Which yellow Tiber laves, retreat—
151
Shall soon possess the heaps you pil'd with so much care.
If rich and of Inachian race,
Or, poor and from a lineage base,
You daily in th'inclement skies remain,
It matters not, you must remorseless death sustain.
To one point we are all compell'd—
The universal urn is held,
From whence, or soon or late, the lot is cast,
And Charon's boat transports the convicts at the last.
153
ODE IV. TO XANTHIUS PHOCEUS.
There is no reason that he should blush for the love he bears to his waiting maid Phyllis, since the same thing has been the case with sundry great men.
To love your maid, since Thetis heir,
Tho' proud, of old was in your case,
Briseis was so fair.
—The slave Tecmessa at her feet
Saw her lord Ajax—Atreus son
Lov'd his fair captive in the heat
Of conquest, that he won,
When beat by that Thessalian boy,
The Phrygian host was disarray'd,
And Hector's death, the fall of Troy,
An easy purchase made.
Who knows what wealth thou hast to claim,
Rich parents may thy Phyllis grace,
Surely the Gods have been to blame
To one of royal race.
155
Nor worthless cou'd her mother be,
Whose heart has such ingenuous scorn
For wealth, and love for thee.
Her face, her limbs so form'd t'engage,
I praise with a safe conscience still—
Shun to suspect a man, whose age
Is going down the hill.
157
ODE V. ON LALAGE.
The most beautiful Lalage is a maiden unripe for a husband, wherefore the inclination to possess her ought to be restrained.
Nor to confine her in the yoke
Will all your skill avail;
As yet she cannot suit her mate,
Nor stand to bear the mighty weight
Of an impetuous male.
Your little heifer's fancy feeds
On verdant lawns and flow'ry meads,
Whose haunts she has preferr'd;
And by the streams, which willows shade,
She loves to have her gambols play'd
With younglings of the herd.
Forbear preposterous desire,
Nor at the eager grape aspire,
Anon shall autum speed;
And mark each bunch with blooming blue,
And vary into purple hue
The clusters ripe to bleed.
She soon shall follow thee of course,
For time goes on without remorse,
And to her days shall add
The rip'ning years, that make thee old,
And Lalage, maturely bold
Shall seek a sturdy lad—
159
Nor Chloris celebrated belle,
With chest erect and white,
As Luna shining o'er the sea,
And smiling with celestial glee,
Or Cnidian Gyges bright;
Whom if you place amongst the fair
He'll make sagacious strangers stare,
As puzzl'd in the case;
Nor can they tell his sex with truth,
By reason of his looks and youth,
And smooth ambiguous face.
161
ODE VI. TO SEPTIMIUS.
He wishes to have Tibur and Tarentum for the retreat of his old age, whose pleasant situation he extols.
To Gades, or unconquer'd Spain,
Or Syrtes, where the moorish sea
Bids endless tempests reign?
Be Tibur, by a Grecian plann'd,
A seat for Horace in his years,
Weary alike of sea and land,
And martial hopes and fears.
From whence if driv'n by cruel fate,
May I Galesus see in peace,
Where great Phalanthus rul'd in state,
And watch'd his cover'd fleece.
With me that little angle takes
Whose honey's of Hymettian zest,
And with the oil Venafrum makes
Their olives stand the test.
163
To spring,—and Aulon's heights arise,
Rich with those wines, whose luscious strength
With true Falernian vies.
These scenes to us their site commend—
Those tow'rs so pleasant to the view:
There the live ashes of thy friend,
With tears thou shalt bedew.
165
ODE VII. TO POMPEIUS VARUS.
Whose return to his native country he congratulates.
To danger's last extremity,
When Brutus led the van—what pow'r on high
Restores thy native Gods, and an Italian sky?
Thou principal and dearest friend,
With whom I've made the day suspend
Its course, infringing on the hours of care,
With bays, and precious essence on our shining hair.
With thee I saw that fatal field,
Where shamefully I left my shield
In rapid flight, when valour's heart was broke,
And threat'ning heroes fell beneath the hostile stroke.
But me Mercurius, much dismay'd,
Quick thro' the midmost foe convey'd
In a thick cloud—Thou wert ingulph'd again
In struggling tides of war upon the swelt'ring plain:
Wherefore to Jove the feast be paid,
And let your weary limbs be laid,
167
Nor spare the casks I destin'd for this joyful day.
Fill the bright tumblers to the brim,
And in oblivious Massic swim,
And from large shells the fragrant unguents pour.
—Who runs to parsley beds, or to the myrtle bow'r,
For cooling crowns? who throws the most
To take the chair and give the toast?
I will the Bacchanalian priests outdo—
'Tis sweet to lose one's wits at this dear interview.
169
ODE VIII. TO JULIA BARINE.
There is no reason to give any credit to Barine, when she swears, since she grows the handsomer for her perjuries.
Had made thee thy false oath bewail;
Hadst thou but been one tooth the worse,
Or lost a single nail;
I shou'd have kept my faith,—but thou
Shin'st out more tempting and more fair;
And art, by breaking of thy vow,
Our youth's peculiar care.
'Tis profit, therefore, to deceive
Thy mother's ashes in a breath,
Stars, moon, and silent heav'n to grieve,
And Gods, exempt from death.
Yes, Venus laughs, and nymphs, well known
For mock-simplicity, deride,
And love still whetting on a stone
His darts in crimson dy'd.
171
New slaves, nor will the old relent,
Tho' sworn to quit her impious pound,
Where their fond hearts are pent.
At thee the jealous mothers pine,
At thee old churls, and maids new wed,
Lest by that winning air of thine
Their spouses be misled.
173
ODE IX. TO VALGIUS.
That he would at length desist from bewailing the death of Mystes.
Upon the shaggy fields descend,
Nor ruffling whirlwinds o'er the Caspian reign
For ever; nor prolong'd month after month remain,
Friend Valgius, on Armenia's heights
Of ice and snow, perpetual freights;
Nor to the North do the plantations groan
Of Garganus, nor ash trees their lost leaves bemoan.
But you, in one continual dirge,
Th'untimely death of Mystes urge,
Nor with the fondness of your grief have done,
When Vesper comes, or flies the bright-careering sun.
Yet he, who for three ages join'd,
Liv'd an example of mankind,
Did not, for all the remnant of his years,
Antilochus, so loved, lament with ceaseless tears.
No,—nor did Priam and his wife
For Troilus, who lost his life
In ruddy youth, with endless grief deplore,
And ev'n his tender sisters in a while forbore.
175
And let us rather sing our chief,
The great Augustus has new trophies won,
And bade the stiff Niphates with submission run.
Euphrates too must roll his tide
In billows more remote from pride,
And those Gelonians, added to our reign,
Must in the bounds prescrib'd their cavalry restrain.
177
ODE X. TO LICINIUS.
A mean is to be observed in either fortune.
Not wholly launching out from land,
Nor over-jealous of a storm,
Too much for shore to stand.
Whoever loves the golden mean,
From sordid want himself supports,
Nor safe and sober is he seen
In envy-moving courts.
Tall pines are shaken, and the tow'r
Comes heaviest from the highest wall,
And thunderbolts, with greater pow'r,
On topmost mountains fall.
Hearts, well prepar'd, will see a dawn
Of hope in woe—in wealth will pray
'Gainst change—heav'n brings the winter on,
And drives the hag away.
179
They shall be better—Phœbus plays
At times upon his minstrelsy,
Not always shoots his rays.
When times are hardest, then a face
Of constancy and spirit wear;
But wise contract your sails apace,
When once the wind's too fair.
181
ODE XI. TO QUINTIUS HIRPINUS.
That waving cares we should live merrily.
Or what the Scythian bands devise,
By Adria's sea disjoin'd, cease to enquire,
Nor bustle for a life, whose term should check desire.
Smooth youth and beauty must give way
To wrinkles dry, and ringlets grey,
Which from gallants their wanton loves divorce,
And drive away sweet slumbers from their eyes of course.
Not always does the vernal pride
Of flow'rs remain, nor moon abide
In one gay face—Your thoughts why do you teize,
Not made for disquisitions so sublime as these?
Why do we not secure our seat
Beneath this plane-tree from the heat;
Or thrown at random underneath this pine,
Drink, while we may presume, and essenc'd roses twine
183
For Bacchus drives off biting care,
Who's there? This same Falernian is too strong,
The passing brook shall quench it, as it purls along.
Who shall decoy that gadding lass,
Lyde, to come and take a glass?
Bid her with iv'ry lyre mature her haste,
And hair ty'd up behind in the true Spartan taste.
185
ODE XII. TO MÆCENAS.
Weighty and tragical subjects are not proper for the Lyric stile. Horace will sing of nothing but the beauty of Lycymnia, and matters pertaining to love.
And Hannibal, your taste abhors,
Too dire a subject for a song;
Nor staining the Sicilian sea,
Can Carthaginian blood to me
And to my warbling lyre belong.
Nor can the Lapithan malign,
Nor over-charg'd with heady wine,
Hyleus suit the lyric strain,
Nor any giant son of earth,
The victim of Herculean worth,
And dread of Saturn's golden reign.
But, O Mæcenas, as for you,
You will for great Augustus do
Far better in historic prose:
With more address you'll tell than sing
The story of full many a king,
That drag'd in pomp triumphal goes.
Me the harmonious muse allures,
To chant my lady fair, and your's,
And praise Lycymnia's charming voice,
And eyes, that sparkle like the spheres,
With faithful heart, that never veers,
When she's once settled in her choice.
187
Whether she lead the seemly dance,
Or urge the brilliant repartees,
Or with the noble damsels play,
That honour Dian's holiday,
Uniting dignity and ease.
Would you in earnest change one lock
Of sweet Lycymnia, for the stock
That rich Achemenes possess'd,
Or fertile Phrygia's wealthy fleece,
Or all Arabia's ambergreese,
And houses with all plenty bless'd.
While she declines her blooming cheek,
Where you the burning kisses seek,
With such benevolent disdain,
And what she'd rather have, than thee,
Refuses, till she makes so free
As to devour them all again.
189
ODE XIII. UPON THE TREE BY WHOSE SUDDEN FALL HE HAD LIKE TO HAVE BEEN CRUSHED.
It is never sufficiently evident what a man ought to beware of—the praises of Sappho and Alceus.
Whatever hand transplanted thee,
And impious bade thee prosper to disgrace
The village of his birth, and crush his future race.
He could, no doubt, to death devote
His fire, or cut his mother's throat,
Or sprinkle his unhospitable ground
At night with stranger's blood, or Colchian drugs compound.
Or whatsoe'er we may conceive
Of desp'rate feats he could atchieve,
O log, the man that plac'd thee in my farm,
Hurl'd on thy master's head, that did not dream of harm.
We never are enough aware
What we should seek, or what forbear—
From Bosphorus the sailor dreads his fate,
Nor heeds what doom at Carthage may his days await.
191
And Parthian shooting in full speed,
The Parthian fears the Roman strength and chain,
One common lot for all remains, and will remain.
How near but now the lot was mine,
So see the gloomy Proserpine,
And Eäcus his dread judicial seat,
And those Elysian fields, where melancholy sweet
Sappho the sland'rous maids of Greece
Arraigns, and in a fuller piece
Alceus sings, upon his golden lyre
The conquest or the flight by sea and land how dire!
Each of these hands th'admiring ghost
In holy silence hears, but most
Th'attention and the thicking throng augment,
To hear of patriot fights, and kings in exile sent.
What wonder! since such strains as these
The many-headed beast can please,
Who hangs his hellish ears, and furies list,
While from their wreathed locks delighted snakes untwist.
Nay more, Prometheus, and the sire
Of Pelops to the sound respire,
Nor 'gainst the ounce or lions of the chace,
Will now Orion urge his visionary race.
193
ODE XIV. TO POSTHUMUS.
Life is short, and death inevitable.
Glide swiftly on, nor can our tears
Or piety the wrinkl'd age forefend,
Or for one hour retard th'inevitable end.
'Twould be in vain, tho' you should slay,
My friend, three hundred beeves a day
To cruel Pluto, whose dire waters roll,
Geryon's threefold bulk, and Tityus to controul.
This is a voyage we all must make,
Whoe'er the fruits of earth partake,
Whether we sit upon a royal throne,
Or live, like cottage hinds, unwealthy and unknown.
The wounds of war we scape in vain,
And the hoarse breakers of the main;
In vain with so much caution we provide
Against the southern winds upon th'autumnal tide.
The black Cocytus, that delays
His waters in a languid maze,
We must behold, and all those Danaids fell,
And Sysiphus condem'd to fruitless toil in hell.
195
Must be relinquish'd; nor a tree
Of all your nurseries shall in the end,
Except the baleful cypress, their brief lord attend.
Thy worthier heir the wine shall seize
You hoarded with a hundred keys,
And with libations the proud pavement dye,
And feasts of priests themselves shall equal and outvie.
197
ODE XV. UPON THE LUXURY OF THE AGE HE LIVED IN.
So great our palaces are now,They'll leave few acres for the plough.
Wide as the Lucrine lake canals extend,
And steril planes in sum the wedded elms transcend.
Then violet beds, and myrtle bow'rs,
And all the nosegay-blending flow'rs,
Shall far and wide their spicy breath renew,
Where for their former lords the fertile olives grew.
There the thick laurel's green array
Shall ward the fervid beams of day.
Not so our founder's will, or Cato's lore,
And all our bearded sires commanded things of yore.
Their private fortunes were but small,
But great the common fund of all.
No grand piazzas did there then remain
To catch the summer breezes of the northern wane.
Nor did they, by their edicts wise,
The providential turf despise,
Those laws, which bade each public pile be grand,
And with new stone repair'd, the holy temples stand.
199
ODE XVI. TO GROSPHUS.
All men covet peace of mind, which cannot be acquired either by riches or honours, but only by restraining the appetites.
The seaman sues the gods for ease,
Soon as the moon the tempest veils,
Nor sparkling guide he sees.
Ease by fierce Thracians in the end;
Ease by the quiver'd Mede is sought;
By gems, nor purple bales, my friend,
Nor bullion to be bought.
Not wealth or state, a consul's share,
Can give the troubled mind its rest,
Or fray the winged fiends of care,
That pompous roofs infest.
Well lives he, on whose little board
Th'old silver salt-cellar appears,
Left by his sires—no sordid hoard
Disturb his sleep with fears.
201
And aim at sublunary pelf,
Seek foreign realms? Can he, who flies
His country, 'scape himself?
Ill-natur'd care will board the fleet,
Nor leave the squadron'd troops behind,
Swifter than harts, or irksome sleet
Driv'n by the eastern wind.
If good, the present hour be mirth;
If bitter, let your smiles be sweet,
Look not too forward—nought on earth
Is in all points complete.
A sudden death Achilles seiz'd,
A tedious age Tithonus wore—
If you're amerc'd, fate may be pleas'd
To give to me the more.
A hundred flocks around thee stray,
About thee low Sicilian kine,
And mares apt for thy carriage neigh,
And purple robes are thine.
203
A faithful prophetess foretold,
And groundlings, spirited from Greece,
In high contempt I hold.
205
ODE XVII. TO MÆCENAS, WHEN SICK.
If he was to die, Horace has no inclination to survive him.
With your complaints? We must not part;
Nor can th'immortal gods consent, nor I,
My glory and my guard, that thou the first shouldst die.
Ah! if a more untimely fate
On thee, my soul's ally, should wait,
Why should I keep the wretched remnant here,
Imperfect without thee, and never half so dear?
One day shall be the last of both;
I have not made a traitor's oath—
Yes, we will go, together will we go,
If you precede, I follow to the shades below.
Me nor Chimera breathing fire,
Nor Gyas, if he could respire,
With all his hundred hands, should force from thee;
So justice, heav'nly pow'r, and so the fates decree.
If Libra rul'd my natal hour,
Or Scorpio's more unlucky pow'r,
Ey'd with the menace of an early grave,
Or Capricorn, the tyrant of the western wave.
207
Ev'n to a miracle consents—
Thee, lucid Jove, sav'd from Saturnian spite,
And clipt the wings of fate, and stopt its rapid flight,
Upon the day the crouded town
Thrice hail'd in claps thy just renown—
Me near that time a falling trunk had brain'd,
If Faunus, shield of bards, had not the stroke refrain'd,
These mercies therefore bear in mind,
And bring the victims you design'd,
And build the fane you vow'd upon the spot;
A slaughter'd lamb from me will suit my humbler lot.
209
ODE XVIII.
[Gold or iv'ry's not intended]
He asserts himself to be contented with a little fortune, where others labour for wealth, and the gratification of their desires, as if they were to live for ever.
For this little house of mine,
Nor Hymettian arches, bended
On rich Afric pillars, shine.
For a court I've no ambition,
As not Attalus his heir,
Nor make damsels of condition
Spin me purple for my wear.
But for truth and wit respected,
I possess a copious vein,
So that rich men have affected
To be number'd of my train.
With my Sabine field contented,
Fortune shall be dunn'd no more;
Nor my gen'rous friend tormented
To augment my little store.
One day by the next's abolish'd,
Moons increase but to decay;
You place marbles to be polish'd
Ev'n upon your dying day.
211
On the sea your buildings rise,
While the Baian billows murmur,
That the land will not suffice.
What tho' more and more incroaching,
On new boundaries you press,
And in avarice approaching,
Your poor neighbours dispossess;
The griev'd hind his gods displaces,
In his bosom to convey,
And with dirty ruddy faces
Boys and wife are driven away.
Yet no palace grand and spacious
Does more sure its lord receive,
Than the seat of death rapacious,
Whence the rich have no reprieve.
Earth alike to all is equal,
Whither would your views extend?
Kings and peasants in the sequel
To the destin'd grave descend.
There, tho' brib'd, the guard infernal
Would not shrewd Promotheus free;
There are held in chains eternal
Tantalus, and such as he.
There the poor have consolation
For their hard laborious lot;
Death attends each rank and station,
Whether he is call'd or not.
213
ODE XIX. ON BACCHUS.
Filled with the deity, the poet sings his praises.
(Posterity believe my lay)
Teaching the science of poetic feet,
While nymphs and satyrs listen'd in the rocks secrete.
Ha! ha! this lab'ring breast of mine
Is shock'd anew—and fraught with wine;
My heart is joy—ha! ha! my Bacchus spare,
Nor rear thine ivy wand too terrible to bear.
Now the mad Thyads I can sing,
Which struck out wine's perennial spring;
And rivers that with milky current glide,
And honey trickling down from hollow rocks beside.
Now can I sing the brilliant dame
Of heav'n, thy celebrated flame,
The tow'rs of Pentheus levell'd with the ground,
And downfal of Lycurgus to thy praise resound.
215
You those barbarian seas restrain,
You in the sacred mountains debonaire
Bind in serpentine knot unhurt your handmaid's hair.
You, when the bands of giants rose
Th'almighty father to depose,
The lion's fangs and horrid jaws assum'd,
Drove Rhœcus back to earth, and to destruction doom'd.
Tho' dance, and lively jests, and sport
For thee were fitter by report,
Nor did your military talents strike,
Yet facts have shewn thee proof for peace and war alike.
Thee with your golden horn bedight,
Saw Cerberus devoid of spite,
And when from hell you made your last retreat,
His tail he kindly wagg'd, and gently lick'd your feet.
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ODE XX. TO MÆCENAS.
Horace supposing himself changed into a swan, will fly all the world over; from which adventure he infers, that his poetry will be immortal.
Transform'd, the poet takes his flight
Thro' heav'n, and will be held on earth no more;
But o'er th'abodes of man, of envious man, shall soar.
Not I, the poor man's offspring scorn'd;
Not I thus honour'd and adorn'd,
As by Mæcenas to be call'd his friend,
Shall know the Stygian stream, or share a common end.
Now, ev'n but now, my skin began
To roughen, and my upper man
Of a white bird the radiant form assumes,
And on my hands and neck spring forth the glossy plumes.
Now a melodious swan indeed,
Th'Icarian flight I shall exceed;
And Bosphorus his roaring rocks will know,
And Syrtes, and the plains of Hyperborean snow:
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To hold the Romans in disdain;
The Colchan and Gelonians far remote,
And skilful Spain and Gaul shall learn my works by rote.
No dirges, squalid grief, or moan,
At mine unreal death be shown;
Your loud lamentings at my grave restrain,
Nor care to build the tomb this verse has render'd vain.
| The works of Horace, translated into verse | |