University of Virginia Library

THE EPODES OF HORACE.

EPODE I. To Mæcenas.

Whilst you ascend your warlike Ship,
And carry Terror thro' the distant Deep,
Prepar'd in all Events of War,
Great Cæsar's Dangers and Renown to share;
What shall your Friends forsaken do,
Whose Fate, whose Life and Death, depend on you?
Shall we, at your Request, sport on,
And taste insipid Mirth when you are gone?
Or bear our Loss with such a Breast,
As is by Souls, like yours, in War confess'd?
We'll bear it then, and freely go
O'er craggy Thracian Cliffs, and Alpine Snow;
Or bravely march, whilst you lead on,
Far as the rosy East, and rising Sun.
I know, my weak, my feeble Arm
Can neither aid, nor succour you from Harm;
Yet Absence still increases Fear,
And I shall think you safe when I am near.
The Dam that leaves her tender Young,
Dreads every Snake, and fears she stays too long;
Yet she, alas! is weak as they,
And would, if present, but augment the Prey.
For you the greatest Toils I'll bear,
For you the Dangers and Fatigues of War;
Not to increase my Wealth, or Lands,
By many Oxen till'd, and num'rous Hands;
Where well-fed Flocks and Herds may range,
And with the Seasons still their Pasture change;
Nor give my little Farm more Room,
And build it to the Walls of Tusculum:
Your Bounty gave my present Store,
'Tis all I want, nor will I ask for more,
Like some young Cully, to confound,
Or some rich Miser, hide it under Ground.

EPODE II.

How Rich is he, who free from Care
As the first happy Mortals were,
His fat paternal Acres plows,
No Mortgage, no Incumbrance knows?
He shuns the Sea, the Camp, and Arms,
Where Trumpets sound their shrill Alarms,
He flies the noisy Bench and Court,
And Levee, where proud Slaves resort,
His only Care is, when to join
The lofty Elm, and tender Vine;
Whilst in the Vale beneath he views
His wandring Sheep, and grazing Cows.
Sometimes he prunes the useless Shoots,
And grafts a Branch of better Fruits;
Or casks the Honey's luscious Juice,
Or shears his tender sickly Ewes.
When Autumn's fruitful Month appears,
He gathers, with Delight, the Pears
And Purple Grapes, so red, so sweet,
From Trees and Vines himself had set
His Off'rings to Priapus yields,
And Faunus, Guardian of his Fields.
Sometimes he basks beneath the Shade,
Or on the Grass supinely laid,
Close by some Brook, or limpid Spring,
Whilst all the wing'd Musicians sing:
The Riv'lets murmur as they creep,
And gently lull the Swain to sleep.
Soon as the Storms and Cold draw near,
And Jove inverts the frosty Year,
He calls his Dogs, his Toils he lays,
And gives the savage Boar the Chace;
Or spread his Nets around the Bush,
To catch the poor deluded Thrush;
Courses the Hare along the Plain,
And takes the foreign stately Crane.
Such Pleasures, and such Sports remove
All Thoughts of Care, and Pains of Love:
But if a Race of prattling Boys,
And gentle Spouse partake his Joys,
Some Sabine Matron, hail and brown,
Tann'd by the scorching Summer Sun;
She stirs the Fire, and makes it burn,
Against her Husband's wish'd return;
Or pens the Ewes that play and bleat,
And drains the swelling, milky Teat:
She, and her Spouse, and Children, dine
On home-bred Cales, and this Year's Wine.
The Lucrine Oysters I disdain,
And all the Dainties of the Main,
Which, when the Eastern Tempests roar,
Are wafted to the Latian Shore:
I nor in Turkey take Delight,
Nor long for Partridge, or for Snite:
My Board with luscious Olives spread,
Or Sorrel from the verdant Mead;
Or Mallows of salubrious Juice,
That keep the temp'rate Body loose;
Or tender Lambkin, sweet Repast,
Which hungry Wolves in vain had chas'd.
Or Kid with savory Sallets dress'd,
To crown some solemn Sylvan Feast.
Whilst thus we fatten and carouze,
How sweet the pleasing Prospect shows,
Of Flocks returning in a Row,
And Bullocks from the Yoke and Plow!
Whilst all the little Troops of Swains
Around the Lares sport and dance.
Thus Alfius spake, resolv'd to try
The Countrey's sweet Variety:
He call'd his Money in, and then—
The Miser put it out agen.

EPODE III. To Mæcenas.

Let Parricides and guilty Wretches feed
On Garlick, an infectious Weed,
As rank as Hemlock; 'tis a stinking Feast,
Which only Rusticks can digest.
My Bowels burn with that envenom'd Food:
Or am I drunk with Viper's Blood?
The Witches at their midnight Revels met,
With such a Dish each other treat.
When Jason, for his Strength and Beauty fam'd,
The monstrous Bulls in Battel tam'd,
With this Medea, who his Safety fear'd,
Her lovely Argonaut besmear'd:
With this the Hagg reveng'd her injur'd Love,
Then through the Air her Dragons drove.
This Potion breeds more noxious burning Pains,
Than when the raging Dog-Star reigns.
Not Hercules more dreadful Tortures bore,
When the invenom'd Shirt he wore.
Therefore take heed, if you, my dearest Knight,
In such detested Food delight,
May the next Nymph you love, your Kisses scorn,
And from your loath'd Embraces turn.

EPODE IV. To Mena.

When Wolves and tender Lambs agree,
Expect to find a Friend in me;
Thou Wretch, whose Back the slavish Scars,
Whose Leg the Marks of Fetters wears.
Fortune has made you Rich and Proud,
But never can refine your Blood.
When with a Gown full six Ells deep,
The Sacred Way in State you sweep;
See, how the Crowd express their Scorn,
And sneer, and wink at every Turn.
That Slave, they cry, so much admir'd,
With whom the Whipping-Post was tir'd;
Now in his gaudy Chariot rides,
And in his num'rous Acres prides.
In spite of Otho's just Decree,
He sits and shines with Quality.
In vain our Fleets prepare to chace
The Rebel Pirates from the Seas,
Whilst such a Slave as this commands
The chosen Free-born Roman Bands.

EPODE V.

Save me from Danger and from Death,
Great Guardians of the World beneath!
What means this Tumult which I see?
Those ghastly Looks, all fix'd on me?
Speak, by the Pledges of thy Love,
Lucina's Gift, by mighty Jove;
Who will avenge the Wrongs I bear,
Speak; by the sacred Gown I wear;
Why all this Rage? So Step-Dames look,
And Beasts when by the Hunter struck.
Thus spake the Youth, and trembling stands
Disrob'd by curs'd Canidia's Hands:
So sweet a Bloom, so fair a Skin,
Might Savages to Pity win:
She, with a Face of Horror, shakes
Her hissing Curls of knotted Snakes;
And mingles Wild-fig Branches torn,
With Cypress, from some gloomy Urn;
On these a Screech-Owl's Plumes she strow'd,
And blended Toads-Eggs, smear'd with Blood,
With all the Weeds of poys'nous Juice,
That Spain and Thessaly produce;
On which a mad Dog's Teeth she lays,
And burns in magick Flames the Mass.
Then Sagana around the Cell
Sprinkl'd black Water brought from Hell;
Her bristled Hair in Tours she wore,
Just like a Hedge-Hog, or a Boar.
Veia, whose Conscience knows no Wound,
Sweats at the Spade, and digs the Ground,
In which she set the harmless Child,
And mould'ring Earth around him fill'd:
Like Bodies sinking in the Flood,
Up to the Chin in Earth he stood;
There saw fresh Dainties every Day,
But saw, and starv'd, and pin'd away;
From whose parch'd Marrow they compose,
And Livor dry'd, the am'rous Dose,
Mixt with his Eye-balls worn with Pain,
And gazing on his Food in vain.
Folia was present at these Rites,
She, who in monstrous Lusts delights;
So Fame reports, the Rumour runs
Through Naples and th' adjacent Towns;
She, with superior Charms can force
The Moon to leave her nightly Course:
Whilst with black Teeth Canidia tore
Her Thumbs, and drew the livid Gore;
Then said;—Such Things!—What Tongue can tell?
Ye Pow'rs of Darkness and of Hell,
Nox and Diana, you who guide
The Shades, and o'er these Rites preside,
Come to my aid, whilst Horror reigns
O'er sleepy Brutes and silent Plains;
Exert your Godhead, and your Skill;
Let those I hate new Torments feel:
Expose the Lecher, gray and lewd,
By Dogs and shouting Boys pursu'd;
On him this Philtre I bestow,
My Hands ne'er mixt such Herbs till now.
What! Shall Medea me excel?
Of whom the Bards such Wonders tell;
How by her Charms, in Beauty's Pride,
Her Rival, fair Creüsa, dy'd,
When the young heedless Bride put on
The poys'nous Dress and burning Gown.
Each noxious Root and Herb I know,
What Juice they shed, and where they grow;
Yet nothing can my Varus move,
Or break his Rest with Thoughts of Love.
He triumphs o'er a Wretch like me,
Some mightier Hag has set him free:
But soon my Philtres shall prevail,
And he his cold Disdain bewail;
When I have charm'd, and made him kind,
Not Musick shall restore his Mind.
This Philtre shall his Scorn remove,
I'll make it strong and full of Love.
Sooner the Sea shall upwards flow,
The Earth and Skies lie sunk below,
Than he not pine with fond Desire,
As Sulphur takes the lambent Fire.
Thus she; the harmless Boy no more
With Tears their Pity did implore;
But long with silent Horror struck,
At length into these Curses broke.
Though all the Pow'rs of Hell combin'd,
No Charms can alter humane Kind;
Therefore I'll curse you as I die,
And this the Gods shall ratify.
When I am gone and turn'd to Air,
My Ghost shall haunt you every where;
With Warlike Nails your Cheeks I'll plow,
As Spectres, when enrag'd, will do;
Wait round your Beds, and ev'ry Night,
In Dreams, your guilty Souls affright:
The hooting Mob, with Show'rs of Stones,
Shall crush your old decrepid Bones;
Your Carcasses shall find no Urn,
But be by Dogs and Vulturs torn;
My Parents shall look on the while,
And, sated with full Vengeance, smile.

EPODE VI. To Cassius Severus.

Why, Mungrel! Why so fierce and loud?
Why wilt thou teaze the Gentle and the Good?
Turn, turn; on me employ thy Spite,
For I again with equal Force can bite:
No Greyhound is so swift of Foot.
No Farmer's Mastiff half so bold and stout:
Whatever Brutes dare cross my Way,
I give 'em Chace, and never quit my Prey.
But you who so much Courage boast,
Will fawn, and crouch, and truckle for a Crust
My Rage with double Fury burns,
When thus provok'd, I toss my pointed Horns:
Not fam'd Archilochus could show,
Or Hipponax, less Favour to a Foe:
Let Boys, when beaten, whine and cry,
If I'm attack'd, I conquer, or I die.

EPODE VII. To the People of Rome.

What Rage, mad Romans, drives you on?
Why is the Sword unsheath'd, and War begun?
Are not the Fields and blushing Flood
Already dy'd too deep with Roman Blood?
See Carthage to the Clouds aspires!
On those proud Walls employ these hostile Fires;
Or send your Arms across the Main,
And let the Britains wear a Roman Chain.
Must Rome to Rome a Victim fall,
To please the wishing Mede, and smiling Gaul?
Lions and Wolves less Savage are,
For Wolves and Lions their own Likeness spare.
By what blind Fury are you driven?
From you this Rage, or from avenging Heav'n?
Speak; Can your Guilt no Language find?
How pale your Look! What Horrors fill your Mind!
Have then the cruel Fates decreed,
That we for antient Fratricide must bleed?
Here Remus' sacred Blood was spilt,
And we must suffer for paternal Guilt.

EPODE VIII.

[OMITTED]

EPODE IX. To Mecænas.

EPODE X.

ODE XI. To Pettius.

Since Love possess'd my feeble Heart,
I've quite forsook my Lyrick Art:
No Breast like mine is rack'd with Pains,
Where all the wanton Tyrant reigns;
New Beauties still my Soul inflame,
Some lovely Boy, or gentle Dame.
But three Years since, Inachia's Eyes
Did my unguarded Heart surprize:
With Shame my amorous Guilt I own,
How was I rally'd by the Town?
Of all those Hours I now repent,
In Feasting and in Revels spent;
When Silence, Languishments, and Sighs,
Which from the heaving Bosom rise,
Betray the Lover's secret Pain.
How often did I then complain,
That Truth and Virtue were despis'd,
And only wealthy Coxcombs priz'd?
Soon as the God, the generous Bowl,
Unlock'd the Secrets of my Soul,
How would I in my Rage protest!
Resolve to ease my tortur'd Breast!
Let Winds and Waves my Hopes confound,
That sooth'd, but could not heal the Wound!
No more I will ambitious prove,
But on my Equals fix my Love;
Thus I could dare, and boast with you,
Yet when we part, and bid adieu,
My stubborn Feet unheeded stray,
And wander the forbidden Way:
There at her cruel Door complain,
And turn my restless Sides with Pain.
But now Lyciscus, lovely Boy,
Soft as a Maid, is all my Joy;
For whom such Torments I endure,
Nor Jest, nor grave Advice can cure;
No Remedy the Pain remove,
But such another Fit of Love;
A gentle Nymph, or Youth as fair,
Who rolls in Curls his flowing Hair.

EPODE XII.

[OMITTED]

EPODE XIII.

EPODE XIV. To Mecænas.

EPODE XV. To Neæra.

'Twas now the silent Hour of Night;
The Moon, and every lesser Light
Saw, to my Arms how close you clung,
And heard your false protesting Tongue.
With strict Embraces round my Waste
You hung, as twining Ivy, fast;
Then did the awful Pow'rs invoke,
And still repeated what I spoke:
Yet all those solemn Vows you broke.
You swore, You would be kind, as long
As Hair on Phœbus' Shoulders hung;
As long as Wolves the Lamb should rend,
And fierce Orion Storms portend.
Alas! what Plagues remain for You,
Since You are false, and I am true?
But do not think, that I can see,
With Patience, your Inconstancy;
Behold you prostitute your Charms,
And spend whole Nights in other Arms.
If once you wrong my gen'rous Love,
No Sighs nor Tears my Soul shall move;
Your Charms your Arts shall prove in vain,
Some kinder Nymph shall ease my Pain,
Whilst I reject you with Disdain.
My Rival, the dear happy He,
Who now insults my Misery,
May boast his Flocks and wealthy Store,
And all Pactolus' Golden Oar;
A Shape like Nireus and a Face,
The Skill of fam'd Pythagoras,
Who could his fading Youth renew;
Yet when he finds you false, untrue,
And perjur'd, he like me shall mourn,
Whilst I may triumph in my Turn.

EPODE XVI.

The Years bring round the fatal Age,
When Rome shall fall by civil Rage:
Romans by Romans shall be slain;
And Brutes possess the Earth again.
We by ourselves must fall and bleed,
From whom the Marsian Squadrons fled;
Whom nor the Capuan could tame,
Nor Spartacus, a dreaded Name;
Nor Gauls, in wily Falshood skill'd,
Nor Germans in the warlike Field;
Nor Porsena's Etrurian Force,
Nor he whom all our Matrons curse,
A Foe, more terrible than all,
The hated haughty Hannibal.
Barbarians soon shall spoil our Pride,
And Victors o'er our Ruins ride:
From Romulus's sacred Urn,
His injur'd Ashes shall be torn,
(What Roman such a Sight can bear?)
And scatter'd into common Air.
If you enquire, and fain would know,
How we may shun the coming Wo;
Then listen to this best Advice:
Like the Phocæans, timely wise,
Let's fly this Country, and be gone
For ever from this hated Town;
Forsake our Fields, and rich Abodes,
The Shrines and Temples of our Gods;
Where Boars may haunt, and Wolves may stray,
Whilst we are wand'ring far away;
The unknown Seas and Oceans plow,
Where Waves can roll, and Winds can blow.
Speak, or let this Advice prevail,
Before we hoist the fatal Sail,
And in this smiling lucky Hour,
For ever leave the impious Shore.
But first let all the Crew be sworn,
Never to think of a Return;
Till Stones can swim, the silver Po
Run back, and up the Mountains flow;
Till Waves surround the Apennine,
And Brutes in monstrous Couples join;
The Tiger to the Doe make Love,
The Kite address the gentle Dove;
Till Flocks no more the Lion dread,
And Goats are in the Ocean fed.
Thus let us make our Journey sure,
And this accursed Land abjure;
Let not a Mortal stay behind,
To propagate a wicked Kind,
But wretched Slaves to Lust and Fear,
Reserv'd to stay and perish here.
Let not your manly Courage fail,
Whilst by the Tuscan Coast we sail;
A fruitful Shore, and happy Isles,
Shall crown our Travels and our Toils,
Where Fields untill'd the Harvest bear,
And Ceres blesses every Year:
Where Figs and Olive-Trees impart
Rich Plenty, without Care and Art;
Where Honey trickles from the Oak,
And limpid Waters from the Rock;
The Ewes and She-Goats never fail,
But come full-laden to the Pail;
No Wolves disturb the Fold, no Snakes
Hiss from their Holes, or stir the Brakes.
New Scenes of Wonder and Delight,
Affect the Taste, and charm the Sight:
No ruffling Winds, nor adverse Tides,
Disturb the Flood, that smoothly glides;
No Heats the temper'd Climate burn,
Nor nipping Frosts destroy the Corn.
The Argonauts ne'er touch'd this Shore,
A Country un-enjoy'd before;
This Coast Medea never knew,
Nor fam'd Ulysses, and his Crew:
Hither no bold Sidonians steer,
Nor cast their forked Anchors here:
Here no contagious Humours reign,
No fiery Planets scorch the Plain.
For pious Mortals Jove ordain'd,
And set apart this blissful Land,
When first he chang'd the golden Race
To hardy Iron, and to Brass;
Hither, by my Advice, we'll go;
This Country was reserv'd for you.

EPODE XVII. Horace and Canidia.

HORACE.
At length to Witchcraft I submit,
And lie a Suppliant at your Feet:
By Great Diana's awful Pow'r,
And Proserpine, whom you adore;
By that mysterious Verse, whose Call
Makes Stars go out, and Planets fall,
O mighty Hag! thy Charms forbear;
Retract, and me thus prostrate spare.
Though Telephus had aim'd his Lance,
And bad his Mysian Troops advance
Against Achilles, young and brave,
Yet he the suppliant Prince forgave;
And at King Priam's just Request,
The Body of his Son releas'd:
Hector, in Battel on the Plain,
Far from the Trojan Ramparts slain;
Though doom'd to Birds and Beasts a Prey,
He sent the mangled Trunk away;
O'er which the Phrygian Matrons mourn,
And bear him to his pompous Urn.
Ulysses' Crew the Ocean rang'd,
And tho' to Brutal Monsters chang'd,
In time great Circe's Rage appeas'd,
Who soon her humble Slaves releas'd;
Dissolv'd the Charm, and at a Word,
Their Senses, Shape, and Speech restor'd.
Thou Darling of the Mob! relent,
With Toil and Torture I am spent;
My Youth and rosy Bloom are fled,
Whilst hoary Hairs disgrace my Head;
No Rest, no Ease I can obtain,
But pass my Days and Nights in Pain;
My Breath comes short, I heave and pant;
My Lungs their due Refreshment want.
At length the Pow'r of Charms I own,
And Feats by wond'rous Magick done;
How Hags their murd'rous Spells convey,
And where they hate, Torment and Slay.
What would you more? I feel the Flame,
And on the Gods, and Fates exclaim;
Ætna is not so hot as I,
Like Hercules, I burn, I fry;
When the invenom'd Shirt he wore,
Dipt in the Centaur's scalding Gore.
Me all your fiery Stores infest,
And into Ashes turn my Breast.
How shall I bribe you to assuage
Your Fury, or appease your Rage?
A hundred Bullocks from the Stall,
To expiate my Crime, shall fall:
I'll tune my Harp to monstrous Lyes,
And stick you in the highest Skies;
Proclaim, how chaste, how good you are,
And make you brighter than a Star.
The Bard, for Helen's sake struck blind,
The Gods by suppliant Pray'r inclin'd
To pity him, restore his Sight,
And draw the gloomy Veil of Night.
Do you, like them, relent, and cure
The raging Torments I endure;
Restore my Senses, gentle Dame!
No sordid Birth pollutes your Name;
You by no hellish Malice led,
Rake in the Ashes of the Dead:
Your Heart and Hands are free from Stains,
And when Lucina sends her Pains,
'Tis no Mock Cry the House Alarms;
A Real Product fills your Arms.

CANIDIA.
In vain my Pity you intreat,
Not Rocks, when Storms and Billows beat,
Less Mercy to the Sailor show
Toss'd by the Waves, than I to you,
Shall you unpunish'd make a Jest
Of Cupid's Rites and solemn Feast?
Expose me to the laughing Town,
And blast my Art in vile Lampoon?
Have I for this implor'd the Aid,
Of all the Hags that use the Trade?
And made the Philtre strong in vain,
Whilst you by Death can ease your Pain?
But that Request the Fates deny;
You'll live, to taste fresh Misery.
Prometheus to the Vultur chain'd,
And Tantalus in Styx detain'd,
Thirsting a midst the liquid Deep,
And Sisyphus, who climbs the Steep,
And rolls the Stone, all long for Rest,
Whilst Jove denies their just Request.
Thus you shall pine, and find no Ease
In Daggers, or a Precipice;
In vain shall knit the fatal Noose,
And that way seek your wish'd Repose:
Whilst Victory my Art shall crown,
And all the World my Charms shall own.
You saw with too too curious Eyes,
How I by Magick storm'd the Skies;
Call'd down the Moon, gave Life to Dust,
And made the moving Wax a Ghost;
Mixt Drugs and Herbs, provoking Love;
And shall my Art successless prove,
When try'd on you? Shall you disarm
My Skill, or I forget to charm?

The Secular ODE of Horace.