The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace

XIII

CUM TU, LYDIA

     Telephus—you praise him still,         His waxen arms, his rosy-tinted neck;       Ah! and all the while I thrill     With jealous pangs I cannot, cannot check.         See, my colour comes and goes,     My poor heart flutters, Lydia, and the dew,         Down my cheek soft stealing, shows     What lingering torments rack me through and through.         Oh, 'tis agony to see     Those snowwhite shoulders scarr'd in drunken fray,         Or those ruby lips, where he     Has left strange marks, that show how rough his play!         Never, never look to find     A faithful heart in him whose rage can harm         Sweetest lips, which Venus kind     Has tinctured with her quintessential charm.         Happy, happy, happy they     Whose living love, untroubled by all strife,         Binds them till the last sad day,     Nor parts asunder but with parting life!

XIV

O NAVIS, REFERENT

     O LUCKLESS bark! new waves will force you back     To sea. O, haste to make the haven yours!          E'en now, a helpless wrack,            You drift, despoil'd of oars;     The Afric gale has dealt your mast a wound;       Your sailyards groan, nor can your keel sustain,          Till lash'd with cables round,             A more imperious main.     Your canvass hangs in ribbons, rent and torn;       No gods are left to pray to in fresh need.          A pine of Pontus born            Of noble forest breed,     You boast your name and lineage—madly blind!       Can painted timbers quell a seaman's fear?          Beware! or else the wind            Makes you its mock and jeer.     Your trouble late made sick this heart of mine,       And still I love you, still am ill at ease.          O, shun the sea, where shine            The thick-sown Cyclades!

XV

PASTOR CUM TRAHERET

     When the false swain was hurrying o'er the deep       His Spartan hostess in the Idaean bark,     Old Nereus laid the unwilling winds asleep,         That all to Fate might hark,     Speaking through him:—"Home in ill hour you take       A prize whom Greece shall claim with troops untold,     Leagued by an oath your marriage tie to break         And Priam's kingdom old.     Alas! what deaths you launch on Dardan realm!       What toils are waiting, man and horse to tire!     See! Pallas trims her aegis and her helm,         Her chariot and her ire.     Vainly shall you, in Venus' favour strong,       Your tresses comb, and for your dames divide     On peaceful lyre the several parts of song;         Vainly in chamber hide     From spears and Gnossian arrows, barb'd with fate,       And battle's din, and Ajax in the chase     Unconquer'd; those adulterous locks, though late,         Shall gory dust deface.     Hark! 'tis the death-cry of your race! look back!       Ulysses comes, and Pylian Nestor grey;     See! Salaminian Teucer on your track,            And Sthenelus, in the fray     Versed, or with whip and rein, should need require,       No laggard. Merion too your eyes shall know     From far. Tydides, fiercer than his sire,            Pursues you, all aglow;     Him, as the stag forgets to graze for fright,       Seeing the wolf at distance in the glade,     And flies, high panting, you shall fly, despite            Boasts to your leman made.     What though Achilles' wrathful fleet postpone       The day of doom to Troy and Troy's proud dames,     Her towers shall fall, the number'd winters flown,            Wrapp'd in Achaean flames."

XVI

O MATRE PULCHRA

     O lovelier than the lovely dame       That bore you, sentence as you please     Those scurril verses, be it flame       Your vengeance craves, or Hadrian seas.     Not Cybele, nor he that haunts       Rich Pytho, worse the brain confounds,     Not Bacchus, nor the Corybants       Clash their loud gongs with fiercer sounds     Than savage wrath; nor sword nor spear       Appals it, no, nor ocean's frown,     Nor ravening fire, nor Jupiter       In hideous ruin crashing down.     Prometheus, forced, they say, to add       To his prime clay some favourite part     From every kind, took lion mad,       And lodged its gall in man's poor heart.     'Twas wrath that laid Thyestes low;       'Tis wrath that oft destruction calls     On cities, and invites the foe       To drive his plough o'er ruin'd walls.     Then calm your spirit; I can tell       How once, when youth in all my veins     Was glowing, blind with rage, I fell       On friend and foe in ribald strains.     Come, let me change my sour for sweet,       And smile complacent as before:     Hear me my palinode repeat,       And give me back your heart once more.

XVII

VELOX AMOENUM

     The pleasures of Lucretilis       Tempt Faunus from his Grecian seat;     He keeps my little goats in bliss       Apart from wind, and rain, and heat.     In safety rambling o'er the sward       For arbutes and for thyme they peer,     The ladies of the unfragrant lord,       Nor vipers, green with venom, fear,     Nor savage wolves, of Mars' own breed,       My Tyndaris, while Ustica's dell     Is vocal with the silvan reed,       And music thrills the limestone fell.     Heaven is my guardian; Heaven approves       A blameless life, by song made sweet;     Come hither, and the fields and groves       Their horn shall empty at your feet.     Here, shelter'd by a friendly tree,       In Teian measures you shall sing     Bright Circe and Penelope,       Love-smitten both by one sharp sting.     Here shall you quaff beneath the shade       Sweet Lesbian draughts that injure none,     Nor fear lest Mars the realm invade       Of Semele's Thyonian son,     Lest Cyrus on a foe too weak       Lay the rude hand of wild excess,     His passion on your chaplet wreak,       Or spoil your undeserving dress.

XVIII

NULLAM, VARE

   Varus, are your trees in planting? put in none before the vine,     In the rich domain of Tibur, by the walls of Catilus;   There's a power above that hampers all that sober brains design,     And the troubles man is heir to thus are quell'd, and only thus.   Who can talk of want or warfare when the wine is in his head,     Not of thee, good father Bacchus, and of Venus fair and bright?   But should any dream of licence, there's a lesson may be read,     How 'twas wine that drove the Centaurs with the Lapithae to fight.   And the Thracians too may warn us; truth and falsehood, good and          ill,     How they mix them, when the wine-god's hand is heavy on them laid!   Never, never, gracious Bacchus, may I move thee 'gainst thy will,     Or uncover what is hidden in the verdure of thy shade!   Silence thou thy savage cymbals, and the Berecyntine horn;       In their train Self-love still follows, dully, desperately          blind,   And Vain-glory, towering upwards in its empty-headed scorn,       And the Faith that keeps no secrets, with a window in its mind.

XIX

MATER SAEVA CUPIDINUM

         Cupid's mother, cruel dame,     And Semele's Theban boy, and Licence bold,         Bid me kindle into flame     This heart, by waning passion now left cold.         O, the charms of Glycera,     That hue, more dazzling than the Parian stone!         O, that sweet tormenting play,     That too fair face, that blinds when look'd upon!         Venus comes in all her might,     Quits Cyprus for my heart, nor lets me tell         Of the Parthian, hold in flight,     Nor Scythian hordes, nor aught that breaks her spell.         Heap the grassy altar up,     Bring vervain, boys, and sacred frankincense;         Fill the sacrificial cup;     A victim's blood will soothe her vehemence.

XX

VILE POTABIS

     Not large my cups, nor rich my cheer,         This Sabine wine, which erst I seal'd,     That day the applauding theatre         Your welcome peal'd,     Dear knight Maecenas! as 'twere fain       That your paternal river's banks,     And Vatican, in sportive strain,         Should echo thanks.     For you Calenian grapes are press'd,       And Caecuban; these cups of mine     Falernum's bounty ne'er has bless'd,         Nor Formian vine.

XXI

DIANAM TENERAE

       Of Dian's praises, tender maidens, tell;         Of Cynthus' unshorn god, young striplings, sing;           And bright Latona, well             Beloved of Heaven's high King.     Sing her that streams and silvan foliage loves,       Whate'er on Algidus' chill brow is seen,           In Erymanthian groves             Dark-leaved, or Cragus green.     Sing Tempe too, glad youths, in strain as loud,       And Phoebus' birthplace, and that shoulder fair,           His golden quiver proud             And brother's lyre to bear.     His arm shall banish Hunger, Plague, and War       To Persia and to Britain's coast, away           From Rome and Caesar far,             If you have zeal to pray.

XXII

INTEGER VITAE

     No need of Moorish archer's craft       To guard the pure and stainless liver;     He wants not, Fuscus, poison'd shaft         To store his quiver,     Whether he traverse Libyan shoals,       Or Caucasus, forlorn and horrent,     Or lands where far Hydaspes rolls         His fabled torrent.     A wolf, while roaming trouble-free       In Sabine wood, as fancy led me,     Unarm'd I sang my Lalage,         Beheld, and fled me.     Dire monster! in her broad oak woods       Fierce Daunia fosters none such other,     Nor Juba's land, of lion broods         The thirsty mother.     Place me where on the ice-bound plain       No tree is cheer'd by summer breezes,     Where Jove descends in sleety rain         Or sullen freezes;     Place me where none can live for heat,       'Neath Phoebus' very chariot plant me,     That smile so sweet, that voice so sweet,         Shall still enchant me.

XXIII

VITAS HINNULEO

     You fly me, Chloe, as o'er trackless hills       A young fawn runs her timorous dam to find,         Whom empty terror thrills           Of woods and whispering wind.     Whether 'tis Spring's first shiver, faintly heard       Through the light leaves, or lizards in the brake         The rustling thorns have stirr'd,           Her heart, her knees, they quake.     Yet I, who chase you, no grim lion am,       No tiger fell, to crush you in my gripe:         Come, learn to leave your dam,           For lover's kisses ripe.

XXIV

QUIS DESIDERIO

     Why blush to let our tears unmeasured fall       For one so dear? Begin the mournful stave,     Melpomene, to whom the Sire of all         Sweet voice with music gave.     And sleeps he then the heavy sleep of death,       Quintilius? Piety, twin sister dear     Of Justice! naked Truth! unsullied Faith!         When will ye find his peer?     By many a good man wept. Quintilius dies;       By none than you, my Virgil, trulier wept:     Devout in vain, you chide the faithless skies,         Asking your loan ill-kept.     No, though more suasive than the bard of Thrace       You swept the lyre that trees were fain to hear,     Ne'er should the blood revisit his pale face         Whom once with wand severe     Mercury has folded with the sons of night,       Untaught to prayer Fate's prison to unseal.     Ah, heavy grief! but patience makes more light         What sorrow may not heal.

XXVI

MUSIS AMICUS

     The Muses love me: fear and grief,       The winds may blow them to the sea;     Who quail before the wintry chief       Of Scythia's realm, is nought to me.     What cloud o'er Tiridates lowers,       I care not, I. O, nymph divine     Of virgin springs, with sunniest flowers       A chaplet for my Lamia twine,     Pimplea sweet! my praise were vain       Without thee. String this maiden lyre,     Attune for him the Lesbian strain,       O goddess, with thy sister quire!

XXVII

NATIS IN USUM

     What, fight with cups that should give joy?      'Tis barbarous; leave such savage ways     To Thracians. Bacchus, shamefaced boy,       Is blushing at your bloody frays.     The Median sabre! lights and wine!       Was stranger contrast ever seen?     Cease, cease this brawling, comrades mine,       And still upon your elbows lean.     Well, shall I take a toper's part       Of fierce Falernian? let our guest,     Megilla's brother, say what dart       Gave the death-wound that makes him blest.     He hesitates? no other hire       Shall tempt my sober brains. Whate'er     The goddess tames you, no base fire       She kindles; 'tis some gentle fair     Allures you still. Come, tell me truth,       And trust my honour.—That the name?     That wild Charybdis yours? Poor youth!       O, you deserved a better flame!     What wizard, what Thessalian spell,       What god can save you, hamper'd thus?     To cope with this Chimaera fell       Would task another Pegasus.

XXVIII

TE MARIS ET TERRA

     The sea, the earth, the innumerable sand,       Archytas, thou couldst measure; now, alas!     A little dust on Matine shore has spann'd       That soaring spirit; vain it was to pass     The gates of heaven, and send thy soul in quest       O'er air's wide realms; for thou hadst yet to die.     Ay, dead is Pelops' father, heaven's own guest,       And old Tithonus, rapt from earth to sky,     And Minos, made the council-friend of Jove;       And Panthus' son has yielded up his breath     Once more, though down he pluck'd the shield, to prove       His prowess under Troy, and bade grim death     O'er skin and nerves alone exert its power,       Not he, you grant, in nature meanly read.     Yes, all "await the inevitable hour;"       The downward journey all one day must tread.     Some bleed, to glut the war-god's savage eyes;       Fate meets the sailor from the hungry brine;     Youth jostles age in funeral obsequies;       Each brow in turn is touch'd by Proserpine.     Me, too, Orion's mate, the Southern blast,       Whelm'd in deep death beneath the Illyrian wave.     But grudge not, sailor, of driven sand to cast       A handful on my head, that owns no grave.     So, though the eastern tempests loudly threat       Hesperia's main, may green Venusia's crown     Be stripp'd, while you lie warm; may blessings yet       Stream from Tarentum's guard, great Neptune, down,     And gracious Jove, into your open lap!       What! shrink you not from crime whose punishment     Falls on your innocent children? it may hap       Imperious Fate will make yourself repent.     My prayers shall reach the avengers of all wrong;       No expiations shall the curse unbind.     Great though your haste, I would not task you long;       Thrice sprinkle dust, then scud before the wind.

XXIX

ICCI, BEATIS

     Your heart on Arab wealth is set,       Good Iccius: you would try your steel     On Saba's kings, unconquer'd yet,       And make the Mede your fetters feel.     Come, tell me what barbarian fair       Will serve you now, her bridegroom slain?     What page from court with essenced hair       Will tender you the bowl you drain,     Well skill'd to bend the Serian bow       His father carried? Who shall say     That rivers may not uphill flow,       And Tiber's self return one day,     If you would change Panaetius' works,       That costly purchase, and the clan     Of Socrates, for shields and dirks,       Whom once we thought a saner man?

XXX

O VENUS

     Come, Cnidian, Paphian Venus, come,         Thy well-beloved Cyprus spurn,     Haste, where for thee in Glycera's home         Sweet odours burn.     Bring too thy Cupid, glowing warm,       Graces and Nymphs, unzoned and free,     And Youth, that lacking thee lacks charm,         And Mercury.

XXXI

QUID DEDICATUM

     What blessing shall the bard entreat       The god he hallows, as he pours     The winecup? Not the mounds of wheat       That load Sardinian threshing floors;     Not Indian gold or ivory—no,       Nor flocks that o'er Calabria stray,     Nor fields that Liris, still and slow,       Is eating, unperceived, away.     Let those whose fate allows them train       Calenum's vine; let trader bold     From golden cups rich liquor drain       For wares of Syria bought and sold,     Heaven's favourite, sooth, for thrice a-year       He comes and goes across the brine     Undamaged. I in plenty here       On endives, mallows, succory dine.     O grant me, Phoebus, calm content,       Strength unimpair'd, a mind entire,     Old age without dishonour spent,       Nor unbefriended by the lyre!

XXXII

POSCIMUR

     They call;—if aught in shady dell       We twain have warbled, to remain     Long months or years, now breathe, my shell,         A Roman strain,     Thou, strung by Lesbos' minstrel hand,       The bard, who 'mid the clash of steel,     Or haply mooring to the strand         His batter'd keel,     Of Bacchus and the Muses sung,       And Cupid, still at Venus' side,     And Lycus, beautiful and young,         Dark-hair'd, dark-eyed.     O sweetest lyre, to Phoebus dear,       Delight of Jove's high festival,     Blest balm in trouble, hail and hear         Whene'er I call!

XXXIII

ALBI, NE DOLEAS

     What, Albius! why this passionate despair       For cruel Glycera? why melt your voice     In dolorous strains, because the perjured fair         Has made a younger choice?     See, narrow-brow'd Lycoris, how she glows       For Cyrus! Cyrus turns away his head     To Pholoe's frown; but sooner gentle roes         Apulian wolves shall wed,     Than Pholoe to so mean a conqueror strike:       So Venus wills it; 'neath her brazen yoke     She loves to couple forms and minds unlike,         All for a heartless joke.     For me sweet Love had forged a milder spell;       But Myrtale still kept me her fond slave,     More stormy she than the tempestuous swell         That crests Calabria's wave.

XXXIV

PARCUS DEORUM

     My prayers were scant, my offerings few,       While witless wisdom fool'd my mind;     But now I trim my sails anew,       And trace the course I left behind.     For lo! the Sire of heaven on high,       By whose fierce bolts the clouds are riven,     To-day through an unclouded sky       His thundering steeds and car has driven.     E'en now dull earth and wandering floods,       And Atlas' limitary range,     And Styx, and Taenarus' dark abodes       Are reeling. He can lowliest change     And loftiest; bring the mighty down       And lift the weak; with whirring flight     Comes Fortune, plucks the monarch's crown,       And decks therewith some meaner wight.

XXXV

O DIVA, GRATUM

     Lady of Antium, grave and stern!       O Goddess, who canst lift the low     To high estate, and sudden turn       A triumph to a funeral show!     Thee the poor hind that tills the soil       Implores; their queen they own in thee,     Who in Bithynian vessel toil       Amid the vex'd Carpathian sea.     Thee Dacians fierce, and Scythian hordes,       Peoples and towns, and Koine, their head,     And mothers of barbarian lords,       And tyrants in their purple dread,     Lest, spurn'd by thee in scorn, should fall       The state's tall prop, lest crowds on fire     To arms, to arms! the loiterers call,       And thrones be tumbled in the mire.     Necessity precedes thee still       With hard fierce eyes and heavy tramp:     Her hand the nails and wedges fill,       The molten lead and stubborn clamp.     Hope, precious Truth in garb of white,       Attend thee still, nor quit thy side     When with changed robes thou tak'st thy flight       In anger from the homes of pride.     Then the false herd, the faithless fair,       Start backward; when the wine runs dry,     The jocund guests, too light to bear       An equal yoke, asunder fly.     O shield our Caesar as he goes       To furthest Britain, and his band,     Rome's harvest! Send on Eastern foes       Their fear, and on the Red Sea strand!     O wounds that scarce have ceased to run!       O brother's blood! O iron time!     What horror have we left undone?       Has conscience shrunk from aught of crime?     What shrine has rapine held in awe?       What altar spared? O haste and beat     The blunted steel we yet may draw       On Arab and on Massagete!

XXXVI

ET THURE, ET FIDIBUS

         Bid the lyre and cittern play;     Enkindle incense, shed the victim's gore;         Heaven has watch'd o'er Numida,     And brings him safe from far Hispania's shore.         Now, returning, he bestows     On each, dear comrade all the love he can;         But to Lamia most he owes,     By whose sweet side he grew from boy to man.         Note we in our calendar     This festal day with whitest mark from Crete:         Let it flow, the old wine-jar,     And ply to Salian time your restless feet.         Damalis tosses off her wine,     But Bassus sure must prove her match to-night.         Give us roses all to twine,     And parsley green, and lilies deathly white.         Every melting eye will rest     On Damalis' lovely face; but none may part         Damalis from our new-found guest;     She clings, and clings, like ivy, round his heart.

XXXVII

NUNC EST BIBENDUM

     Now drink we deep, now featly tread       A measure; now before each shrine     With Salian feasts the table spread;       The time invites us, comrades mine.    'Twas shame to broach, before to-day,       The Caecuban, while Egypt's dame     Threaten'd our power in dust to lay       And wrap the Capitol in flame,     Girt with her foul emasculate throng,       By Fortune's sweet new wine befool'd,     In hope's ungovern'd weakness strong       To hope for all; but soon she cool'd,     To see one ship from burning 'scape;       Great Caesar taught her dizzy brain,     Made mad by Mareotic grape,       To feel the sobering truth of pain,     And gave her chase from Italy,       As after doves fierce falcons speed,     As hunters 'neath Haemonia's sky       Chase the tired hare, so might he lead     The fiend enchain'd; SHE sought to die       More nobly, nor with woman's dread     Quail'd at the steel, nor timorously       In her fleet ships to covert fled.     Amid her ruin'd halls she stood       Unblench'd, and fearless to the end     Grasp'd the fell snakes, that all her blood       Might with the cold black venom blend,     Death's purpose flushing in her face;       Nor to our ships the glory gave,     That she, no vulgar dame, should grace       A triumph, crownless, and a slave.

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.