The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace

IV

DESCENDE CAELO

     Come down, Calliope, from above:       Breathe on the pipe a strain of fire;     Or if a graver note thou love,       With Phoebus' cittern and his lyre.     You hear her? or is this the play       Of fond illusion? Hark! meseems     Through gardens of the good I stray,       'Mid murmuring gales and purling streams.     Me, as I lay on Vultur's steep,       A truant past Apulia's bound,     O'ertired, poor child, with play and sleep,       With living green the stock-doves crown'd—     A legend, nay, a miracle,       By Acherontia's nestlings told,     By all in Bantine glade that dwell,       Or till the rich Forentan mould.     "Bears, vipers, spared him as he lay,       The sacred garland deck'd his hair,     The myrtle blended with the bay:       The child's inspired: the gods were there."     Your grace, sweet Muses, shields me still       On Sabine heights, or lets me range     Where cool Praeneste, Tibur's hill,       Or liquid Baiae proffers change.     Me to your springs, your dances true,       Philippi bore not to the ground,     Nor the doom'd tree in falling slew,       Nor billowy Palinurus drown'd.     Grant me your presence, blithe and fain       Mad Bosporus shall my bark explore;     My foot shall tread the sandy plain       That glows beside Assyria's shore;     'Mid Briton tribes, the stranger's foe,       And Spaniards, drunk with horses' blood,     And quiver'd Scythians, will I go       Unharm'd, and look on Tanais' flood.     When Caesar's self in peaceful town       The weary veteran's home has made,     You bid him lay his helmet down       And rest in your Pierian shade.     Mild thoughts you plant, and joy to see       Mild thoughts take root. The nations know     How with descending thunder He       The impious Titans hurl'd below,     Who rules dull earth and stormy seas,       And towns of men, and realms of pain,     And gods, and mortal companies,       Alone, impartial in his reign.     Yet Jove had fear'd the giant rush,       Their upraised arms, their port of pride,     And the twin brethren bent to push       Huge Pelion up Olympus' side.     But Typhon, Mimas, what could these,       Or what Porphyrion's stalwart scorn,     Rhoetus, or he whose spears were trees,       Enceladus, from earth uptorn,     As on they rush'd in mad career       'Gainst Pallas' shield? Here met the foe     Fierce Vulcan, queenly Juno here,       And he who ne'er shall quit his bow,     Who laves in clear Castalian flood       His locks, and loves the leafy growth     Of Lycia next his native wood,       The Delian and the Pataran both.     Strength, mindless, falls by its own weight;       Strength, mix'd with mind, is made more strong     By the just gods, who surely hate       The strength whose thoughts are set on wrong.     Let hundred-handed Gyas bear       His witness, and Orion known     Tempter of Dian, chaste and fair,       By Dian's maiden dart o'erthrown.     Hurl'd on the monstrous shapes she bred,       Earth groans, and mourns her children thrust     To Orcus; Aetna's weight of lead       Keeps down the fire that breaks its crust;     Still sits the bird on Tityos' breast,       The warder of unlawful love;     Still suffers lewd Pirithous, prest       By massive chains no hand may move.

V

CAELO TONANTEM

     Jove rules in heaven, his thunder shows;       Henceforth Augustus earth shall own     Her present god, now Briton foes       And Persians bow before his throne.     Has Crassus' soldier ta'en to wife       A base barbarian, and grown grey     (Woe, for a nation's tainted life!)       Earning his foemen-kinsmen's pay,     His king, forsooth, a Mede, his sire       A Marsian? can he name forget,     Gown, sacred shield, undying fire,       And Jove and Rome are standing yet?    'Twas this that Regulus foresaw,       What time he spurn'd the foul disgrace     Of peace, whose precedent would draw       Destruction on an unborn race,     Should aught but death the prisoner's chain       Unrivet. "I have seen," he said,     "Rome's eagle in a Punic fane,       And armour, ne'er a blood-drop shed,     Stripp'd from the soldier; I have seen       Free sons of Rome with arms fast tied;     The fields we spoil'd with corn are green,       And Carthage opes her portals wide.     The warrior, sure, redeem'd by gold,       Will fight the bolder! Aye, you heap     On baseness loss. The hues of old       Revisit not the wool we steep;     And genuine worth, expell'd by fear,       Returns not to the worthless slave.     Break but her meshes, will the deer       Assail you? then will he be brave     Who once to faithless foes has knelt;       Yes, Carthage yet his spear will fly,     Who with bound arms the cord has felt,       The coward, and has fear'd to die.     He knows not, he, how life is won;       Thinks war, like peace, a thing of trade!     Great art thou, Carthage! mate the sun,       While Italy in dust is laid!"     His wife's pure kiss he waved aside,       And prattling boys, as one disgraced,     They tell us, and with manly pride       Stern on the ground his visage placed.     With counsel thus ne'er else aread       He nerved the fathers' weak intent,     And, girt by friends that mourn'd him, sped       Into illustrious banishment.     Well witting what the torturer's art       Design'd him, with like unconcern     The press of kin he push'd apart       And crowds encumbering his return,     As though, some tedious business o'er       Of clients' court, his journey lay     Towards Venafrum's grassy floor,       Or Sparta-built Tarentum's bay.

VI

DELICTA MAJORUM

     Your fathers' guilt you still must pay,       Till, Roman, you restore each shrine,     Each temple, mouldering in decay,       And smoke-grimed statue, scarce divine.     Revering Heaven, you rule below;       Be that your base, your coping still;     'Tis Heaven neglected bids o'erflow       The measure of Italian ill.     Now Pacorus and Monaeses twice       Have given our unblest arms the foil;     Their necklaces, of mean device,       Smiling they deck with Roman spoil.     Our city, torn by faction's throes,       Dacian and Ethiop well-nigh razed,     These with their dreadful navy, those       For archer-prowess rather praised.     An evil age erewhile debased       The marriage-bed, the race, the home;     Thence rose the flood whose waters waste       The nation and the name of Rome.     Not such their birth, who stain'd for us       The sea with Punic carnage red,     Smote Pyrrhus, smote Antiochus,       And Hannibal, the Roman's dread.     Theirs was a hardy soldier-brood,       Inured all day the land to till     With Sabine spade, then shoulder wood       Hewn at a stern old mother's will,     When sunset lengthen'd from each height       The shadows, and unyoked the steer,     Restoring in its westward flight       The hour to toilworn travail dear.     What has not cankering Time made worse?       Viler than grandsires, sires beget     Ourselves, yet baser, soon to curse       The world with offspring baser yet.

VII

QUID FLES, ASTERIE

     Why weep for him whom sweet Favonian airs         Will waft next spring, Asteria, back to you,           Rich with Bithynia's wares,             A lover fond and true,     Your Gyges? He, detain'd by stormy stress         At Oricum, about the Goat-star's rise,           Cold, wakeful, comfortless,             The long night weeping lies.     Meantime his lovesick hostess' messenger       Talks of the flames that waste poor Chloe's heart          (Flames lit for you, not her!)             With a besieger's art;     Shows how a treacherous woman's lying breath       Once on a time on trustful Proetus won           To doom to early death             Too chaste Bellerophon;     Warns him of Peleus' peril, all but slain       For virtuous scorn of fair Hippolyta,           And tells again each tale             That e'er led heart astray.     In vain; for deafer than Icarian seas       He hears, untainted yet. But, lady fair,           What if Enipeus please             Your listless eye? beware!     Though true it be that none with surer seat       O'er Mars's grassy turf is seen to ride,           Nor any swims so fleet             Adown the Tuscan tide,     Yet keep each evening door and window barr'd;       Look not abroad when music strikes up shrill,           And though he call you hard,             Remain obdurate still.

VIII

MARTIIS COELEBS

     The first of March! a man unwed!       What can these flowers, this censer mean     Or what these embers, glowing red           On sods of green?     You ask, in either language skill'd!       A feast I vow'd to Bacchus free,     A white he-goat, when all but kill'd           By falling tree.     So, when that holyday comes round,       It sees me still the rosin clear     From this my wine-jar, first embrown'd           In Tullus' year.     Come, crush one hundred cups for life       Preserved, Maecenas; keep till day     The candles lit; let noise and strife           Be far away.     Lay down that load of state-concern;       The Dacian hosts are all o'erthrown;     The Mede, that sought our overturn,           Now seeks his own;     A servant now, our ancient foe,       The Spaniard, wears at last our chain;     The Scythian half unbends his bow           And quits the plain.     Then fret not lest the state should ail;       A private man such thoughts may spare;     Enjoy the present hour's regale,           And banish care.

IX

DONEC GRATUS ERAM

     HORACE.     While I had power to bless you,       Nor any round that neck his arms did fling             More privileged to caress you,     Happier was Horace than the Persian king.     LYDIA. While you for none were pining     Sorer, nor Lydia after Chloe came,             Lydia, her peers outshining,     Might match her own with Ilia's Roman fame.     H. Now Chloe is my treasure,     Whose voice, whose touch, can make sweet music flow:             For her I'd die with pleasure,     Would Fate but spare the dear survivor so.     L. I love my own fond lover,     Young Calais, son of Thurian Ornytus:             For him I'd die twice over,     Would Fate but spare the sweet survivor thus.     H. What now, if Love returning     Should pair us 'neath his brazen yoke once more,             And, bright-hair'd Chloe spurning,     Horace to off-cast Lydia ope his door?     L. Though he is fairer, milder,     Than starlight, you lighter than bark of tree,             Than stormy Hadria wilder,     With you to live, to die, were bliss for me.

X

EXTREMUM TANAIN

     Ah Lyce! though your drink were Tanais,       Your husband some rude savage, you would weep     To leave me shivering, on a night like this,       Where storms their watches keep.     Hark! how your door is creaking! how the grove       In your fair court-yard, while the wild winds blow,     Wails in accord! with what transparence Jove         Is glazing the driven snow!     Cease that proud temper: Venus loves it not:       The rope may break, the wheel may backward turn:     Begetting you, no Tuscan sire begot         Penelope the stern.     O, though no gift, no "prevalence of prayer,"       Nor lovers' paleness deep as violet,     Nor husband, smit with a Pierian fair,         Move you, have pity yet!     O harder e'en than toughest heart of oak,       Deafer than uncharm'd snake to suppliant moans!     This side, I warn you, will not always brook         Rain-water and cold stones.

XI

MERCURI, NAM TE

     Come, Mercury, by whose minstrel spell       Amphion raised the Theban stones,     Come, with thy seven sweet strings, my shell,         Thy "diverse tones,"     Nor vocal once nor pleasant, now       To rich man's board and temple dear:     Put forth thy power, till Lyde bow         Her stubborn ear.     She, like a three year colt unbroke,       Is frisking o'er the spacious plain,     Too shy to bear a lover's yoke,         A husband's rein.     The wood, the tiger, at thy call       Have follow'd: thou canst rivers stay:     The monstrous guard of Pluto's hall         To thee gave way,     Grim Cerberus, round whose Gorgon head       A hundred snakes are hissing death,     Whose triple jaws black venom shed,         And sickening breath.     Ixion too and Tityos smooth'd       Their rugged brows: the urn stood dry     One hour, while Danaus' maids were sooth'd         With minstrelsy.     Let Lyde hear those maidens' guilt,       Their famous doom, the ceaseless drain     Of outpour'd water, ever spilt,         And all the pain     Reserved for sinners, e'en when dead:       Those impious hands, (could crime do more?)     Those impious hands had hearts to shed         Their bridegrooms' gore!     One only, true to Hymen's flame,       Was traitress to her sire forsworn:     That splendid falsehood lights her name         Through times unborn.     "Wake!" to her youthful spouse she cried,       "Wake! or you yet may sleep too well:     Fly—from the father of your bride,         Her sisters fell:     They, as she-lions bullocks rend,       Tear each her victim: I, less hard     Than these, will slay you not, poor friend,         Nor hold in ward:     Me let my sire in fetters lay       For mercy to my husband shown:     Me let him ship far hence away,         To climes unknown.     Go; speed your flight o'er land and wave,       While Night and Venus shield you; go     Be blest: and on my tomb engrave         This tale of woe."

XII

MISERARUM EST

     How unhappy are the maidens who with Cupid may not play,     Who may never touch the wine-cup, but must tremble all the day       At an uncle, and the scourging of his tongue!     Neobule, there's a robber takes your needle and your thread,     Lets the lessons of Minerva run no longer in your head;       It is Hebrus, the athletic and the young!     O, to see him when anointed he is plunging in the flood!     What a seat he has on horseback! was Bellerophon's as good?       As a boxer, as a runner, past compare!     When the deer are flying blindly all the open country o'er,     He can aim and he can hit them; he can steal upon the boar,       As it couches in the thicket unaware.

XIII

O FONS BANDUSIAE

     Bandusia's fount, in clearness crystalline,       O worthy of the wine, the flowers we vow!         To-morrow shall be thine           A kid, whose crescent brow     Is sprouting all for love and victory.       In vain: his warm red blood, so early stirr'd,         Thy gelid stream shall dye,           Child of the wanton herd.     Thee the fierce Sirian star, to madness fired,        Forbears to touch: sweet cool thy waters yield         To ox with ploughing tired,           And lazy sheep afield.     Thou too one day shalt win proud eminence       'Mid honour'd founts, while I the ilex sing         Crowning the cavern, whence           Thy babbling wavelets spring.

XIV

HERCULIS RITU

     Our Hercules, they told us, Rome,       Had sought the laurel Death bestows:     Now Glory brings him conqueror home           From Spaniard foes.     Proud of her spouse, the imperial fair       Must thank the gods that shield from death;     His sister too:—let matrons wear           The suppliant wreath     For daughters and for sons restored:       Ye youths and damsels newly wed,     Let decent awe restrain each word           Best left unsaid.     This day, true holyday to me,       Shall banish care: I will not fear     Rude broils or bloody death to see,           While Caesar's here.     Quick, boy, the chaplets and the nard,       And wine, that knew the Marsian war,     If roving Spartacus have spared           A single jar.     And bid Neaera come and trill,       Her bright locks bound with careless art:     If her rough porter cross your will,           Why then depart.     Soon palls the taste for noise and fray,       When hair is white and leaves are sere:     How had I fired in life's warm May,           In Plancus' year!

XV

UXOR PAUPERIS IBYCI

       Wife of Ibycus the poor,     Let aged scandals have at length their bound:       Give your graceless doings o'er,     Ripe as you are for going underground.       YOU the maidens' dance to lead,     And cast your gloom upon those beaming stars!       Daughter Pholoe may succeed,     But mother Chloris what she touches mars.       Young men's homes your daughter storms,     Like Thyiad, madden'd by the cymbals' beat:       Nothus' love her bosom warms:     She gambols like a fawn with silver feet.       Yours should be the wool that grows     By fair Luceria, not the merry lute:       Flowers beseem not wither'd brows,     Nor wither'd lips with emptied wine-jars suit.

XVI

INCLUSAM DANAEN

     Full well had Danae been secured, in truth,       By oaken portals, and a brazen tower,     And savage watch-dogs, from the roving youth         That prowl at midnight's hour:     But Jove and Venus mock'd with gay disdain       The jealous warder of that close stronghold:     The way, they knew, must soon be smooth and plain           When gods could change to gold.     Gold, gold can pass the tyrant's sentinel,       Can shiver rocks with more resistless blow     Than is the thunder's. Argos' prophet fell,           He and his house laid low,     And all for gain. The man of Macedon       Cleft gates of cities, rival kings o'erthrew     By force of gifts: their cunning snares have won           Rude captains and their crew.     As riches grow, care follows: men repine       And thirst for more. No lofty crest I raise:     Wisdom that thought forbids, Maecenas mine,           The knightly order's praise.     He that denies himself shall gain the more       From bounteous Heaven. I strip me of my pride,     Desert the rich man's standard, and pass o'er           To bare Contentment's side,     More proud as lord of what the great despise       Than if the wheat thresh'd on Apulia's floor     I hoarded all in my huge granaries,           'Mid vast possessions poor.     A clear fresh stream, a little field o'ergrown       With shady trees, a crop that ne'er deceives,     Pass, though men know it not, their wealth, that own           All Afric's golden sheaves.     Though no Calabrian bees their honey yield       For me, nor mellowing sleeps the god of wine     In Formian jar, nor in Gaul's pasture-field           The wool grows long and fine,     Yet Poverty ne'er comes to break my peace;       If more I craved, you would not more refuse.     Desiring less, I better shall increase           My tiny revenues,     Than if to Alyattes' wide domains       I join'd the realms of Mygdon. Great desires     Sort with great wants. 'Tis best, when prayer obtains           No more than life requires.

XVII

AELI VETUSTO

     Aelius, of Lamus' ancient name         (For since from that high parentage     The prehistoric Lamias came       And all who fill the storied page,     No doubt you trace your line from him,       Who stretch'd his sway o'er Formiae,     And Liris, whose still waters swim       Where green Marica skirts the sea,     Lord of broad realms), an eastern gale       Will blow to-morrow, and bestrew     The shore with weeds, with leaves the vale,       If rain's old prophet tell me true,     The raven. Gather, while 'tis fine,       Your wood; to-morrow shall be gay     With smoking pig and streaming wine,       And lord and slave keep holyday.

XVIII

FAUNE, NYMPHARUM

     O wont the flying Nymphs to woo,       Good Faunus, through my sunny farm     Pass gently, gently pass, nor do           My younglings harm.     Each year, thou know'st, a kid must die       For thee; nor lacks the wine's full stream     To Venus' mate, the bowl; and high           The altars steam.     Sure as December's nones appear,       All o'er the grass the cattle play;     The village, with the lazy steer,           Keeps holyday.     Wolves rove among the fearless sheep;       The woods for thee their foliage strow;     The delver loves on earth to leap,           His ancient foe.

XIX

QUANTUM DISTAT

         What the time from Inachus     To Codrus, who in patriot battle fell,         Who were sprung from Aeacus,     And how men fought at Ilion,—this you tell.         What the wines of Chios cost,     Who with due heat our water can allay,         What the hour, and who the host     To give us house-room,—this you will not say.         Ho, there! wine to moonrise, wine     To midnight, wine to our new augur too!         Nine to three or three to nine,     As each man pleases, makes proportion true.         Who the uneven Muses loves,     Will fire his dizzy brain with three times three;         Three once told the Grace approves;     She with her two bright sisters, gay and free,         Shrinks, as maiden should, from strife:     But I'm for madness. What has dull'd the fire         Of the Berecyntian fife?     Why hangs the flute in silence with the lyre?         Out on niggard-handed boys!     Rain showers of roses; let old Lycus hear,         Envious churl, our senseless noise,     And she, our neighbour, his ill-sorted fere.         You with your bright clustering hair,     Your beauty, Telephus, like evening's sky,         Rhoda loves, as young, as fair;     I for my Glycera slowly, slowly die.

XXI

O NATE MECUM

     O born in Manlius' year with me,       Whate'er you bring us, plaint or jest,     Or passion and wild revelry,       Or, like a gentle wine-jar, rest;     Howe'er men call your Massic juice,       Its broaching claims a festal day;     Come then; Corvinus bids produce       A mellower wine, and I obey.     Though steep'd in all Socratic lore       He will not slight you; do not fear.     They say old Cato o'er and o'er       With wine his honest heart would cheer.     Tough wits to your mild torture yield        Their treasures; you unlock the soul     Of wisdom and its stores conceal'd,        Arm'd with Lyaeus' kind control.     'Tis yours the drooping heart to heal;        Your strength uplifts the poor man's horn;     Inspired by you, the soldier's steel,        The monarch's crown, he laughs to scorn.     Liber and Venus, wills she so,        And sister Graces, ne'er unknit,     And living lamps shall see you flow        Till stars before the sunrise flit.

XXII

MONTIUM CUSTOS

     Guardian of hill and woodland, Maid,       Who to young wives in childbirth's hour     Thrice call'd, vouchsafest sovereign aid,           O three-form'd power!     This pine that shades my cot be thine;       Here will I slay, as years come round,     A youngling boar, whose tusks design           The side-long wound.

XXIII

COELO SUPINAS

     If, Phidyle, your hands you lift       To heaven, as each new moon is born,     Soothing your Lares with the gift       Of slaughter'd swine, and spice, and corn,     Ne'er shall Scirocco's bane assail       Your vines, nor mildew blast your wheat,     Ne'er shall your tender younglings fail       In autumn, when the fruits are sweet.     The destined victim 'mid the snows       Of Algidus in oakwoods fed,     Or where the Alban herbage grows,       Shall dye the pontiff's axes red;     No need of butcher'd sheep for you       To make your homely prayers prevail;     Give but your little gods their due,       The rosemary twined with myrtle frail.     The sprinkled salt, the votive meal,       As soon their favour will regain,     Let but the hand be pure and leal,       As all the pomp of heifers slain.

XXIV

INTACTIS OPULENTIOR

         Though your buried wealth surpass     The unsunn'd gold of Ind or Araby,         Though with many a ponderous mass     You crowd the Tuscan and Apulian sea,         Let Necessity but drive     Her wedge of adamant into that proud head,         Vainly battling will you strive     To 'scape Death's noose, or rid your soul of dread.         Better life the Scythians lead,     Trailing on waggon wheels their wandering home,         Or the hardy Getan breed,     As o'er their vast unmeasured steppes they roam;         Free the crops that bless their soil;     Their tillage wearies after one year's space;         Each in turn fulfils his toil;     His period o'er, another takes his place.         There the step-dame keeps her hand     From guilty plots, from blood of orphans clean;         There no dowried wives command     Their feeble lords, or on adulterers lean.         Theirs are dowries not of gold,     Their parents' worth, their own pure chastity,         True to one, to others cold;     They dare not sin, or, if they dare, they die.         O, whoe'er has heart and head     To stay our plague of blood, our civic brawls,         Would he that his name be read     "Father of Rome" on lofty pedestals,         Let him chain this lawless will,     And be our children's hero! cursed spite!         Living worth we envy still,     Then seek it with strain'd eyes, when snatch'd from sight.         What can sad laments avail     Unless sharp justice kill the taint of sin?         What can laws, that needs must fail     Shorn of the aid of manners form'd within,         If the merchant turns not back     From the fierce heats that round the tropic glow,         Turns not from the regions black     With northern winds, and hard with frozen snow;         Sailors override the wave,     While guilty poverty, more fear'd than vice,         Bids us crime and suffering brave,     And shuns the ascent of virtue's precipice?         Let the Capitolian fane,     The favour'd goal of yon vociferous crowd,         Aye, or let the nearest main     Receive our gold, our jewels rich and proud:         Slay we thus the cause of crime,     If yet we would repent and choose the good:         Ours the task to take in time     This baleful lust, and crush it in the bud.         Ours to mould our weakling sons     To nobler sentiment and manlier deed:         Now the noble's first-born shuns     The perilous chase, nor learns to sit his steed:         Set him to the unlawful dice,     Or Grecian hoop, how skilfully he plays!         While his sire, mature in vice,     A friend, a partner, or a guest betrays,         Hurrying, for an heir so base,     To gather riches. Money, root of ill,         Doubt it not, still grows apace:     Yet the scant heap has somewhat lacking still.