Complete Works of Horace (Illustrated) (Delphi Ancient Classics)
Page 20
EPODE XV.
TO NÆERA.
‘TWAS night! — let me recall to thee that night!
The silver moon, in the unclouded sky,
Amid the lesser stars was shining bright,
When in the words I did adjure thee by,
Thou with thy clinging arms, more tightly knit
Around me than the ivy clasps the oak,
Didst breathe a vow — mock the great gods with it —
A vow which, false one, thou hast foully broke;
That while the ravened wolf should hunt the flocks,
The shipman’s foe, Orion, vex the sea,
And Zephyrs lift the unshorn Apollo’s locks,
So long wouldst thou be fond, be true to me!
Yet shall thy heart, Næera, bleed for this,
For if in Flaccus aught of man remain,
Give thou another joys that once were his,
Some other maid more true shall soothe his pain;
Nor think again to lure him to thy heart!
The pang once felt, his love is past recall;
And thou, more favoured youth, whoe’er thou art,
Who revell’st now in triumph o’er his fall,
Though thou be rich in land and golden store,
In lore a sage, with shape framed to beguile,
Thy heart shall ache when, this brief fancy o’er,
She seeks a new love, and I calmly smile.
EPODE XVI.
TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE.
ANOTHER age in civil wars will soon be spent and worn,
And by her native strength our Rome be wrecked and overborne,
That Rome, the Marsians could not crush, who border on our lands,
Nor the shock of threatening Porsena with his Etruscan bands,
Nor Capua’s strength that rivalled ours, nor Spartacus the stem,
Nor the faithless Allobrogian, who still for change doth yearn.
Ay, what Germania’s blue-eyed youth quelled not with ruthless sword,
Nor Hannibal by our great sires detested and abhorred,
We shall destroy with impious hands imbrued in brothers gore,
And wild beasts of the wood shall range our native land once more.
A foreign foe, alas! shall tread The City’s ashes down,
And his horse’s ringing hoofs shall smite her places of renown,
And the bones of great Quirinus, now religiously enshrined,
Shall be flung by sacrilegious hands to the sunshine and the wind.
And if ye all from ills so dire ask, how yourselves to free,
Or such at least as would not hold your lives unworthily,
No better counsel can I urge, than that which erst inspired
The stout Phocæans when from their doomed city they retired,
Their fields, their household gods, their shrines surrendering as a prey
To the wild boar and the ravening wolf; so we, in our dismay,
Where’er our wandering steps may chance to carry us should go,
Or wheresoe’er across the seas the fitful winds may blow.
How think ye then? If better course none offer, why should we
Not seize the happy auspices, and boldly put to sea?
But let us swear this oath;— “Whene’er, if e’er shall come the time,
Rocks upwards from the deep shall float, return shall not be crime;
Nor we be loath to back our sails, the ports of home to seek,
When the waters of the Po shall lave Matinum’s rifted peak,
Or skyey Apenninus down into the sea be rolled,
Or wild unnatural desires such monstrous revel hold,
That in the stag’s endearments the tigress shall delight,
And the turtle-dove adulterate with the falcon and the kite,
That unsuspicious herds no more shall tawny lions fear,
And the he-goat, smoothly sleek of skin, through the briny deep career!”
This having sworn, and what beside may our returning stay,
Straight let us all, this City’s doomed inhabitants, away,
Or those that rise above the herd, the few of nobler soul;
The craven and the hopeless here on their ill-starred beds may loll.
Ye who can feel and act like men, this woman’s wail give o’er,
And fly to regions far away beyond the Etruscan shore!
The circling ocean waits us; then away, where nature smiles,
To those fair lands, those blissful lands, the rich and happy Isles!
Where Ceres year by year crowns all the untilled land with sheaves,
And the vine with purple clusters droops, unpruned of all her leaves;
Where the olive buds and burgeons, to its promise ne’er untrue,
And the russet fig adorns the tree, that graffshoot never knew;
Where honey from the hollow oaks doth ooze, and crystal rills
Come dancing down with tinkling feet from the sky-dividing hills;
There to the pails the she-goats come, without a master’s word,
And home with udders brimming broad returns the friendly herd;
There round the fold no surly bear its midnight prowl doth make,
Nor teems the rank and heaving soil with the adder and the snake;
There no contagion smites the flocks, nor blight of any star
With fury of remorseless heat the sweltering herds doth mar.
Nor this the only bliss that waits us there, where drenching rains
By watery Eurus swept along ne’er devastate the plains,
Nor are the swelling seeds burnt up within the thirsty clods,
So kindly blends the seasons there the King of all the Gods.
That shore the Argonautic bark’s stout rowers never gained,
Nor the wily she of Colchis with step unchaste profaned,
The sails of Sidon’s galleys ne’er were wafted to that strand,
Nor ever rested on its slopes Ulysses’ toilworn band:
For Jupiter, when he with brass the Golden Age alloyed,
That blissful region set apart by the good to be enjoyed;
With brass and then with iron he the ages seared, but ye,
Good men and true, to that bright home arise and follow me!
EPODE XVII.
HORACE’S RECANTATION TO CANIDIA.
HERE at thy feet behold me now
Thine all-subduing skill avow,
And beg of thee on suppliant knee,
By realms of dark Persephone,
By Dian’s awful might, and by
Thy books of charms which from the sky
Can drag the stars, Canidia,
To put thy magic sleights away,
Reverse thy whirling wheel amain,
And loose the spell that binds my brain!
Even Telephus to pity won
The ocean-cradled Thetis’ son,
‘Gainst whom his Mysian hosts he led,
And his sharp-pointed arrow sped.
The man-destroying Hector, doomed
By kites and dogs to be consumed,
Was natheless by the dames of Troy
Embalmed, when, mourning for his boy,
King Priam left his city’s wall,
At stern Achilles’ feet to fall.
Ulysses’ stalwart rowers, too,
Away their hide of bristles threw
At Circe’s word, and donned again
The shape, the voice, the soul of men.
Enough of punishment, Pm sure,
Thou hast compelled me to endure,
Enough and more, thou being dear
To pedlar and to marinere!
My youth has fled, my rosy hue
Turned to a wan and livid blue;
Blanched by thy mixtures is my hair;
No respite have I from despair.
The days and nights, they wax and wane,
But bring me no release from pain;
Nor can I ease, howe’er I gasp,
So am I vanquished, so recant,
Unlucky wretch! my creed, and grant,
That Sabine spells can vex the wit,
And heads by Marsic charms be split.
What wouldst thou more? O earth! O sea!
Nor even Alcides burned like me,
With Nessus’ venomed gore imbued,
Nor Ætna in its fiercest mood;
For till my flesh, to dust calcined,
Be scattered by the scornful wind,
Thou glowest a very furnace fire,
Distilling Colchian poisons dire!
When will this end? Or what may be
The ransom, that shall set me free?
Speak! Let the fine be what it may,
That fine most rigidly I’ll pay.
Demand a hundred steers, with these
Thy wrath I’m ready to appease!
Or wouldst thou rather so desire
The praise of the inventive lyre,
Thou, chaste and good, shalt range afar
The spheres, thyself a golden star!
Castor, with wrath indignant stung,
And Castor’s brother, by the tongue,
That slandered Helena the fair,
Yet listened to the slanderer’s prayer,
Forgave the bard the savage slight,
Forgave him, and restored his sight.
Then drive, for so thou canst, this pain,
This ‘wildering frenzy from my brain!
O thou, untainted by the guile
Of parentage depraved and vile,
Thou, who dost ne’er in haglike wont,
Among the tombs of paupers hunt
For ashes newly laid in ground,
Love-charms and philtres to compound,
Thy heart is gentle, pure thy hands;
And there thy Partumeius stands,
Reproof to all, who dare presume
With barrenness to charge thy womb;
For never dame more sprightly rose
Or lustier from child-bed throes!
CANIDIA’S REPLY.
“WH¥ pour your prayers to heedless ears?
Not rocks, when Winter’s blast careers,
Lashed by the angry surf, are more
Deaf to the seaman dashed on shore!
What! Think, unpunished, to deride,
And rudely rend the veil aside,
That shrouds Cotytto’s murky rites,
And love’s, unfettered love’s, delights?
And, as though you high priest might be
Of Esquilinian sorcery,
Branding my name with ill renown,
Make me the talk of all the town?
Where then my gain, that with my gold
I bribed Pelignian beldames old,
Or mastered, by their aid, the gift
To mingle poisons sure and swift?
You’d have a speedy doom? But no,
It shall be lingering, sharp, and slow.
Your life, ungrateful wretch ‘ shall be
Spun out in pain and misery,
And still new tortures, woes, and pangs,
Shall gripe you with relentless fangs!
Yearns Pelops’ perjured sire for rest,
Mocked by the show of meats unblest,
For rest, for rest, Prometheus cries,
As to the vulture chained he lies,
And Sisyphus his rock essays
Up to the mountain’s top to raise;
Still clings the curse, for Jove’s decree
Forbids them ever to be free.
So you would from the turret leap,
So in your breast the dagger steep,
So, in disgust with life, would fain
Go hang yourself, — but all in vain!
Then comes my hour of triumph, then
I’ll goad you till you writhe again;
Then shall you curse the evil hour,
You made a mockery of my power!
Think ye, that I who can at will
Move waxen images — my skill
You, curious fool! know all too well —
That I who can by muttered spell
The moon from out the welkin shake,
The dead even from their ashes wake,
To mix the chalice to inspire
With fierce unquenchable desire,
Shall my so-potent art bemoan
As impotent ‘gainst thee alone?
Waking thou shalt behold me; in the night’s
Still watches, through the shadows of the dark
Descried, I’ll dash the slumber from thy lids.”
ODES (PROSE)
Translated by C. Smart
Since classical times, Horace’s odes have been regarded as some of the greatest works of Latin poetry ever written. The Horatian ode has been emulated by poets across the world, establishing the format and style as the pinnacle of its form. The odes were first published in three books in 23 BC, which were then followed up by a fourth book of 15 poems, ten years later in 13 BC.
The Odes were developed as a conscious imitation of the short lyric poetry of Greek originals by such poets as Pindar, Sappho and Alcaeus, whom Horace greatly admired, wishing to synthesise the grace of their older forms to the social life of Rome in the age of Augustus. The earliest positively dated poem in the collection is I.37, which is an ode concerning the defeat of Cleopatra at the battle of Actium, clearly written in 30 BC, though it is possible some of the lighter sketches from the Greek (e.g. I.10, a hymn to the god Mercury) are contemporary with Horace’s earlier Epodes and Satires. The first book consists of 30 odes, with notable works including, I.3 Sic te diva potens Cypri, which is a propempticon (a ‘travel’ poem) addressed to Horace’s good friend, the contemporary poet Virgil. I.5, Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa, is a particularly powerful ode, concerning the poet’s farewell to love, as he turns his back on the coquettish Pyrrha. Several of the odes were inspired by the ancient poetry of Alcaeus, whose works now only survive in fragments. Of particular note is I.9, Vides ut alta ... Soracte ..., which describes moving from the stiffness of a wintery scene to an invocation of youth’s pleasures that are now there to be had. Horace’s most famous quotation is to be found in I.11, in which he gives a short rebuke to a woman worrying about the future. He closes the ode with the celebrated line carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero — Seize the day, trusting to tomorrow as little as possible.
Another now famous quotation from Horace is taken from Book III of the Odes, which was used by Wilfred Owen in his famous poem Dulce et Decorum Est. In III.2.13 Horace declares:
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori:
mors et fugacem persequitur virum
nec parcit inbellis iuventae
poplitibus timidove tergo.
How sweet and right it is to die for one’s country:
Death pursues the man who flees,
spares not the hamstrings or cowardly backs
Of battle-shy youths.
In the early twentieth century, these words were often quoted by supporters of the war near its inception and they were of particular relevance to soldiers of the era. In 1913, the first line, Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, was inscribed on the wall of the chapel of the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst. Therefore, in the final stanza of his poem Dulce et Decorum Est, Owen chose to bitterly refer to Horace’s sentiment as “The old Lie”.
Horace by Giacomo Di Chirico
CONTENTS
BOOK I.
ODE I.
ODE II.
ODE III.
ODE IV.
ODE V.
ODE VI.
ODE VII.
ODE VIII.
ODE IX.
ODE X.
ODE XI.
ODE XII.
ODE XIII.
ODE XIV.
ODE XV.
ODE XVI.
ODE XVII.
ODE XVIII.
ODE XIX.
<
br /> ODE XX.
ODE XXI.
ODE XXII.
ODE XXIII.
ODE XXIV.
ODE XXV.
ODE XXVI.
ODE XXVII.
ODE XXVIII.
ODE XXIX.
ODE XXX.
ODE XXXI.
ODE XXXII.
ODE XXXIII.
ODE XXXIV.
ODE XXXV.
ODE XXXVI.
ODE XXXVII.
ODE XXXVIII.
BOOK II.
ODE I.
ODE II.
ODE III.
ODE IV.
ODE V.
ODE VI.
ODE VII.
ODE VIII.
ODE IX.
ODE X.
ODE XI.
ODE XII.
ODE XIII.
ODE XIV.
ODE XV.
ODE XVI.
ODE XVII.
ODE XVIII.
ODE XIX.
ODE XX.
BOOK III.
ODE I.
ODE II.
ODE III.
ODE IV.
ODE V.
ODE VI.
ODE VII.
ODE VIII.
ODE IX.
ODE X.
ODE XI.
ODE XII.
ODE XIII.
ODE XIV.
ODE XV.
ODE XVI.
ODE XVII.
ODE XVIII.
ODE XIX.
ODE XX.
ODE XXI.
ODE XXII.
ODE XXIII.
ODE XXIV.
ODE XXV.
ODE XXVI.
ODE XXVII.
ODE XXVIII.
ODE XXIX.
ODE XXX.
BOOK IV.
ODE I.
ODE II.
ODE III.
ODE IV
ODE V.
ODE VI.
ODE VII.
ODE VIII.
ODE IX.
ODE X.
ODE XI.
ODE XII.
ODE XIII.
ODE XIV.
ODE XV.
BOOK I.
ODE I.
TO MAECENAS.
Maecenas, descended from royal ancestors, O both my protection and my darling honor! There are those whom it delights to have collected Olympic dust in the chariot race; and [whom] the goal nicely avoided by the glowing wheels, and the noble palm, exalts, lords of the earth, to the gods.