Complete Works of Horace (Illustrated) (Delphi Ancient Classics)

by Horace Quintus Horatius Flaccus

  Or if your choice be that rude pike,

  New barb’d with death, leap down and ask

  The wind to bear you. Would you like

  The bondmaid’s task,

  You, child of kings, a master’s toy,

  A mistress’ slave?’” Beside her, lo!

  Stood Venus smiling, and her boy

  With unstrung bow.

  Then, when her laughter ceased, “Have done

  With fume and fret,” she cried, “my fair;

  That odious bull will give you soon

  His horns to tear.

  You know not you are Jove’s own dame:

  Away with sobbing; be resign’d

  To greatness: you shall give your name

  To half mankind.”

  ODE XXVIII.

  FESTO QUID POTIUS.

  Neptune’s feast-day! what should man

  Think first of doing? Lyde mine, be bold,

  Broach the treasured Caecuban,

  And batter Wisdom in her own stronghold.

  Now the noon has pass’d the full,

  Yet sure you deem swift Time has made a halt,

  Tardy as you are to pull

  Old Bibulus’ wine-jar from its sleepy vault.

  I will take my turn and sing

  Neptune and Nereus’ train with locks of green;

  You shall warble to the string

  Latona and her Cynthia’s arrowy sheen.

  Hers our latest song, who sways

  Cnidos and Cyclads, and to Paphos goes

  With her swans, on holydays;

  Night too shall claim the homage music owes.

  ODE XXIX.

  TYRRHENA REGUM.

  Heir of Tyrrhenian kings, for you

  A mellow cask, unbroach’d as yet,

  Maecenas mine, and roses new,

  And fresh-drawn oil your locks to wet,

  Are waiting here. Delay not still,

  Nor gaze on Tibur, never dried,

  And sloping AEsule, and the hill

  Of Telegon the parricide.

  O leave that pomp that can but tire,

  Those piles, among the clouds at home;

  Cease for a moment to admire

  The smoke, the wealth, the noise of Rome!

  In change e’en luxury finds a zest:

  The poor man’s supper, neat, but spare,

  With no gay couch to seat the guest,

  Has smooth’d the rugged brow of care.

  Now glows the Ethiop maiden’s sire;

  Now Procyon rages all ablaze;

  The Lion maddens in his ire,

  As suns bring back the sultry days:

  The shepherd with his weary sheep

  Seeks out the streamlet and the trees,

  Silvanus’ lair: the still banks sleep

  Untroubled by the wandering breeze.

  You ponder on imperial schemes,

  And o’er the city’s danger brood:

  Bactrian and Serian haunt your dreams,

  And Tanais, toss’d by inward feud.

  The issue of the time to be

  Heaven wisely hides in blackest night,

  And laughs, should man’s anxiety

  Transgress the bounds of man’s short sight.

  Control the present: all beside

  Flows like a river seaward borne,

  Now rolling on its placid tide,

  Now whirling massy trunks uptorn,

  And waveworn crags, and farms, and stock,

  In chaos blent, while hill and wood

  Reverberate to the enormous shock,

  When savage rains the tranquil flood

  Have stirr’d to madness. Happy he,

  Self-centred, who each night can say,

  “My life is lived: the morn may see

  A clouded or a sunny day:

  That rests with Jove: but what is gone,

  He will not, cannot turn to nought;

  Nor cancel, as a thing undone,

  What once the flying hour has brought.”

  Fortune, who loves her cruel game,

  Still bent upon some heartless whim,

  Shifts her caresses, fickle dame,

  Now kind to me, and now to him:

  She stays; ’tis well: but let her shake

  Those wings, her presents I resign,

  Cloak me in native worth, and take

  Chaste Poverty undower’d for mine.

  Though storms around my vessel rave,

  I will not fall to craven prayers,

  Nor bargain by my vows to save

  My Cyprian and Sidonian wares,

  Else added to the insatiate main.

  Then through the wild Aegean roar

  The breezes and the Brethren Twain

  Shall waft my little boat ashore.

  ODE XXX.

  EXEGI MONUMENTUM.

  And now ’tis done: more durable than brass

  My monument shall be, and raise its head

  O’er royal pyramids: it shall not dread

  Corroding rain or angry Boreas,

  Nor the long lapse of immemorial time.

  I shall not wholly die: large residue

  Shall ‘scape the queen of funerals. Ever new

  My after fame shall grow, while pontiffs climb

  With silent maids the Capitolian height.

  “Born,” men will say, “where Aufidus is loud,

  Where Daunus, scant of streams, beneath him bow’d

  The rustic tribes, from dimness he wax’d bright,

  First of his race to wed the Aeolian lay

  To notes of Italy.” Put glory on,

  My own Melpomene, by genius won,

  And crown me of thy grace with Delphic bay.

  BOOK IV.

  ODE I.

  INTERMISSA, VENUS.

  Yet again thou wak’st the flame

  That long had slumber’d! Spare me, Venus, spare!

  Trust me, I am not the same

  As in the reign of Cinara, kind and fair.

  Cease thy softening spells to prove

  On this old heart, by fifty years made hard,

  Cruel Mother of sweet Love!

  Haste, where gay youth solicits thy regard.

  With thy purple cygnets fly

  To Paullus’ door, a seasonable guest;

  There within hold revelry,

  There light thy flame in that congenial breast.

  He, with birth and beauty graced,

  The trembling client’s champion, ne’er tongue-tied,

  Master of each manly taste,

  Shall bear thy conquering banners far and wide.

  Let him smile in triumph gay,

  True heart, victorious over lavish hand,

  By the Alban lake that day

  ‘Neath citron roof all marble shalt thou stand:

  Incense there and fragrant spice

  With odorous fumes thy nostrils shall salute;

  Blended notes thine ear entice,

  The lyre, the pipe, the Berecyntine flute:

  Graceful youths and maidens bright

  Shall twice a day thy tuneful praise resound,

  While their feet, so fair and white,

  In Salian measure three times beat the ground.

  I can relish love no more,

  Nor flattering hopes that tell me hearts are true,

  Nor the revel’s loud uproar,

  Nor fresh-wreathed flowerets, bathed in vernal dew.

  Ah! but why, my Ligurine,

  Steal trickling tear-drops down my wasted cheek?

  Wherefore halts this tongue of mine,

  So eloquent once, so faltering now and weak?

  Now I hold you in my chain,

  And clasp you close, all in a nightly dream;

  Now, still dreaming, o’er the plain

  I chase you; now, ah cruel! down the stream.

  ODE II.

  PINDARUM QUISQUIS.

  Who fain at Pindar’s flight would aim,

  On waxen w
ings, Iulus, he

  Soars heavenward, doom’d to give his name

  To some new sea.

  Pindar, like torrent from the steep

  Which, swollen with rain, its banks o’erflows,

  With mouth unfathomably deep,

  Foams, thunders, glows,

  All worthy of Apollo’s bay,

  Whether in dithyrambic roll

  Pouring new words he burst away

  Beyond control,

  Or gods and god-born heroes tell,

  Whose arm with righteous death could tame

  Grim Centaurs, tame Chimaeras fell,

  Out-breathing flame,

  Or bid the boxer or the steed

  In deathless pride of victory live,

  And dower them with a nobler meed

  Than sculptors give,

  Or mourn the bridegroom early torn

  From his young bride, and set on high

  Strength, courage, virtue’s golden morn,

  Too good to die.

  Antonius! yes, the winds blow free,

  When Dirce’s swan ascends the skies,

  To waft him. I, like Matine bee,

  In act and guise,

  That culls its sweets through toilsome hours,

  Am roaming Tibur’s banks along,

  And fashioning with puny powers

  A laboured song.

  Your Muse shall sing in loftier strain

  How Caesar climbs the sacred height,

  The fierce Sygambrians in his train,

  With laurel dight,

  Than whom the Fates ne’er gave mankind

  A richer treasure or more dear,

  Nor shall, though earth again should find

  The golden year.

  Your Muse shall tell of public sports,

  And holyday, and votive feast,

  For Caesar’s sake, and brawling courts

  Where strife has ceased.

  Then, if my voice can aught avail,

  Grateful for him our prayers have won,

  My song shall echo, “Hail, all hail,

  Auspicious Sun!”

  There as you move, “Ho! Triumph, ho!

  Great Triumph!” once and yet again

  All Rome shall cry, and spices strow

  Before your train.

  Ten bulls, ten kine, your debt discharge:

  A calf new-wean’d from parent cow,

  Battening on pastures rich and large,

  Shall quit my vow.

  Like moon just dawning on the night

  The crescent honours of his head;

  One dapple spot of snowy white,

  The rest all red.

  ODE III.

  QUEM TU, MELPOMENE.

  He whom thou, Melpomene,

  Hast welcomed with thy smile, in life arriving,

  Ne’er by boxer’s skill shall be

  Renown’d abroad, for Isthmian mastery striving;

  Him shall never fiery steed

  Draw in Achaean car a conqueror seated;

  Him shall never martial deed

  Show, crown’d with bay, after proud kings defeated,

  Climbing Capitolian steep:

  But the cool streams that make green Tibur flourish,

  And the tangled forest deep,

  On soft Aeolian airs his fame shall nourish.

  Rome, of cities first and best,

  Deigns by her sons’ according voice to hail me

  Fellow-bard of poets blest,

  And faint and fainter envy’s growls assail me.

  Goddess, whose Pierian art

  The lyre’s sweet sounds can modulate and measure,

  Who to dumb fish canst impart

  The music of the swan, if such thy pleasure:

  O, ’tis all of thy dear grace

  That every finger points me out in going

  Lyrist of the Roman race;

  Breath, power to charm, if mine, are thy bestowing!

  ODE IV.

  QUALEM MINISTRUM.

  E’en as the lightning’s minister,

  Whom Jove o’er all the feather’d breed

  Made sovereign, having proved him sure

  Erewhile on auburn Ganymede;

  Stirr’d by warm youth and inborn power,

  He quits the nest with timorous wing,

  For winter’s storms have ceased to lower,

  And zephyrs of returning spring

  Tempt him to launch on unknown skies;

  Next on the fold he stoops downright;

  Last on resisting serpents flies,

  Athirst for foray and for flight:

  As tender kidling on the grass

  Espies, uplooking from her food,

  A lion’s whelp, and knows, alas!

  Those new-set teeth shall drink her blood:

  So look’d the Raetian mountaineers

  On Drusus: — whence in every field

  They learn’d through immemorial years

  The Amazonian axe to wield,

  I ask not now: not all of truth

  We seekers find: enough to know

  The wisdom of the princely youth

  Has taught our erst victorious foe

  What prowess dwells in boyish hearts

  Rear’d in the shrine of a pure home,

  What strength Augustus’ love imparts

  To Nero’s seed, the hope of Rome.

  Good sons and brave good sires approve:

  Strong bullocks, fiery colts, attest

  Their fathers’ worth, nor weakling dove

  Is hatch’d in savage eagle’s nest.

  But care draws forth the power within,

  And cultured minds are strong for good:

  Let manners fail, the plague of sin

  Taints e’en the course of gentle blood.

  How great thy debt to Nero’s race,

  O Rome, let red Metaurus say,

  Slain Hasdrubal, and victory’s grace

  First granted on that glorious day

  Which chased the clouds, and show’d the sun,

  When Hannibal o’er Italy

  Ran, as swift flames o’er pine-woods run,

  Or Eurus o’er Sicilia’s sea.

  Henceforth, by fortune aiding toil,

  Rome’s prowess grew: her fanes, laid waste

  By Punic sacrilege and spoil,

  Beheld at length their gods replaced.

  Then the false Libyan own’d his doom: —

  “Weak deer, the wolves’ predestined prey,

  Blindly we rush on foes, from whom

  ‘Twere triumph won to steal away.

  That race which, strong from Ilion’s fires,

  Its gods, on Tuscan waters tost,

  Its sons, its venerable sires,

  Bore to Ausonia’s citied coast;

  That race, like oak by axes shorn

  On Algidus with dark leaves rife,

  Laughs carnage, havoc, all to scorn,

  And draws new spirit from the knife.

  Not the lopp’d Hydra task’d so sore

  Alcides, chafing at the foil:

  No pest so fell was born of yore

  From Colchian or from Theban soil.

  Plunged in the deep, it mounts to sight

  More splendid: grappled, it will quell

  Unbroken powers, and fight a fight

  Whose story widow’d wives shall tell.

  No heralds shall my deeds proclaim

  To Carthage now: lost, lost is all:

  A nation’s hope, a nation’s name,

  They died with dying Hasdrubal.”

  What will not Claudian hands achieve?

  Jove’s favour is their guiding star,

  And watchful potencies unweave

  For them the tangled paths of war.

  ODE V.

  DIVIS ORTE BONIS.

  Best guardian of Rome’s people, dearest boon

  Of a kind Heaven, thou lingerest all too long:

  Thou bad’st thy senate look to meet thee s
oon:

  Do not thy promise wrong.

  Restore, dear chief, the light thou tak’st away:

  Ah! when, like spring, that gracious mien of thine

  Dawns on thy Rome, more gently glides the day,

  And suns serener shine.

  See her whose darling child a long year past

  Has dwelt beyond the wild Carpathian foam;

  That long year o’er, the envious southern blast

  Still bars him from his home:

  Weeping and praying to the shore she clings,

  Nor ever thence her straining eyesight turns:

  So, smit by loyal passion’s restless stings,

  Rome for her Caesar yearns.

  In safety range the cattle o’er the mead:

  Sweet Peace, soft Plenty, swell the golden grain:

  O’er unvex’d seas the sailors blithely speed:

  Fair Honour shrinks from stain:

  No guilty lusts the shrine of home defile:

  Cleansed is the hand without, the heart within:

  The father’s features in his children smile:

  Swift vengeance follows sin.

  Who fears the Parthian or the Scythian horde,

  Or the rank growth that German forests yield,

  While Caesar lives? who trembles at the sword

  The fierce Iberians wield?

  In his own hills each labours down the day,

  Teaching the vine to clasp the widow’d tree:

  Then to his cups again, where, feasting gay,

  He hails his god in thee.

  A household power, adored with prayers and wine,

  Thou reign’st auspicious o’er his hour of ease:

  Thus grateful Greece her Castor made divine,

  And her great Hercules.

  Ah! be it thine long holydays to give

  To thy Hesperia! thus, dear chief, we pray

  At sober sunrise; thus at mellow eve,

  When ocean hides the day.

  ODE VI.

  DIVE, QUEM PROLES.

  Thou who didst make thy vengeful might

  To Niobe and Tityos known,

  And Peleus’ son, when Troy’s tall height

  Was nigh his own,

  Victorious else, for thee no peer,

  Though, strong in his sea-parent’s power,

  He shook with that tremendous spear

  The Dardan tower.

  He, like a pine by axes sped,

  Or cypress sway’d by angry gust,

  Fell ruining, and laid his head

  In Trojan dust.

  Not his to lie in covert pent