Horace - Selected Odes I-IV - Translations (1863-2004): Conington, Marshall, Bennett, Shepherd, West, Rudd

Book I, Ode 2

 

[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2^nd edn., 1877]

Iam satis terris nivis atque dirae

Grandinis misit Pater et rubente

Dextera sacras iaculatus arces

Terruit Urbem,

Terruit gentes, grave ne rediret

Seculum Pyrrhae nova monstra questae,

Omne cum Proteus pecus egit altos

Visere montes,

Piscium et summa genus haesit ulmo,

Nota quae sedes fuerat columbis,

Et superiecto pavidae natarunt

Aequore damae.

Vidimus flavum Tiberim retortis

Litore Etrusco violenter undis

Ire deiectum monumenta regis

Templaque Vestae;

Iliae dum se nimium querenti

lactat ultorem, vagus et sinistra

Labitur ripa love non probante

uxorius amnis.

Audiet cives acuisse ferrum,

Quo graves Persae melius perirent,

Audiet pugnas vitio parentum

Rara iuventus.

Quem vocet divum populus ruentis

Imperi rebus? prece qua fatigent

Virgines sanctae minus audientem

Carmina Vestam?

Cui dabit partes scelus expiandi

luppiter? Tandem venias precamur

Nube candentes humeros amictus

Augur Apollo;

Sive tu mavis, Erycina ridens,

Quam locus circum volat et Cupido;

Sive neglectum genus et nepotes

Respicis auctor,

Heu nimis longo satiate ludo,

Quem iuvat clamor galeaeque leves,

Acer et Mauq peditis cruentum

Voltus in hostem;

Sive mutata iuvenem figura

Ales in terris imitaris almae

Filius Maiae, patiens vocari

Caesaris ultor:

Serus in caelum redeas diuque

Laetus intersis populo Quirini,

Neve te nostris vitiis inlquuni

Ocior aura

Tollat; hic magnos potius triumphos,

Hic ames dici pater atque princeps,

Neu sinas Medos equitare inultos,

Te duce, Caesar.

 

[John Conington, 1863, rev. 1863 & 1865]

Enough of snow and hail at last

The Sire has sent in vengeance down:

His bolts, at His own temple cast,

Appall’d the town,

Appall’d the lands, lest Pyrrha’s time

Return, with all its monstrous sights,

When Proteus led his flocks to climb

The flatten’d heights,

When fish were in the elm-tops caught,

Where once the stock-dove wont to bide,

And does were floating, all distraught,

Adown the tide.

Old Tiber, hurl’d in tumult back

From mingling with the Etruscan main,

Has threaten’d Numa’s court with wrack

And Vesta’s fane.

Roused by his Ilia’s plaintive woes,

He vows revenge for guiltless blood,

And, spite of Jove, his banks o’erflows,

Uxorious flood.

Yes, Fame shall tell of civic steel

That better Persian lives had spilt,

To youths, whose minish’d numbers feel

Their parents’ guilt.

What god shall Rome invoke to stay

Her fall? Can suppliance overbear

The ear of Vesta, turn’d away

From chant and prayer?

Who comes, commission’d to atone

For crime like ours? at length appear,

A cloud round thy bright shoulders thrown,

Apollo seer!

Or Venus, laughter-loving dame,

Round whom gay Loves and Pleasures fly;

Or thou, if slighted sons may claim

A parent’s eye,

O weary with thy long, long game,

Who lov’st fierce shouts and helmets bright,

And Moorish warrior’s glance of flame

Or e’er he smite!

Or Maia’s son, if now awhile

In youthful guise we see thee here,

Cæsar’s avenger – such the style

Thou deign’st to bear;

Late be thy journey home, and long

Thy sojourn with Rome’s family;

Nor let thy wrath at our great wrong

Lend wings to fly.

Here take our homage, Chief and Sire;

Here wreathe with bay thy conquering brow,

And bid the prancing Mede retire,

Our Cæsar thou!

 

[John Marshall, 1908, Everyman Library, 1911]

ROME’S WOES AND THEIR AVENGER

Surely enough of snow and icy showers

From the stern north Jove hath in vengeance called,

Striking with red right hand His sacred towers

And Rome appalled,

Ay, the whole earth, lest should return the time

Of Pyrrha’s blank amaze at sights most strange,

When Proteus drove his finny herd to climb

The mountain range;

And fishes in the elms’ high tops did rest,

Where late the doves had homed; while o’er the main

Of outspread flood hinds swam with labouring breast

In fear and pain.

Tiber’s brown stream we saw an angry sheet

Hurled in wild flood from the Etrurian shore,

And swirl back Vesta’s fane and Numa’s seat

To topple o’er.

Boasting himself forsooth the avenging knight

Of tearful Ilia’s wrongs, the lovelorn river

O’erflowed his leftward bank in Jove’s despite,

Amends to give her.

Our sons shall hear how Romans Romans slew

With swords that fitlier Parthian foe had slain,

When through their parents’ crimes a sorry few

Those sons remain.

What god from Heaven shall Rome invoke to save

Her tottering power? Or with what prayer prevailing

Shall the chaste Virgins grace from Vesta crave,

Deaf ears assailing?

Who shall be given the task by Jove’s decree

Our guilt to appease? Augur Apollo, come;

Hid in earth’s cloud let thy bright shoulders be,

And rescue Rome!

Or haply, smiling Venus, thine the boon

To save us, Jest and Cupid in thy train!

Or Mars, if on thy children, none too soon,

Thou smil’st again;

Tired of thy cruel sporting at the last,

Though well thou lov’st smooth helms and battle’s cry,

And Moor afoot who on fall’n foe doth cast

An angry eye!

Or haply, gentle Maia’s son, ‘tis thou,

Wing’d god, who deign’st to don a manly frame,

And on the earth “Caesar’s Avenger” now

Assum’st for name!

Whate’er thy godhead, late return, we pray,

To heaven; long love to dwell with Romulus’ seed!

O let no wind too swift bear thee away

For our ill deed!

Here rather may’st thou choose thy triumphs proud;

Here love as “Father,” “Prince,” thy folk to guide;

Nor while thou, Caesar, rul’st, be Mede allowed

At will to ride!

 

[E. C. Bennett, 1912, Loeb Classical Library]

To Augustus, the Deliverer and Hope of the State

Enough already of dire snow and hail has the Father sent upon the earth, and smiting with his red right hand the sacred hill-tops has filled with fear the City and the people, lest there should come again the gruesome age of Pyrrha, who complained of marvels strange, when Proteus drove all his herd to visit the lofty mountains, and the tribe of fishes lodged in elm-tops, that till then had been the wonted haunt of doves, and the terror-stricken does swam in the overwhelming flood.

We saw the yellow Tiber, its waves hurled back in fury from the Tuscan shore, advance to overthrow the King’s Memorial and Vesta’s shrines, showing himself too ardent an avenger of complaining Ilia, and spreading far and wide o’er the left bank without Jove’s sanction, – fond river-god.

Our children made fewer by their sires’ sins, shall hear that citizen whetted against citizen the sword whereby the Parthian foe had better perished, – shall hear of battles too.

Whom of the gods shall the folk call to the needs of the falling empire? With what entreaty shall the holy Maidens importune Vesta, who heedeth not their litanies? To whom shall Jupiter assign the task of atoning for our guilt? Come thou at length, we pray thee, prophetic Apollo, veiling thy radiant shoulders in a cloud; or thou, if thou wilt rather, blithe goddess of Eryx, about whom hover Mirth and Desire; or thou, our author, if thou regardest the neglected race of thy descendants, thou glutted with the game of war, alas! too long continued, thou whose delight is in the battle-shout and glancing helms and the grim visage of the Moorish foot-soldier facing his blood-stained foe. Or thou, winged son of benign Maia, if changing thy form, thou assumest on earth the guise of man, right ready to be called the avenger of Caesar: late mayest thou return to the skies and long mayest thou be pleased to dwell amid Quirinus’ folk ; and may no untimely gale waft thee from us angered at our sins! Here rather mayest thou love glorious triumphs, the name of “Father” and of “Chief”; nor suffer the Medes to ride on their raids unpunished, whilst thou art our leader, O Caesar!

 

[W. G. Shepherd, 1983, Penguin Classics]

                    The Father has loosed upon the earth sufficient

                    snow and hail, smitten with his livid

                    right hand the sacred heights and terrorized

                              Rome our city,

                    terrorized all the peoples, lest Pyrrha’s

                    burdensome age of prodigies come again,

                    when Proteus drove his seals to visit

                              the high mountains,

                    and fishes lodged in the tops of elms

                    (till then well known as the haunt of doves)

                    and terrified does had to swim upon

                              the whelming flood.

                    We saw the tawny Tiber (his waves

                    too much); and flow at large across

                    his own left bank (uxorious river)

                              without Jove’s consent.

                    Youth, made few by parents’ vice, shall hear

                    of swords whetted for civil strife which better

                    had slain fell Parthians; shall hear

                              of battles fought.

                    Which God shall the people call to affairs

                    of tottering empire? With what prayer shall

                    holy virgins beset pure Vesta not

                              heeding their hymns

                    To whom shall Jupiter assign the role

                    of atonement? Come at length, we pray,

                    prophetic Apollo, swathing in cloud

                              your bright shoulder:

                    or you, smiling Venus, should it be your will,

                    around whom flutter both Joy and Desire:

                    or you if you care for neglected descendants,

                              our sponsor Mars,

                    glutted on the long game, alas,

                    who delight in shouts and tossing helms

                    and fearsome Moorish infantry facing

                              its bloody foes:

                    or you, winged Mercury, if changing

                    your shape you appear on earth as a youth

                    prepared to be named as avenger of

                              Julius Caesar.

                    The late return to the skies and long

                    be pleased to live among Romans: and though

                    our sins offend you, may no wind

                              carry you away

                    betimes: here rather you may enjoy great

                    triumphs and the names of Father and Foremost

                    nor tolerate Parthian raids while you are

                              our Leader, Caesar.         

 

[David West, 1997, Oxford World’s Classics]

 Father Jupiter has already sent enough fierce hail

and snow, and his red right arm

has struck his holy citadel bringing

fear to the city

and fear to the nations. The cruel age of Pyrrha seemed

to be returning and the strange sights she had to bewail –

Proteus driving his herds to visit

the high mountains,

shoals of fishes sticking in the tops of elms

where once the doves had nested,

and frightened deer swimming in seas hurled down

upon the earth.

We have seen yellow Tiber wrench back his waves

from the Tuscan shore and rush

to thrown down King Numa’s memorials

and Vesta’s temple,

eager to avenge the shrill grievances

of Ilia his wife. Without the blessings of Jupiter

this doting husband left his course and flooded

his left bank.

Young men will hear that citizen sharpened against citizen

swords that should have slain our Persian enemies. They will hear –

what few there are, thanks to the sins of their fathers –

of the battles we fought.

What can the people call upon to shore up

their crumbling empire? What prayer can the Virgins

din into the ears of Vesta who does not listen

to their chanting?

To whom will Jupiter give the task of expiating

our crime? Come at long last we pray,

your white shoulders veiled in cloud,

augur Apollo;

                    or you come if you prefer, smiling Venus of Eryx,

                    with Jest and Cupid hovering round you;

                    or, if you take thought for the race you founded

                              and your neglected descendants,

                    come, god of war, sated with your long sport,

                    exulting in the battle cry, in polished helmets,

                    in the face of the Marsian foot soldier showing no pity

for his bleeding enemy;

                    or if you, Mercury, winged son of bountiful Maia,

                    have changed shape and are imitating

                    a young man on the earth, accepting the name

                              of Caesar’s avenger,

                    do not return too soon to the sky. For long years

                    be pleased to stay with the people of Romulus,

                    and may no breeze come and snatch you up too soon,

                              angered by our sins.

                    Here rather celebrate your triumphs.

                    Here delight to be hailed as Father and Princeps

                    and do not allow the Medes to ride unavenged

                              while you, Caesar, are our leader.

 

[Niall Rudd, 2004, rev. 2012, Loeb Classical Library]       

To the deliverer and hope of the state

Enough fearsome snow and hail has the father now poured upon the earth; he has terrified the city by striking the sacred citadel with his fiery hand, and terrified the people for fear the disastrous age of Pyrrha should return, who cried aghast at unheard-of marvels, when Proteus drove all his seals to visit the high mountains, and the race of fish became lodged in the tops of elm trees, which before had been the home of doves, and panic-stricken deer swam in the all-engulfing flood.

We have seen the yellow Tiber, its waves hurled back from the Tuscan bank, proceed to wreck the king’s monuments including Vesta’s shrine, while the river boasted that he was avenging the bitterly protesting Ilia, and without Jove’s permission, flowed far and wide over the left bank, like a fond husband.

The young generation, diminished by their parents’ crimes, will hear how citizens sharpened the sword which should rather have slain the deadly Parthians, and will hear the wars they fought.

What divinity are the people to call upon to restore the fortunes of their crumbling power? With what prayers are the holy Virgins to weary Vesta who at present pays no heed to their chants? To whom will Jupiter assign the task of expiating our crime? Come now, we beg you, Augur Apollo, with your bright shoulders clothed in cloud; or if you would sooner do so, smiling Lady of Eryx, who have Fun and Desire flitting round you; or you, if a sour founder you have any regard for the race you have neglected and for your own descendants, cease (for you have had your fill) from the game which has gone on, alas, too long, you who exult in the uproar of battle, and polished helmets, and the fierce expression of the Marsian foot soldier as he glares at his bleeding foe.

Or you, o winged son of kindly Maia, if you take on the shape of a young man on earth and are willing to be called Caesar’s avenger; may it be long before you return to heaven; may you dwell happily with Romulus’ folk for many a year, and may no breeze come too soon and carry you aloft, alienated by our sins. Here rather may you enjoy glorious triumphs, here may you be glad to be called Father and First Citizen, and refuse to allow the Medes to ride unpunished while you are our leader, Caesar.

 

Book I, Ode 3

 

[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2^nd edn., 1877]

Sic te diva potens Cypri,

Sic fratres Helenae, lucida sidera,

Ventorumque regat pater

Obstrictis aliis praeter lapyga,

Navis, quae tibi creditum

Debes Virgilium, finibus Atticis

Reddas incolumem, precor,

Et serves animae dimidium meae

Illi robur et aes triplex

Circa pectus erat, qni fragilem truci

Commisit pelago ratem

Primus neq timuit praecipitem Africum

Decertantem Aquilonibus

Nec tristes Hyadas nec rabiem Noti,

Quo non arbiter Hadriae

Maior, tollere seu ponere volt freta.

Quem Mortis timuit gradum,

Qui siccis oculis monstra natantia,

Qui vidit mare turgidum et

Infames scopulos Acroceraunia?

Nequicquam deus abscidit

Prudens Oceano dissociabili

Terras, si tamen impiae

Non tangenda rates transiliunt vada.

Audax omnia perpeti

Gens humana ruit per vetitum nefas.

Audax lapeti genus

Ignem fraude mala gentibus intulit.

Post ignem aetheria domo

Subductum macies et nova febrium

Terris incubuit cohors,

Semotique prius tarda necessitas

Leti corripuit gradum.

Expertus vacuum Daedalus aera

Pennis non homini datis;

Perrupit Acheronta Herculeus labor.

Nll mortalibus ardui est;

Caelum ipsum petimus stultitia neque

Per nostrum patimur scelus

Iracunda lovem ponere fulmina.

 

[John Conington, 1863, rev. 1863 & 1865]

Thus may Cyprus’ heavenly queen,

Thus Helen’s brethren, stars of brightest sheen,

Guide thee! May the Sire of wind

Each truant gale, save only Zephyr, bind!

So do thou, fair ship, that ow’st

Virgil, thy precious freight, to Attic coast,

Safe restore thy loan and whole,

And save from death the partner of my soul!

Oak and brass of triple fold

Encompass’d sure that heart, which first made bold

To the raging sea to trust

A fragile bark, nor fear’d the Afric gust

With its Northern mates at strife,

Nor Hyads’ frown, nor South-wind fury-rife,

Mightiest power that Hadria knows,

Wills he the waves to madden or compose.

What had Death in store to awe

Those eyes, that huge sea-beasts unmelting saw,

Saw the swelling of the surge,

And high Ceraunian cliffs, the seaman’s scourge?

Heaven’s high providence in vain

Has sever’d countries with the estranging main,

If our vessels ne’ertheless

With reckless plunge that sacred bar transgress.

Daring all, their goal to win,

Men tread forbidden ground, and rush on sin:

Daring all, Prometheus play’d

His wily game, and fire to man convey’d;

Soon as fire was stolen away,

Pale Fever’s stranger host and wan Decay

Swept o’er earth’s polluted face,

And slow Fate quicken’d Death’s once halting pace.

Dædalus the void air tried

On wings, to humankind by Heaven denied;

Acheron's bar gave way with ease

Before the arm of labouring Hercules.

Nought is there for man too high;

Our impious folly e’en would climb the sky,

Braves the dweller on the steep,

Nor lets the bolts of heavenly vengeance sleep.

 

[John Marshall, 1908, Everyman Library, 1911]

TO A SHIP BEARING VIRGIL OVER SEAS

Thee may kind Venus, Cyprian queen,

And Helen’s brothers, stars by sailors blest,

And Aeolus the winds’ father, screen

And guide, hushed every wind except the west,

If, Ship that bear’st as precious store

Our Virgil, safely treasured thou convey

Cargo so dear, and to the shore

Of Athens my soul’s better half repay!

Him, heart of oak and brass thrice-knit

The breast encased, who ‘gainst the cruel deep

His fragile bark first dared to pit,

Nor feared the Afric storms that onward sweep,

With northern gales fierce war to wage,

Nor the Rainstars ill-famed, nor Southwind’s frown, –

No wind than this o’er Hadria’s rage

Stronger, to raise his waves, or beat them down!

What stride of Death could him amaze,

Who with unwavering eyes on seas agloom,

And on strange weltering beasts did gaze,

And the Ceraunian peaks, those cliffs of doom?

Vain all the care a god hath ta’en

By Sea’s deep gulf to part, of forethought wise,

Lands each from each, if o’er the main

The Ship forbidden leaps, and Fate defies.

Daring all chances to endure,

The race of man from crime to crime is driven.

Prometheus thus for men did lure,

With evil-fated cunning, fire from Heaven.

Once fire from its true home on high

Was filched, slow Canker and a dismal band

Of Fevers to the world drew nigh.

And Death, though sure yet far, came nearer hand.

By a like daring Daedalus tried

With wings to set through empty air his course,

Proving a gear to man denied;

So ‘twas that Hercules’ toil Hell’s gate could force.

No task’s too steep for human wit;

Heaven’s self we dare to assail in madness vile;

Nor ever by our deeds permit

Great Jove to rest his angry bolts a while.

 

[E. C. Bennett, 1912, Loeb Classical Library]

To Virgil setting out for Greece

May the goddess who rules over Cyprus, may Helen’s brothers, gleaming fires, and the father of the winds, confining all but lapyx, guide thee so, O ship, which owest to us Virgil entrusted to thee, – guide thee so that thou shalt bring him safe to Attic shores, I pray thee, and preserve the half of my own soul!

Oak and triple bronze must have girt the breast of him who first committed his frail bark to the angry sea, and who feared not the furious south-west wind battling with the blasts of the north, nor the gloomy Hyades, nor the rage of Notus, than whom there is no mightier master of the Adriatic, whether he choose to raise or calm the waves. What form of Death’s approach feared he who with dry eyes gazed on the swimming monsters, on the stormy sea, and the ill-famed cliffs of Acroceraunia? Vain was the purpose of the god in severing the lands by the estranging main, if in spite of him our impious ships dash across the depths he meant should not be touched. Bold to endure all things, mankind rushes even through forbidden wrong. lapetus daring son by impious craft brought fire to the tribes of men. After fire was stolen from its home in heaven, wasting disease and a new throng of fevers fell upon the earth, and the doom of death, that before had been slow and distant, quickened its pace. Daedalus essayed the empty air on wings denied to man; the toiling Hercules burst through Acheron. No ascent is too steep for mortals. Heaven itself we seek in our folly, and through our sin we let not Jove lay down his bolts of wrath.

 

[W. G. Shepherd, 1983, Penguin Classics]

                    May the mighty Cyrpian queen,

          may Helen’s brothers, shining stars,

                    may the father of winds

          (all bound bar Iapix) so helm you,

                    ship, bearing in trust

          our Virgil, that you render him unharmed,

                    I pray, to Attic shores

          and preserve the half of my soul!

                    Oak and triple bronze

          were about his breast who first committed

                    his fragile boat

          to the surly sea nor feared the headlong

                    south-west wind fighting   

          fighting it out with the north, nor moody Hyades,

                    nor the south (the Adriatic’s

          chiefest judge) raising or laying the swell.

                    What onset of death

          did he fear looked dry-eyed on floundering

                    monsters, troubled seas

          and the infamous skerry of Acroceraunia?

                    The wise God sundered

          the lands with estranging Ocean in vain

                    since impious boats traverse

          the sounds that ought to remain unstained.

                    Boldly enduring all,

          mankind rushes through sin and prohibition.

                    Boldly Prometheus

          By disobedient guile procured us fire:

                    and once that fire was brought

          from its heaven-home, famine and a throng    

                    of new fevers fell upon

          earth; and death’s necessity, hitherto slow

                    and remote, now quickened

          its pace. Daedalus tasted the empty air

                    on wings not granted to men.

          Hercules’ efforts broke through Acheron.

                    Nothing is too steep for man:

          we foolishly seek for heaven itself, our sin

                    will not let Jove

          lay down his punitive thunderbolts.

         

[David West, 1997, Oxford World’s Classics]

O ship, to whom Virgil has been entrusted

and who has to repay that debt, may the goddess

who rules over Cyprus, may Helen’s brothers,

those shining stars, and the father of the winds,

                              shutting them all up except the nor’wester Iapyx,

                    govern your sailing, if only you deliver Virgil safe,

                              I pray you, to the boundaries of Attica,

                    and preserve half of my soul.

Oak and triple bronze

were round the breast of the man who first committed

a fragile ship to the truculent sea.

He was not afraid of the swooping sou’wester

battling it out with the winds of the north,

nor the weeping Hyades, nor the madness of the south wind,

the supreme judge of when to raise

and when to lay the Adriatic sea.

He did not fear the approaching step of death,

but looked with dry eyes on monsters swimming,

on ocean boiling, and on

the ill-famed Acroceraunian rocks.

In vain in his wise foresight did God sever

the lands of the earth by means of the diving sea,

if impious ships yet leap

across waters which they should not touch.

Boldly enduring everything,

the human race rushes to forbidden sin

Boldly the offspring of Iapetus brought down fire

by wicked deceit to the peoples of the earth.

After the theft of fire from its home

in the heavens, wasting disease and a cohort

of new fevers fell upon the earth

and the slow necessity of death, once so remote,

speeded its step.

Daedalus ventured upon the empty air

with wings not meant for man.

The labour of Hercules burst through Acheron.

For mortals no height is too steep:

in our stupidity we try to scale the very heavens

and by our wickedness we do not allow

Jupiter to lay down his angry thunderbolts.

 

[Niall Rudd, 2004, rev. 2012, Loeb Classical Library]

To Vergil setting out for Greece

May the goddess who rules over Cyprus, and Helen’s brothers, those bright stars, and the lord of the winds, tying up all the others except the Iapyx, guide you, o ship; for you hold Vergil in trust and owe him to me. Be sure to discharge him intact on the shores of Attica, I pray you, and save one who is half my soul.

Oak and three layers of brass were wrapped round the heart of that man who first entrusted a fragile craft to the savage sea, and had no fear of the headlong rush of the Southwester as it fought to the death with the northern blasts, or of the Hyades’ rain storms, or of the mad South Wind (no more mighty judge presides over the Adriatic, whether he decides to stir up its waters or calm them down).

What form of death struck terror into that man who looked with dry eyes on swimming monsters, tossing seas, and those infamous rocks, Thunder Peaks? All to no avail did God deliberately separate countries by the divisive ocean if, in spite of that, impious boats go skipping over the seas that were meant to remain inviolate.

The human species, audacious enough to endure anything, plunges into forbidden sacrilege. The audacious son of Iapetus by an act of criminal deception brought fire to the nations. After the theft of fire from its heavenly home, a wasting disease and an unprecedented troop of fevers fell upon the earth, and the doom of a distant death, which up to then was slow in coming, quickened its step.

Daedalus made trial of the empty air on wings that were never meant for men; Hercules (he of the labours) burst through to the region of Acheron;? nothing is too steep for mortals. In our folly we aspire to the sky itself, and by our crimes we do not allow Jove to lay aside his bolts of wrath.

 

Book I, Ode 11

[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2^nd edn., 1877]

Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi

Finem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios

Tentaris numeros. Ut melius, quidquid erit, pati!

Seu plures hiemes seu tribuit luppiter ultimam,

Quae nunc oppositis debihtat pumicibus mare

Tyrrhenum, sapias, vina hques, et spatio brevi

Spem longam reseces. Dum loquimur, fugerit invida

Aetas: carpe diem quam minimum credula postero.

[John Conington, 1863, rev. 1863 & 1865]

Ask not (‘tis forbidden knowledge), what our

destined term of years,

Mine and yours; nor scan the tables of your

Babylonish seers.

Better far to bear the future, my Leuconoe, like

the past,

Whether Jove has many winters yet to give, or

this our last;

This, that makes the Tyrrhene billows spend

their strength against the shore.

Strain your wine and prove your wisdom; life is

short; should hope be more?

In the moment of our talking, envious time has

ebb’d away.

Seize the present; trust to-morrow e’en as little

as you may.

 

[John Marshall, 1908, Everyman Library, 1911]

Leuconoe dear, seek not I pray to know

what Heaven hath hid;

The span to me accorded, or to thee,

is lore forbid!

Tempt not Chaldean horoscopes! More wise,

what comes, to bear;

Nor fret, whether some winters more from Jove

fall to our share,

Or this, which lashes now the Tuscan shore.

our last decreed.

Be wise and strain the wine ! Since short at best

of joy our meed,

Prune distant hopes. Ev’n as we speak, grim Time

speeds swift away;

Seize now and here the hour that is, nor trust some later day!

 

[E. C. Bennett, 1912, Loeb Classical Library]

Enjoy the Passing Hour

Ask not, Leuconoe (we cannot know), what end the gods have set for me, for thee, nor make trial of the Babylonian tables! How much better to endure whatever comes, whether Jupiter allots us added winters or whether this is last, which now wears out the Tuscan Sea upon the barrier of the cliffs! Show wisdom. Strain clear the wine; and since life is brief, cut short far-reaching hopes! Even while we speak, envious Time has sped. Reap the harvest of to-day, putting as little trust as may be in the morrow!

 

[W. G. Shepherd, 1983, Penguin Classics]

Do not inquire, we may not know, what end

the Gods will give, Leuconoe, do not attempt

Babylonian calculations. The better course

is to bear whatever will be, whether Jove allot

more winters or this is the last which exhausts

the Tuscan sea with pumice rocks opposed.

Be wise, decant the wine, prune back

your long-term hopes. Life ebbs as I speak –

so seize each day, and grant the next no credit.

 

[David West, 1997, Oxford World’s Classics]

Don’t you ask, Leuconoe – the gods do not wish it to be known –

what end they have given to me or to you, and don’t meddle with

Babylonian horoscopes. How much better to accept whatever comes,

whether Jupiter gives us other winters or whether this is our last

now wearing out the Tyrrhenian sea on the pumice stones

opposing it. Be wise, strain the wine and cut back long hope

into a small space. Even as we speak, envious time

flies past. Harvest the day and leave as little as possible for tomorrow.

 

[Niall Rudd, 2004, rev. 2012, Loeb Classical Library]

Gather ye rosebuds

Do not inquire (we are not allowed to know) what end the gods have assigned to you and what to me, Leuconoe, and do not meddle with Babylonian horoscopes. How much better to endure whatever it proves to be, whether Jupiter has granted us more winters, or this is the last that now wears out the Etruscan Sea against cliffs of pumice. Take my advice, strain the wine and cut back far-reaching hopes to within a small space. As we talk, grudging time will have run on. Pluck the day, trusting as little as possible in tomorrow.

 

Book I, Ode 37

         

[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2^nd edn., 1877]

Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero

Pulsanda tellus, nunc Saliaribus

Ornare pulvinar deorum

Tempus erat dapibus, sodales.

Antehac nefas depromere Caecubum

Cellis avitis, dum Capitolio

Regina dementes ruinas

Funus et imperio parabat

Contaminato cum grege turpium

Morbo virorum, quidlibet impotens

Sperare fortunaque dulci

Ebria. Sed minuit furorem

Vix una sospes navis ab ignibus,

Mentemque lymphatam Mareotico,

Redegit in veros timores

Caesar, ab Italia volantem

Remis adurgens, accipiter velut

Molles columbas aut leporem citus

Venator in campis nivalis

Haemoniae, daret ut catenis

Fatale monstrum: quae generosius

Perire quaerens nec muliebriter

Expavit ensem nec latentes

Classe cita reparavit oras;

Ausa et iacentem visere regiam

Voltu sereno, fortis et asperas

Tractare serpentes, ut atrum

Corpore combiberet venenum,

Deliberata morte ferocior,

Saevis Liburnis scilicet invidens.

Privata deduci superbo

Non humilis mulier triumpho.

 

[John Conington, 1863, rev. 1863 & 1865]

Now drink we deep, now featly tread

A measure; now before each shrine

With Salian feasts the table spread;

The time invites ns, comrades mine.

‘Twas shame to broach, before to-day,

The Cæcuban, 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 Cæsar 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 Hæmonia’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.

 

[John Marshall, 1908, Everyman Library, 1911]

CLEOPATRA

Now ‘tis the hour for wine, now without check

To trip it gaily, now with feasts sublime

Worthy a Salian board, ‘twas time

Each deity’s place to deck!

Who could till now his Caecuban exhume

From bins ancestral, while a queen designed

For Rome’s high seat destruction blind,

And for Rome’s empire doom,

She, and her plague-scarred crew of evil fame,

Reckless enough to dream joys without bound,

And in sweet fortune’s frenzies drowned?

But pause to madness came,

When scarce one ship from burning she could save!

Her soul, with Mareotic wine o’erwrought,

Caesar to real terrors brought,

When he from Italy drove

Her flight, and tracked her o’er the sea

(as track Hawks the soft dove, or as swift hunters ply

A hare in snow-clad Thessaly),

Minded a plague so black

To enchain. But she, seeking her end to grace

By nobler dying, feared not as woman might

The sword’s keen edge, nor sought by flight

Some seaward hiding-place;

Dared ev’n to look upon her Court o’erthrown

With eye serene, and with untrembling lip

The deadly hissing asps to grip,

And drink their venom down.

With death resolved upon, more proud her mien;

Scorning that such as she, in hostile sloop

Her foes like some poor trull should coop

For triumph, her, a queen.

 

[E. C. Bennett, 1912, Loeb Classical Library]

The Fall of Cleopatra

Now is the time to drain the flowing howl, now with unfettered foot to beat the ground with dancing, now with Salian feast to deck the couches of the gods, my comrades! Before this day it had been wrong to bring our Caecuban forth from ancient bins, while yet a frenzied queen was plotting ruin ‘gainst the Capitol and destruction to the empire, with her polluted crew of creatures foul with lust – a woman mad enough to nurse the wildest hopes, and drunk with Fortune’s favours. But the escape of scarce a single galley from the flames sobered her fury, and Caesar changed the wild delusions bred by Mareotic wine to the stern reality of terror, chasing her with his galleys, as she sped away from Italy, even as the hawk pursues the gentle dove, or the swdft hunter follows the hare over the plains of snow-clad Thessaly, with purpose fixed to put in chains the accursed monster. Yet she, seeking to die a nobler death, showed for the dagger’s point no woman's fear, nor sought to win with her swift fleet some secret shore; she even dared to gaze with face serene upon her fallen palace ; courageous, too, to handle poisonous asps, that she might draw black venom to her heart, waxing bolder as she resolved to die; scorning, in sooth, the thought of being borne, a queen no longer, on hostile galleys lo grace a glorious triumph – no craven woman she!

 

[W. G. Shepherd, 1983, Penguin Classics]

          Friends, now is the time to drink,

          now tread the earth with our dancing,

          now set Salian delicacies

          before the Gods’ couches.

          Heretofore it had been a sin

          to produce Caecuban from ancient racks,

          while a crazy queen was plotting,

          with her polluted train

          of evil debauchees, to demolish

          the Capitol and topple the Empire –

          a hopeful derangement drunk

          with its luck. But the escape

          from the flames of scarcely one ship

          dampened her fury, and Caesar

          dragged back to fearful reality

          her mind swimming in Mareotic:

          his galleys harried her fleeing from

          Italy (just as the hawk the mild dove,

          or the quick hunter the hare across

          Thessaly’s plains of snow), in order

          to put the curs’d monster in chains. Yet she,

          seeking to die more nobly, showed

          no womanish fear of the sword nor retired

          with her fleet to uncharted shores.

          Her face serene, she courageously viewed

          her fallen palace. With fortitude

          she handled fierce snakes, her corporeal

          frame drank in their venom:

          resolved for death, she was brave indeed.

          She was no docile woman but truly scorned

          to be taken away in her enemy’s ships,

          deposed, to an overweening Triumph.

         

[David West, 1997, Oxford World’s Classics]

Now we must drink, now we must

beat the earth with unfettered feet, now,

my friends, is the time to load the couches

of the gods with Salian feasts.

Before this it was a sin to take the Caecuban

down from its ancient racks, while the mad queen

with her contaminated flock of men

diseased by vice was preparing

the ruin of the Capitol and the destruction

of our power, crazed with hope

unlimited and drunk

with sweet fortune. But her madness

decreased when scarce a ship escaped the flames

and her mind, deranged by Mareotic wine,

was made to face real fears

as she flew from Italy, and Caesar       

pressed on the oars (like a hawk

after gentle doves or a swift hunter

after a hare on the snowy plains

of Thrace) to put in chains

this monster sent by fate. But she looked

for a nobler death. She did not have a woman’s fear

of the sword, nor did she make

for secret shores with her swift fleet.

Daring to gaze with face serene upon her ruined palace,

and brave enough to take deadly serpents

in her hand, and let her body

drink their black poison,

fiercer she was in the death she chose, as though

she did not wish to cease to be a queen, taken to Rome

on the galleys of savage Liburnians,

to be a humble woman in a proud triumph.

 

[Niall Rudd, 2004, rev. 2012, Loeb Classical Library]

The fall of Cleopatra

Now let the drinking begin! Now let us thump the ground with unfettered feet! Now is the time, my friends, to load the couches of the gods with a feast fit for the Salii!

Before this it was sacrilege to bring the Caecuban out from our fathers’ cellars, at a time when the queen, along with her troop of disgustingly perverted men, was devising mad ruin for the Capitol and death for the empir – a woman so out of control that she could hope for anything at all, drunk, as she was, with the sweet wine of success.

But her frenzy was sobered by the survival of scarcely one ship from the flames; and her mind, crazed with Mareotic wine, was brought down to face real terror when Caesar pursued her as she flew away from Italy with oars, like a hawk after a gentle dove or a speedy hunter after a hare on the snowy plains of Thessaly, to put that monster of doom safely in chains.

Determined to die more nobly, she showed no womanly fear of the sword, nor did she use her swift fleet to gain some hidden shore. She had the strength of mind to gaze on her ruined palace with a calm countenance, and the courage to handle the sharp-toothed serpents, letting her body drink in their black venom. Once she had resolved to die she was all the more defiant – determined, no doubt, to cheat the cruel Liburnians: she would not be stripped of her royalty and conveyed to face a jeering triumph: no humble woman she.

 

Book II, Ode 1

 

[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2^nd edn., 1877]

Motum ex Metello ccxnsule civicum

Bellique causas et vitia et modos

Ludumque Fortunae gravesque

Principum amicitias et arma

Nondum expiatis uncta cruoribus,

Periculosae plenum opus aleae,

Tractas et.incedis per ignes

Suppositos cineri doloso.

Paullum severae Musa tragoediae

Desit theatris : mox ubi publicas

Res ordinaris, grande munus

Cecropio repetes cothurno

Insigne maestis praesidium reis

Et consulenti, Pollio, curiae,

Cui laurus aeternos honores

Delmatico peperit triumpho.

lam nunc minaci murmure cornuum

Perstringis aures, iam litui strepunt

lam fulgor armorum fugaces

Terret equos equitumque voltus.

Audire magnos iam videor duces

Non indecoro pulvere sordidos,

Et cuncta terrarum subacta

Praeter atrocem animum Catonis.

luno et deorum quisquis amicior

Afris inulta cesserat impotens

Tellure victorum nepotes

Rettulit inferias lugurthae.

Quis non Latino sanguine pinguior

Campus sepulcris impia proelia

Testatur auditumque Medis

Hesperiae sonitum ruinae?

Qui gurges aut quae flumina lugubris

Ignara belli? quod mare Dauniae

Non decoloravere caedes?

Quae caret ora cruore nostro?

Sed ne relictis, Musa procax, iocis

Ceae retractes munera neniae,

Mecum Dionaeo sub antro

Quaere modos leviore plectro.

 

[John Conington, 1863, rev. 1863 & 1865]

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.

 

[John Marshall, 1908, Everyman Library, 1911]

          The civil broils which from Metellus date,

Motives, mistakes, manoeuvres, irony

Of Fortune, Chiefs’ conspiracy,

Arms stained in mutual hate

By blood not yet atoned, so runs the rede

With hazard fraught, which thy bold pen aspires

To trace, while over hidden fires

The treacherous foot-tracks lead.

Our stage must miss awhile thy tragic vein;

But when Rome’s tale is ended, thou’lt take on

Thy great Athenian role, and don

The buskin, once again.

Stay of desponding suitors, stay as true

Of senate in debate, thou didst beat down

Dalmatia, and a triumph’s crown

For thee the laurel grew.

Ev’n now the threat’ning din assails my ear

Of horns, and bugles’ blare; now the fierce light

Of flashing arms scares steeds to flight,

And blanches men with fear.

I mark of heroes dead the mighty scroll,

With no inglorious dust in death bestrewed;

And the whole orb of earth subdued,

Save Cato’s dauntless soul.

Juno, and what powers else failed to defend

The Africa they loved, old wrongs repay

To slain Jugurtha; for they slay

His slayers in the end.

What field with Roman gore did we not feed?

What, proves not by its graves our impious war,

And Roman ruin heard afar

Ev’n by the distant Mede?

What strait, what stream, can ignorant remain

Of our curst strife? What sea, with Latin blood

Was not full many a time imbrued?

What shore bears not its stain?

Ah, wayward Muse, such themes fit thee but ill!

Dirge of Simonides, a singer grave,

They need! Come seek, in Venus’ cave,

Strains of a lighter quill!

 

[E. C. Bennett, 1912, Loeb Classical Library]

To Pollio Writing a History of the Civil Wars

Thou art treating of the civil strife that witl Metellus’ consulship began, the causes of the war, its blunders, and its phases, and Fortune’s game, friendships of leaders that boded ill, and weapons stained with blood as yet unexpiated – a task full of dangerous hazard – and art walking, as it were, over fires hidden beneath treacherous ashes.

For a brief time only let it be that thy stem tragic muse is missing from the stage; but soon, when thou hast chronicled events of state, renew thy lofty calling in the Attic buskin, Pollio, famed support of anxious clients and bulwark of the Senate in its councils, thou for whom, too, the laurel won lasting glory in thy Dalmatian triumph. Even now with threatening blare of horns thou strik’st our ears; even now the clarions sound; even now the gleam of weapons strikes terror into timid horses and into the horse – men’s faces. Already I seem to hear the shouts of mighty captains begrimed with no inglorious dust, and to see all the world subdued, except stern Cato’s soul. Juno and all the gods who, friendlier to Africa, had helplessly withdrawn, powerless to avenge the land, have offered on Jugurtha’s grave the grandsons of his conquerors.

What plain is not enriched with Latin blood, to bear witness with its graves to our unholy strife and to the sound of Hesperia’s fall, heard even by the Medes! What pool or stream has failed to taste the dismal war! What sea has Italian slaughter not discoloured! What coast knows not our blood!

But, lest, O heedless Muse, thou leave sportive themes and essay again the Cean dirge, seek with me in the shadow of some Dionean grotto measures of lighter mood!

 

[W. G. Shepherd, 1983, Penguin Classics]

                    You treat of the civil troubles begun when Metellus

                    was consul, the causes of war, its blunders and phases,

                    the game of Fortune and the tragic amity

                    of great men and weapons smeared

                    with still unexpiated blood:

                    a task laden with perilous chances –

                    you proceed across fires

                    concealed beneath deceptive ashes.

                    May our theatres lack only briefly your Muse

                    of stern tragedy: soon, when you have chronicled

                    these affairs of state, take up once more

                    that lofty Athenian calling, Pollio,

                    celebrated shield of sad defendants,

                    pillar of the Senate’s deliberations,

                    in whose Dalmatic Triumph

                    the laurel procured you eternal fame.

                    Meanwhile you draw our ears

                    with the menacing blare of horns; tuckets resound;

                    the flashing of weapons strikes alarm

                    into nervous horses and the horsemen’s faces.

                    Even now I seem to hear mighty captains

                    (grimed with not inglorious dust)

                    and all the world subdued

                    except the fierce heart of Cato.

                    Now Juno and the Gods who inclined to Numidia

                    but were forced to desert her take their revenge

                    by offering on Jugurtha’s grave

                    his conqueror’s grandsons.

                    What plain is not enriched with Latin blood

                    to witness with its graves our unholy

                    wars, the resounding fall of the West

                    audible even to Parthian ears?

                    What eddy or stream untainted

                    by the shameful war? What sea

                    is not incarnadined with Apulian blood?

                    What shore has no news of our slaughter?

– But lest you leave your pleasantries,

insouciant Muse, to attempt again a Cean dirge,

come seek with me in some Dionean ravine

music in a more cheerful mode.                                         

         

[David West, 1997, Oxford World’s Classics]

          The civil disturbance which began in the consulship of Metellus

          and the causes of the war, its evils and the ways of it,

                    the play of Fortune, the fatal friendships

                              of the great, and armour

          smeared with still unexpiated blood –

          themes fraught with the hazard of the dice –

                    all these you treat, and tread on fire

                              smouldering under ashes.

          For a little your strict Tragic Muse must desert

          the theatres. In due course, when you have set the affairs

                    of state in order, you will return to your great duty

                              in the buskin of Cecrops,

          a glorious bulwark, Pollio, for the abject defendant

          and for the Senate consulting you.

                    For you the laurel has brought forth honours

                              ever green in your Dalmatian triumph.

          But now you assault our ears with the menacing thunder

          of horns, bugles now blare, the dazzle

                    of armour now puts fear into fleeing horses

                              and the faces of horsemen.

          Now I seem to hear of great leaders

          begrimed with glorious dust

                    and the whole world subdued

                              except the fierce spirit of Cato.

          Powerless, Juno and all the gods who favour Africa

          had abandoned it unavenged,

                    but now they have given the descendants of the victors

                              as offerings to the shade of Jugurtha.

          What field is not fattened with Latin blood,

          its graves testifying to impious battles   

                    and the fall of Hesperia

                              heard by the Medes?

          What sea, what rivers, have not known

          this sorry war? What ocean has not been stained

                    by the slaughter of Daunians? What shore

                              is not soaked with our blood?

          But come, my naughty Muse, do not leave

          your cheerful ways to take to the duties of Cean dirges.

                    Stay with me in Dione’s daughter’s cave

                              and look for measures for a lighter plectrum.                      

 

[Niall Rudd, 2004, rev. 2012, Loeb Classical Library]

On Pollio’s History of the Civil Wars

The civil strife that began with Metellus’ consulship, the causes, and blunders, and phases of war, Fortune’s sport, the protagonists’ deadly friendships, weapons smeared with still unexpiated blood – that is your theme, a dangerous gamble at every point; you walk over fires still burning beneath the treacherous ash. Let it not be long before your stern tragic Muse returns to the theatre; soon, when you have set the nation’s affairs in order, you will resume your lofty role on the Attic buskin. You are already the famous bastion of piteous defendants and of the senate in its deliberations, Pollio; and in your Dalmatian triumph the laurel brought you honours that are ever green.

Even now you rasp our ears with the horns’ threatening bray, already bugles blare, already the flash of weapons strikes fear into the nervous horses and the horsemen’s faces. Already I think I see the great generals, dirty with no inglorious dust, and the whole world vanquished except for Cato’s defiant soul.

Juno, with the other deities more friendly to the Africans, had withdrawn powerless, leaving the country unavenged, but now they have offered as a sacrifice to the dead Jugurtha the grandsons of his conquerors.

What plain has not been enriched with Latin blood, bearing witness by its graves to our unholy battles, and to the crash of Westland’s downfall, which has been heard by the Medes? What sea, what river, is unaware of war’s desolation? What ocean has not been stained with Daunian carnage? What shore is uncontaminated with our blood?

But steady, my impertinent Muse! Stick to frivolity, and do not rake up themes that call for the Cean dirge. Join me in the grotto of Dione’s daughter and let us think of a tune for a lighter quill.

 

Book II, Ode 5

 

[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2^nd edn., 1877]

Nondum subacta ferre iugum valet

Cervice, nondum munia comparis

Aequare nec tauri ruentis

In venerem tolerare pondus.

Circa virentes est animus tuae

Campos iuvencae, nunc fluviis gravem

Solantis aestum, nunc in udo

Ludere cum vitulis salicto

Praegestientis. Tolle cupidinem

Immitis uvae: iam tibi lividos

Distinguet Auctumnus racemos

Purpureo varius’ colore.

lam te sequetur: currit enim ferox

Aetas et illi, quos tibi dempserit,

Apponet annos; iam proterva

Fronte petet Lalage maritum:

Dilecta, quantum non Pholoe fugax,

Non Chloris albo sic humero nitens,

Ut pura nocturno renidet

Luna mari, Cnidiusve Gyges,

Quem si puellarum insereres choro,

Mire sagaces falleret hospites

Discrimen obscurum solutis

Crinibus ambiguoque voltu.

 

[John Conington, 1863, rev. 1863 & 1865]

[Omitted in this translation!]

 

[John Marshall, 1908, Everyman Library, 1911]

OF LALAGE

Not yet is She of strength the yoke to wear

With subject neck, or the dear stress to meet

Of mutual love, and of bull’s heat

The amorous rage to bear.

About the verdant fields thy heifer’s mind

Still circles, now the summer's glow in pool

Appeasing, now ‘neath sallows cool

Eager her sport to find

‘Mid skipping calves. No longer fondly sigh

For grapes unripe; soon richly dark for thee

Autumn, skilled limner, shalt thou see

The purple clusters dye.

Soon she’ll seek thee. Unbending Time flits past,

And years which mean thy loss, to her he’ll lend

For gain; then Lalage will mend

Her ways, and try to cast

Her charm on thee; dear as shy Pholoe

Ne’er was, or Chloris, though with shoulders white

She shone as fair as moon by night

Gleaming across the sea.

Ev’n than young Gyges sweeter she’ll be deemed,

Though he ‘mid maidens placed could show as fair,

Shrewd strangers puzzling, such his hair,

So girlish-faced he seemed.

 

[E. C. Bennett, 1912, Loeb Classical Library]

Not Yet!

Not yet can she bear the yoke on submissive neck, not yet fulfil the duties of a mate, or endure the vehemence of a lover. Upon the verdant meads dwell the thoughts of thy love, who now allays the oppressive heat amid the streams, and now is eager to sport with her comrades in the moist willow-grove. Away with desire for the unripe grape! Soon for thee shall many-coloured Autumn paint the darkening clusters purple. Soon shall she follow thee. For Time courses madly on, and shall add to her the years it takes from thee. Soon with eager forwardness shall Lalage herself make quest of thee to be her mate, beloved as was not shy Pholoe, nor Chloris, gleaming with shoulder white, even as the unclouded moonbeams on midnight sea, nor Cnidian Gyges, so fair that should you put him in a band of maids, those who knew him not would, for all their insight, fail to note his difference from the rest, disguised by his flowing locks and his girl-boy face.

 

[W. G. Shepherd, 1983, Penguin Classics]

          She has not yet the strength to submit

          to the double yoke and manage her part

          or bear the weight of a bull

          plunging in venery.

          The mind of your heifer is now given

          to green fields, now easing her stifling

          warmth in the brook, now longing

          to play with the calves in the marshy

          willow-groves. Forswear desire

          for unripe grapes: soon varicoloured

          Autumn will paint your

          darkening clusters purple.

          Soon she will woo: injurious time

          makes haste and adds to her those years

          it takes from you. Soon froward

          Lalage will seek a husband

          delectably – more so than fugitive

          Pholoe; than Chloris, whose snowy

          shoulder gleams like the purest moon

          on the sea by night;

          than Cnidian Gyges, who if placed

          in a group of girls would deceive

          a shrewd stranger by his flowing

          hair and ambiguous face.

 

[David West, 1997, Oxford World’s Classics]

          She’s not broken in yet and her neck hasn’t the strength

          to bear the joke. She can’t pull

                    with a partner or bear the weight

                              of an amorous bull plunging into love.

          That young heifer of yours has her mind

          on grassy meadows, finding relief from the sultry heat

                    in rivers, or longing to play precocious games

                              with bullocks.

          in willow marshes. Give up your desire

          for the unripe grape. Autumn will soon mark out

                    the blue clusters for you,

                              tinging them with his purple.

          She’ll soon be after you. Time runs

          mercilessly on and will give to her the years

                    it takes from you. Lalage will soon be butting

                              her mate with lusty forehead.

          and be loved more than the runaway Pholoe,

          more than Chloris, whose white shoulder gleams

                    like the pure moon glinting on the night sea,

                              more than Cnidian Gyges.

          Put him in a dance with girls

          and the nice distinction would wonderfully deceive

                    your most perceptive guest –

                              that flowing hair and that ambiguous face.                

 

[Niall Rudd, 2004, rev. 2012, Loeb Classical Library]

Not yet!

She is not yet strong enough to bear the yoke with a submissive neck; not yet can she take an equal share of the work with her partner, or endure the weight of a bull as he rushes to mate. The mind of your heifer ranges over green meadows; now she seeks relief in the river from the oppressive heat; now she is passionately eager to gambol with the calves in the damp osier beds. Get rid of your desire for the unripe grape! In due course you will find that autumn with its many tints will set off the darkening clusters with purple hue; in due course she will follow you, for time runs implacably on, and will give to her the years it takes from you. Soon Lalage will rush to encounter her mate head on; she will be loved even more than the shy Pholoe, more than Chloris whose pale shoulders gleamed like the clear moon reflected in the night sea, and more than the Cnidian Gyges: if you put him in a group of dancing girls, discerning strangers would, to their amazement, be tricked; for the distinction would be blurred by his flowing hair and equivocal looks.

 

Book II, Ode 7

 

[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2^nd edn., 1877]

O saepe mecum tempus in ultimum

Deducte Bruto militiae duce,

Quis te redonavit Quiritem

Dis patriis Italoque caelo,

Pompei meorum prime sodalium?

Cum quo morantem saepe diem mero

Fregi coronatus nitentes

Malobathro Syrio capillos.

Tecum Philippos et celerem fugam

Sensi relicta non bene parmula,

Cum fracta virtus et minaces

Turpe solum tetigere mento.

Sed me per hostes Mercurius celer

Denso paventem sustulit aere;

Te rursus in bellum resorbens

Unda fretis tulit aestuosis.

Ergo obligatam redde lovi dapem

Longaque fessum militia latus

Depone sub lauru mea nec

Parce cadis tibi destinatis.

Oblivioso levia Massico

Ciboria exple; funde capacibus

Unguenta de conchis. Quis udo

Deproperare apio coronas

Curatve myrto? quem Venus arbitrum

Dicet bibendi? Non ego sanius

Bacchabor Edonis: recepto

Dulce mihi furere est amico.

 

[John Conington, 1863, rev. 1863 & 1865]

Oft with me in troublous time

Involved, when Brutus warr’d in Greece,

Who gives you back to your own clime

And your own gods, a man of peace,

Pompey, the earliest friend I knew,

With whom I oft cut short the hours

With wine, my hair bright bathed in dew

Of Syrian oils, and wreathed with flowers?

With you I shared Philippi’s rout,

Unseemly parted from my shield,

When Valour fell, and warriors stout

Were tumbled on the inglorious field:

But I was saved by Mercury,

Wrapp’d in thick mist, yet trembling sore,

While you to that tempestuous sea

Were swept by battle’s tide once more.

Come, pay to Jove the feast you owe;

Lay down those limbs, with warfare spent.

Beneath my laurel; nor be slow

To drain my cask; for you ‘twas meant.

Lethe’s true draught is Massic wine;

Fill high the goblet; pour out free

Rich streams of unguent. Who will twine

The hasty wreath from myrtle-tree

Or parsley? Whom will Venus scat

Chairman of cups? Are Bacchants sane?

Then I’ll be sober. O, ’tis sweet

To feel, when friends come home again!

 

[John Marshall, 1908, Everyman Library, 1911]

TO POMPEIUS

Friend who didst oft with me in danger stand,

When Brutus led our war, what man at last

Hath giv’n thee back, thy warfare past,

To native gods and land?

My earliest comrade thou in that far day,

When oft I sped the lingering hours with wine,

While my wreathed locks would brightly shine,

With Syrian unguents gay.

With thee Philippi’s rout I knew full well,

When in ignoble flight I dropped my shield,

While Valour brake, and on the field

High hearts to ruin fell.

But me through the foe’s ranks did Mercury urge,

And mist-enwrapped his trembling votary bore;

Thee battle’s wave sucked back once more

Across the boiling surge.

Pay then to Jove the gift his kindness asks;

And rest thy body, by long service worn,

Beneath my laurel shade, nor scorn

Thy share of treasured casks.

Fill the bright cups with wine that conquers care;

From the wide phials unguents liberal shed!

Who shall moist parsley for each head,

Or myrtle wreaths, prepare?

Whom shall the lucky throw of Venus greet

Lord of our cups? Not wiselier I’ll carouse

Than Thracians might. With friend in house

Mad Folly’s self is sweet.

 

[E. C. Bennett, 1912, Loeb Classical Library]

A Joyful Return

O friend, oft led with me into extremest peril, when Brutus was leader of our hosts, who hath restored thee as a citizen to thy country’s gods and to the sky of Italy, O Pompey, first of my comrades, with whom many a time have beguiled the lagging day with wine, first garlanding my locks glistening with Syrian nard? With thee I knew Philippi’s day and its headlong rout, leaving my shield ingloriously behind, when Valour’s self was beaten down and threatening hosts ignobly bit the dust. But me in my terror Mercury bore swiftly through the foe in a dense cloud; thee the wave drew back again into the abyss of war and bore once more on troubled waters. So render unto Jove the banquet pledged, and lay thy limbs, with long campaigning wearied, beneath my laurel-tree, nor spare the jars set apart for thee! Fill to the brim with care-dispelling Massic the polished goblets! Pour out perfumes from generous phials! Who will make haste to weave garlands of pliant parsley or of myrtle? Whom shall the Venus-throw make the master of our drinking? I’ll revel as wildly as the Edonians. ‘Tis sweet to make mad holiday when a friend has been regained.

[W. G. Shepherd, 1983, Penguin Classics]

                    O my friend and oldest comrade,

                    with whom I have often seen out

                    the vinous, lagging day,

                    with Syrian myrrh in my hair;

                    Pompeius, so often led with me

                    into extremity by our general

                    Brutus; who has restored you

                    to citizenship, your native

                    Gods and Italian skies? With you I knew

                    the rout at Philippi and my shield,

                    to my shame, left behind

                    where manhood failed and words

                    were eaten. Luckily Mercury

                    bore me away, in my fright, in a cloud:

                    but the undertow sucked you back

                    to the weltering straits of war.

                    Now render to Jove the banquet pledged:

                    lay your frame, fatigued with long

                    campaigns, beneath my laurel nor spare

                    the jars set aside for this day.

                    Fill the bright cups with Massic

                    oblivion, pour scent from capacious

                    shells. Who will contrive our

                    crowns of myrtle and moist

                    parsley? Whom will the dice make master

                    of wine? I shall drink deep

                    as Edonians do: it is sweet

                    to rave for a friend restored.      

 

[David West, 1997, Oxford World’s Classics]

You and I, Pompeius, have often been led

to the edge of doom when Brutus was our commander.

Who has given you back as a Roman citizen

to the gods of your fathers and the skies of Italy?

Pompeius, first of my friends, many’s the time

we have broken into the lingering day with neat wine,

heads garlanded and hair sleek

with Syrian ointment.

With you I learned all about Philippi and speedy flight,

and shamefully left my little shield behind

when virtue snapped and the chins of blusterers

touched the dirt of the earth.

But swift Mercury came to me in my panic and

carried me in a dense mist through the enemy ranks,

while a wave sucked you back into war

and swept you along in the boiling straits.

So pay to Jupiter the feast you owe him,

under my laurel lay down your body

worn out by long campaigning, and have no mercy

on the casks I have laid down for you.

Fill up the polished Egyptian cups with Massic wine

for forgetfulness, and pour the fragrant oils

from huge conches. Who is responsible

for hurrying up garlands of moist parsley

and of myrtle? Who will throw a Venus and become king

of the wine? I shall run as wild as any Edonian

at her Bacchic orgies. My friend is back.

What joy to go mad!

 

[Niall Rudd, 2004, rev. 2012, Loeb Classical Library]

Pompeius’ return

My friend, so often carried with me into moments of the utmost peril when Brutus was in charge of operations, who has restored you to your father’s gods and the sky of Italy, to be a citizen once again? Pompeius, dearest of my comrades, many’s the time that in your company I have broken the long day’s tedium with neat wine, my garlanded hair glistening with Syrian perfume. With you beside me I experienced Philippi and its headlong rout, leaving my little shield behind without much credit, when valour was broken and threatening warriors ignominiously bit the dust. I, however, was swiftly caught up by Mercury in a thick cloud and carried trembling through the enemy’s ranks, whereas you were sucked back into war by the current and borne away by the seething tide.

So then, pay to Jove the feast he deserves; lay down your limbs, worn out as they are by long campaigning, beneath my bay tree, and give no quarter to the jars set aside for you. Fill up the polished cups with Massic that dulls the memory, pour scented oils from capacious shells. Whose job is it to come up right away with garlands of moist celery or myrtle? Who will be declared toastmaster by Venus’ throw? I shall revel with all the madness of a Thracian; it is sheer delight to go wild, for I have got back my friend.

 

Book II, Ode 10

 

[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2^nd edn., 1877]

Rectius vives, Licini, neque altum

Semper urgendo neque, dum procellas

Cautus horrescis, nimium premendo

Litus iniquum.

Auream quisquis mediocritatem

Diligit, tutus caret obsoleti

Sordibus tecti, caret invidenda

Sobrius aula.

Saepius ventis agitatur ingens

Pinus et celsae graviore casu lo

Decidunt turres feriuntque summos

Fulgura montes.

Sperat infesti metuit secundis

Alteram sortem bene praeparatum

Pectus. Informes hiemes reducit

luppiter, idem

Summovet. Non, si male nunc, et olim

Sic erit: quondam cithara tacentem

Suscitat musam neque semper arcum

Tendit Apollo.

Rebus angustis animosus atque

Fortis appare; sapienter idem

Contrahes vento nimium secundo

Turgida vela.

 

[John Conington, 1863, rev. 1863 & 1865]

Licinius, trust a seaman’s lore:

Steer not too boldly to into deep,

Nor, fearing storms, by treacherous shore

Too closely creep.

Who makes the golden mean his guide,

Shuns miser’s cabin, foul and dark,

Shuns gilded roofs, where pomp and pride

Are envy’s mark.

With fiercer blasts the pine’s dim height

Is rock’d; proud towers with heavier fall

Crash to the ground; and thunders smite

The mountains tall.

In sadness hope, in gladness fear

‘Gainst coming change will fortify

Your breast. The storms that Jupiter

Sweeps o’er the sky

He chases. Why should rain to-day

Bring rain to-morrow? Python’s foe

Is pleased sometimes his lyre to play,

Nor bends his bow.

Be brave in trouble; meet distress

With dauntless front; but when the gale

Too prosperous blows, be wise no less,

And shorten sail.

 

[John Marshall, 1908, Everyman Library, 1911]

TO LICINIUS

Safer thou’lt sail life’s voyage, if them steer

Neither right out to sea, nor yet, when rise

The threat’ning tempests, hug the shore too near,

Unwisely wise.

What man soe’er the golden mean doth choose,

Prudent will shun the hovel’s foul decay;

But with like sense, a palace will refuse

And vain display.

It is the lofty pine that by the storm

Is oftener tost; towers fall with heavier crash

Which higher soar; where lifts the mountain’s form,  

There lightnings flash.

A mind well-schooled hopes, when the skies show stern,

When they show kindly, fears, a change of states;

For Jove, who leads black storms afield, in turn

Those storms abates.

Think not if days are gloomy now, that so

‘Twill be erelong. With lyre Apollo wakes

The Muse at times to song, nor his stern bow

Forever shakes.

In adverse hours show thee a man of mind

And mettle. Yet not less thou’lt wisely know

To reef the prosperous sails, when comes the wind

Too good to blow.

 

[E. C. Bennett, 1912, Loeb Classical Library]

“The Golden Mean”

Better wilt thou live, Licinius, by neither always pressing out to sea nor too closely hugging the dangerous shore in cautious fear of storms. Whoso cherishes the golden mean, safely avoids the foulness of an ill-kept house and discreetly, too, avoids a hall exciting envy. ‘Tis oftener the tall pine that is shaken by the wind; ‘tis the lofty towers that fall with the heavier crash, and 'tis the tops of the mountains that the lightning strikes. Hopeful in adversity, anxious in prosperity, is the heart that is well prepared for weal or woe. Though Jupiter brings back the unlovely winters, he, also, takes them away. If we fare ill to-day, ‘twill not be ever so. At times Apollo wakes with the lyre his slumbering song, and does not always stretch the bow. In time of stress shew thyself bold and valiant! Yet wisely reef thy sails when they are swollen by too fair a breeze!

 

[W. G. Shepherd, 1983, Penguin Classics]

          The proper course in life, Licinius,

          is neither always to dare the deep, nor,

          timidly chary of storms, to hug

                    the dangerous shore.

          Who values most the middle way

          avoids discreetly both the squalor

          of the slum and a palace liable

                    to excite envy.

          The gale shakes most the lofty pine,

          tall towers fall with louder

          crash and the highest peaks most often

                    are struck by lightning.     

          Hopeful in evil times and cautious

          in good, ready for weal or woe,

          be prepared. Jupiter imposes

                    the ugly winter,

          but then withdraws it. Bad luck

          is not for ever: Apollo varies

          his archery sometimes by harping

                    to waken the Muse.

          In difficult straits show spirit

          and fortitude, but on the other hand

          always shorten sail when you

                    run before the wind.                   

 

[David West, 1997, Oxford World’s Classics]

          You will take a better course, Licinius,

          if you do not always thrust over the deep sea,

          or hug the dangerous coast too close,

                    shivering at the prospect of squalls.

          Whoever loves the Golden Mean

          is safe (no squalor for him in a filthy garret),

          and temperate (for him no mansion

                    that men may envy).

          The huge pine is more cruelly tossed

          by the winds, the loftiest towers

          have the heaviest fall and lightning strikes

                    the tops of mountains.

          The heart well prepared hopes in adversity

          for a change in fortune, and fears in prosperity.

          Jupiter brings back ugly winters,

                    and Jupiter

          removes them. If all goes badly now, some day

          it will not be so. Sometimes Apollo rouses

          the silent Muse with his lyre. He does not always

                    stretch his bow.

          In difficult straits show spirit

          and courage, and when the wind

          is too strong at your back, be wise

                    and shorten the bulging sail.

 

[Niall Rudd, 2004, rev. 2012, Loeb Classical Library]

The golden mean

You will keep your life on a straighter course, Licinius, if you neither push continually out to sea, nor, while cautiously avoiding the storms, hug the dangerous shore too closely. The man who cherishes the golden mean maintains a safe position: he escapes the squalor of a tumbledown house and also escapes, because of his moderation, the resentment caused by a mansion. It is more often the tall pine that is shaken by the wind; the collapse is more devastating when high towers fall, and it is the mountain peaks that are struck by lightning. In adversity the well-prepared mind hopes for the opposite situation, is on guard against it in prosperity. Jupiter brings round the ugly winters; he also removes them. If things are bad now, they will not always be so: at times Apollo wakens the slumbering Muse with his lyre; he does not always keep his bow taut. In dire straits show yourself spirited and brave; you will also be wise to shorten your sail when it swells before too favourable a breeze.

 

Book II, Ode 20

 

[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2^nd edn., 1877]

Non usitata nec tenui ferar

Penna biformis per liquidum aethera

Vates, neque in terris morabor

Longius, invidiaque maior

Urbes relinquam. Non ego, pauperum

Sanguis parentum, non ego, quem vocas

Dilecte, Maecenas, obibo

Nec Stygia cohibebor unda.

lam iam residunt cruribus asperae

Pelles, et album mutor in alitem

Superne, nascunturque leves

Per digitos humerosque plumae.

lam Daedaleo notior Icaro

Visam gementjs litora Bospori

Syrtesque Gaetulas canorus

Ales Hyperboreosque campos.

Me Colchus et qui dissimulat metum

Marsae cohortis Dacus et ultimi

Noscent Geloni, me peritus

Discet Hiber Rhodanique potor.

Absint inani funere neniae

Luctusque turpes et querimoniae;

Compesce clamorem ac sepulcri

Mitte supervacuos honores.

 

[John Conington, 1863, rev. 1863 & 1865]

No vulgar wing, nor weakly plied,

Shall bear me through the liquid sky;

A two-form’d bard, no more to bide

Within the range of envy’s eye

‘Mid haunts of men. I, all ungraced

By gentle blood, I, whom you call

Your friend, Mæcenas, shall not taste

Of death, nor chafe in Lethe’s thrall.

E’en now a rougher skin expands

Along my legs: above I change

To a white bird; and o'er my hands

And shoulders grows a plumage strange:

Fleeter than Icarus, see me float

O’er Bosporus, singing as I go,

And o’er Gætulian sands remote,

And Hyperborean fields of snow;

By Dacian horde, that masks its fear

Of Marsic steel, shall I be known,

And furthest Scythian: Spain shall hear

My warbling, and the banks of Rhone.

No dirges for my fancied death;

No weak lament, no mournful stave;

All clamorous grief were waste of breath,

And vain the tribute of a grave.

 

[John Marshall, 1908, Everyman Library, 1911]

HORACE A WORLD’S POET

On no stale wing or feeble shall I cleave,

Poet two-formed, athwart the liquid air;

No time on earth more shall I spare,

But cities’ censure leave.

I whom they sneered at, “born of parents poor,”

I, dear Maecenas, “whom thou makest free”

To bed and board,” no death shall see,

Or prisoning Styx endure.

Scaly ev’n now upon my limbs doth show

The shrinking skin. Above, to Swan all white   

I change, while feathers smoothly bright

On arms and shoulders grow.

Soon than Daedalean Icarus more renowned,

To the far-sounding Bosphorus’ coasts I’ll hie,

Or to Gaetulian deserts fly,

Or further north be bound,

A fluting bird. Colchis my work shall learn;

Dacia, who hides her fear of Roman strength;

Far Scythia too; till Spain at length,

And Rhone, be skilled in turn.

Let from a funeral where no corpse can be,

Dirges be absent, base laments, and wails!

Silence a mourning that avails

Never a whit for me!

 

[E. C. Bennett, 1912, Loeb Classical Library]

The Poet prophesies his own Immortality

On no common or feeble pinion shall I soar in double form through the liquid air, a poet still, nor linger more on earth, but victorious over envy I shall quit the towns of men. Not I, the son of parents poor, not I, who hear your voice, beloved Maecenas, shall perish, or be confined by waters of the Styx. Even now the wrinkled skin is gathering on my ankles, and I am changing to a snowy swan above, and o’er my arms and shoulders is spreading a plumage soft. Soon, a tuneful bird, I shall visit the shores of the moaning Bosphorus, more renowned than Icarus, born of Daedalus; I shall visit the Gaetulian Syrtes and the plains of the Hyperboreans. Me the Colchian shall come to know, and the Dacian, who feigns to feel no dread of our Marsian cohorts, and the far Geloni; by the study of my writings the Spaniard shall become learned and they who drink the waters of the Rhone.

Let dirges be absent from what you falsely deem my death, and unseemly show of grief and lamentation! Restrain all clamour and forgo the idle tribute of a tomb!

 

[W. G. Shepherd, 1983, Penguin Classics]

          A bard, I shall travel two-formed

          in the clear aether upon no common

          or feeble wings, nor linger

          on earth, nor (bigger than envy)

          dessert the City. I, whose blood is

          of indigent stock, I, whom you invite,

          belovèd Maecenas, shall never perish

          nor be confined by the waves of Styx.

          Already dry skin becomes the norm

          on my shins, on top I transmogrify

          to a white swan, soft down begins

          to appear on my fingers and shoulders.

          Soon, a melodious bird, more known

          than Icarus son of Daedalus, I shall view

          the Hyperborean prairies, the Syrtes,

          the Bosphorus’ sighing seashore.

          Colchians, Dacians (dissimulating fear)

          of our Marsian cohorts) and remote Geloni

          shall come to study me, by glossing me

          Spaniards and drinkers of Rhône grow wise.   

          Omit from my delusive funeral rites

          the dirge and ugly grief and lamentations:

          restrain all outcry, forgo

          the bootless tribute of a tomb.

 

[David West, 1997, Oxford World’s Classics]

This is no ordinary, no flimsy wing which will bear

me, half-bard, half-bird, through the liquid air,

                    nor shall I longer remain on the earth,

                              but, grown too large for envy, I shall leave

          its cities. I, who am of the blood of poor parents,

          I, who come at your command,

                    my beloved Maecenas, shall not die,

                              nor be confined by the waves  of the Styx.

          Already, even now, rough skin is forming

          on my legs, my upper part is changing

                    into a white swan and smooth feathers

                              are sprouting along my fingers and shoulders.

          Already more famous than Icarus, son of Daedalus,

          I shall visit, a harmonious bird, the shores

                    of the moaning Bosphorus, the Gaetulian Syrtes,

                              and the Hyperborean plains.

          The Colchian will know me, and the Dacian who pretends

          not to fear a cohort of Marsians, the Geloni

                    at the ends of the earth, the learned Iberian,

                              the Rhône-swigger.

          Let there be no dirges or squalid mourning

          or lamentation at my corpseless funeral.

                    Check your cries of grief and do not trouble

                              with the empty honour of a tomb.

 

[Niall Rudd, 2004, rev. 2012, Loeb Classical Library]

The poet’s metamorphosis

On no common or flimsy wing shall I be borne aloft through the clear air, a poet of double shape. I shall remain no longer on earth, but shall leave the cities of men, superior to envy. I, sprung from humble parents, I whom you, my dear Maecenas, send for to be your guest, shall not die, shall not be confined by the waters of the Styx.

Now as I speak, rough skin forms on my legs; I am changing into a white bird in my upper part, smooth feathers sprout from finger to shoulder. Soon, more renowned than Daedalus’ Icarus, I shall visit as a tuneful swan the shores of the bellowing Bosphorus, the Gaetulian Syrtes, and the plains of the folk beyond the North Wind. The Colchian shall come to know me, and the Dacian who pretends not to fear the Marsian cohorts, and, furthest of all, the Geloni; the Spaniard will become educated by reading my works, and so will he who drinks the Rhone. Let there be no lamentations or any ugly expressions of grief and mourning at my hollow funeral; restrain all cries, and do not trouble with the empty tribute of a tomb.

 

Book III, Ode 6

 

[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2^nd edn., 1877]

Delicta maiorum immeritus lues,

Romane, donec templa refeceris

Aedesque labentes deorum et

Foeda nigro simulacra fumo.

Dis te minorem quod geris, imperas:

Hinc omne principium, huc refer exitum.

Di multa neglecti dederunt

Hesperiae mala luctuosae.

lam bis Monaeses et Pacori manus

Non ausplcatos contudit impetus

Nostros et adiecisse praedam

Torquibus exiguis renidet.

Paene occupatam seditionibus

Delevit Urbem Dacus et Aethiops,

Hic classe formidatus, ille

Missilibus melior sagittis.

Fecunda culpae secula nuptias

Primum inquinavere et genus et domos

Hoc fonte derivata clades

In patriam populumque fluxit.

Motus doceri gaudet lonicos

Matura virgo et fingitur artibus;

lam nunc et incestos amores

De tenero meditatur ungui;

Mox iuniores quaerit adulteros

Inter mariti vina, neque eligit

Cui donet impermissa raptim

Gaudia luminibus remotis;

Sed iussa coram non sine conscio

Surgit marito, seu vocat institor

Seu navis Hispanae magister,

Dedecorum pretiosus emptor.

Non his iuventus orta parentibus

Infecit aequor sanguine Punico,

Pyrrhumque et ingentem cecidit

Antiochum Hannibalemque dirum;

Sed rusticorum mascula militum

Proles, Sabellis docta ligonibus

Versare glebas et severae

Matris ad arbitriiim recisos

Portare fustes, sol ubi montium

Mutaret umbras et iuga denieret

Bobus fatigatis, amicum

Tempus agens abeunte curru.

Damnosa quid non imminuit dies?

Aetas parentum peior avis tulit

Nos nequiores, mox daturos

Progeniem vitiosiorem.

 

[John Conington, 1863, rev. 1863 & 1865]

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.

How Pacorus and Monæses 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.

 

[John Marshall, 1908, Everyman Library, 1911]

OF ROME'S DEGENERACY

Thy father’s crimes shalt thou, the guiltless child,

Repay, Roman, until thou restore

The fanes and shrines now toppling o’er,

And statues smoke-defiled.

Only while thou before the gods bend low,

Can’st thou be strong. Seek first and last their aid,

Whate’er the task. Ignored, they’ve laid

On Italy many a woe.

Twice have Monaeses’, Pacorus’, arms o’erborne

Our evil-starred assaults. Twice have they hung

With glee the spoils from Romans wrung,

Their small neck-chains to adorn.

Rome, with her civil quarrels hampered then,

Came nigh to death, assailed by double foes,

The Egyptians, with their fleet, with bows

The Dacians, better men.

Fertile in ill, the age infected first

Wedlock and home and pride of honest birth;

Fed from this spring, o’er all the earth

Poured forth the time accurst.

Our grown girls love to learn Ionian ways

Of lewd suggestion in the dancer’s school;

Nay each with evil tricks is full

Ev’n from her callower days.

Wedded, erelong she seeks some younger spark,

While her man sips his wine, no matter who,

Forbidden joys to share, and woo

Her favours in the dark.

Why, orders she’ll attend to, nowise nice,

Nor her man either. If some pedlar call,

Or Spanish galleon’s master, all

Are welcome, at a price.

Not from such parents was the manhood nursed

That dyed the sea with Carthaginian blood,

Pyrrhus, Antiochus, withstood,

Or Hannibal, accurst.

No, but the sturdy hinds of soldier breed,

Trained with their Sabine spades the soil to turn.

And firewood bring, as mother stern

Day’s darg to each decreed,

Ev’n though the setting sun now spread afar

Shade on the hills, and from tired steers removed

Their yokes, bringing eve’s hour beloved

On his departing car.

What have the fatal years not brought of ill?

Our father’s age, than their sires’ not so good,

Bred us ev’n worse than they; a brood

We’ll leave that’s viler still.

 

[E. C. Bennett, 1912, Loeb Classical Library]

Religion and Purity

Thy Fathers’ sins, O Roman, thou, though guiltless, shalt expiate, till thou dost restore the crumbling temples and shrines of the gods and their statues soiled with grimy smoke. ’Tis by holding thyself the servant of the gods that thou dost rule; with them all things begin; to them ascribe the outcome! Outraged, they have visited unnumbered woes on sorrowing Hesperia. Already twice Monaeses and the band of Pacorus have crushed our ill-starred onslaughts, and now beam with joy to have added spoil from us to their paltry necklaces. Beset with civil strife, the City has narrowly escaped destruction at the hands of Dacian and of Aethiop, the one sore dreaded for his fleet, the other better with the flying arrow. Teeming with sin, our times have sullied first the marriage-bed, our offspring, and our homes; sprung from this source, disaster’s stream has overflowed the folk and fatherland. The maiden early takes delight in learning Grecian dances, and trains herself in coquetry e’en now, and plans unholy amours, with passion unrestrained. Soon midst her husband’s revels she seeks younger paramours, nor stops to choose on whom she swiftly shall bestow illicit joys when lights are banished; but openly, when bidden, and not without her husband’s knowIedge, she rises, be it some peddler summons her, or the captain of some Spanish ship, lavish purchaser of shame.

Not such the sires of whom were sprung the youth that dyed the sea with Punic blood, and struck down Pyrrhus and great Antiochus and Hannibal, the dire; but a manly brood of peasant soldiers, taught to turn the clods with Sabine hoe, and at a strict mothers bidding to bring cut firewood, when the sun shifted the shadows of the mountain sides and lifted the yoke from weary steers, bringing the welcome time of rest with his departing car.

What do the ravages of time not injure! Our parents’ age, worse than our grandsires’, has brought forth us less worthy and destined soon to yield an offspring still more wicked.

 

[W. G. Shepherd, 1983, Penguin Classics]

Though innocent you shall atone for the crimes

          of your fathers, Roman, until you have restored

          the temples and crumbling shrines of the Gods

          and their statues grimy with smoke.

          Acknowledge the rule of the Gods – and rule:

          hence all things begin, to this ascribe the outcome.

          Contemned, the Gods have visited many

          evils on grieving Hesperia.

          Already twice Monaeses and Pacorus’ band

          have crushed our ill-starred offensive

          and preen themselves on having added

          Roman spoils to their paltry gauds.

          Our city busied with sedition has almost

          suffered destruction by Egypt allied to Dacia,

          the former renowned for her fleet, the latter

          rather for hurtling arrows.

          Teeming with sin, the times have sullied

          first marriage, our children, our homes:

          sprung from that source disaster has whelmed

          our fatherland and our people.

          The grown girl loves to be taught to be

          artful and dance oriental dances,

          obsessed to her dainty fingernails

          with illicit amours.

          She sniffs out young philand’rers at her

          husband’s feast, nor is she nice to choose

          to whom she (hurriedly) grants her favours

          when the lamps are removed,

          but brazenly stands when called – with her

          husband’s assent – though some travelling

          salesman or Spanish ship’s captain

          may be the agent of Shame.

          The generation that dyed the Punic

          sea with blood and laid low Pyrrhus,

          Antiochus and Hannibal was not born

          of parents such as these,

          but of manly comrades, yeoman soldiers

          taught to turn the soil with Sabine hoes

          and carry cut firewood at a strict

          mother’s bidding when the Sun

          advanced the shadows of the hills

          and lifted the yokes from weary steers,

          his departing chariot leading in

          the hours of comfort.

          What does corrupting time not diminish?

          Our grandparents brought forth feebler heirs;

          we are further degenerate; and soon will beget

          progeny yet more wicked.                    

 

[David West, 1997, Oxford World’s Classics]

          Though innocent, Roman, you will pay for the sins

          of your fathers until you restore

                    the crumbling temples and shrines of the gods

                              and their smoke-blackened images.

          You rule because you hold yourself inferior to the gods

          Make this the beginning and the end of all things.

                    Neglect of the gods has brought many ills

                              to the sorrowing land of Hesperia.

          Already Monaeses and the army of Pacorus

          have twice shattered our attacks made without auspices

                    and grinning barbarians add Roman loot

                              to their paltry neckbands.

          Our city, caught up in internal strife,

          has been almost destroyed

                    by the Ethiopian with his formidable fleet,

                              and the Dacian prevailing with his flights of arrows.

          Our generation is prolific in evil.

          First it has corrupted marriage, family, and home,

                    and from that source disaster has flowed

                              over our whole land and its people.

          The young girl thrills to learn the movements

          of Ionian dance steps, long moulded to such arts

                    by obscene lusts practised

                              from tenderest childhood.           

          Soon, while her husband is in his cups, she is looking out

          for younger lovers. It is not her way to select

                    a recipient for snatched, illicit pleasures

                              in the darkness,

          rather does she rise, on invitation, before the eyes

          of her conniving husband, if a salesman

                    or Spanish sea captain calls for her

                              and pays a good price for her shame.

          Not from such parents sprang the men

          who stained the sea with Punic blood

                    and cut down Pyrrhus, mighty Antiochus

                              and the deadly Hannibal.

          These were the manly sons of farmer soldiers

          and their skill was to turn the sod

                    with Sabine mattocks and carry the wood

                              they had cut under the command

          of a strict mother as the sun moved round

          the mountain shadows, loosing the weary oxen

                    from the yoke when its chariot

                              brought on the hour they longed for.

          What has injurious time not diminished?

          Our parents were not the men their fathers were,

                    and they bore children worse than themselves,

                              whose children will baser still.               

 

[Niall Rudd, 2004, rev. 2012, Loeb Classical Library]

A crisis in religion and domestic morality

Though guiltless, you will continue to pay for the sins of your forefathers, Roman, until you repair the crumbling temples and shrines of the gods, and the statues that are begrimed with black smoke. It is because you hold yourselves inferior to the gods that you rule. For every beginning seek their approval; to them attribute its outcome. Because they have been neglected, the gods have inflicted many a woe on sorrowing Westland. Twice already Monaeses and the troops of Pacorus have broken our unsanctioned attacks, and they beam with pleasure at having added solid plunder to their paltry necklaces. Occupied with internecine feuds, the capital has been almost destroyed by the Ethiopian and the Dacian, the former a menace with her fleet, the latter superior at shooting arrows.

Generations prolific in sin first defiled marriage, the family, and the home. From this source is derived the disaster which has engulfed our fatherland and its folk. The girl who has just reached puberty enjoys taking lessons in Ionian dancing, and is trained in the arts that go with it; even at this stage she contemplates illicit love affairs with total absorption. In due course, when her husband is in his cups, she looks for younger lovers; but she does not select some man to whom she may hurriedly give forbidden pleasures when the lamp has been removed; on the contrary, when sent for quite openly, she gets up, with her husband’s full connivance, whether the caller is some salesman or the captain of some Spanish ship who pays a high price for such degradation.

Not from parents like these came the young men who stained the sea with Punic blood, and cut down Pyrrhus and the mighty Antiochus and Hannibal the terrible. No, they were the manly children of peasant soldiers, who had been taught to turn the sod with a Sabellian mattock, and on the instructions of their stern mother to cut and carry firewood, when the sun was lengthening the shadows on the hillside, lifting the yoke from weary oxen and bringing on the cheerful hour with his departing car.

Iniquitous time! What does it not impair? Our fathers’ age, worse than our grandfathers’, gave birth to us, an inferior breed, who will in due course produce still more degenerate offspring.

 

Book III, Ode 30

 

[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2^nd edn., 1877]

Exegi monumentum aere perennius

Regalique situ pyramidum altius,

Quod non imber edax, non Aquilo impotens

Possit diruere aut innumerabilis

Annorum series et fugajtemporum.

Non omnis moriar multaque pars mei

Vitabit Libitinam: usque ego postera

Crescam laude recens, dum Capitolium

Scandet cum tacita virgine pontifex.

Dicar, qua violens obstrepit Aufidus

Et qua pauper aquae Daunus agrestium

Regnayit popujorum, ex humili potens

Princeps Aeolium carmen ad Italos

Deduxisse modos. Sume superbiam

Quaesitam meritis et mihi Delphica

Lauro cinge volens, Melpomene, comam.

 

[John Conington, 1863, rev. 1863 & 1865]

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 Æolian lay

To notes of Italy.” Put glory on,

My own Melpomene, by genius won,

And crown me of thy grace with Delphic bay.

 

[John Marshall, 1908, Everyman Library, 1911]

A CLOSING SONG TO HIS MUSE

A monument I’ve achieved more strong than brass,

Soaring kings’ pyramids to overpass;

Which not corroding raindrip shall devour,

Or winds that from the north sweep down in power,

Or years unnumbered as the ages flee!

I shall not wholly die. What’s best of me

Shall ‘scape the tomb. In later praise I’ll grow

Still fresh, as long as Vestal still and slow

With Pontiff climbs Rome’s Capitol. Men shall tell,

Where Aufidus’ fierce torrents rave and swell,

Where drought-vexed Daunus filled a rustic throne,

How I, from humble stock to greatness grown,

First dared Aeolian song with Latin speech

To attune. Forth then for well-earned prize outreach

Thy hand, Melpomene, and deign to lay

Upon my locks chaplet of Delphic bay!

 

[E. C. Bennett, 1912, Loeb Classical Library]

The Poet’s Immortal Fame

I have finished a monument more lasting than bronze and loftier than the Pyramids’ royal pile, one that no wasting rain, no furious north wind can destroy, or the countless chain of years and the ages’ flight. I shall not altogether die, but a mighty part of me shall escape the death-goddess. On and on shall I grow, ever fresh with the glory of after time. So long as the Pontiff climbs the Capitol with the silent Vestal, I, risen high from low estate, where wild Aufidus thunders and where Daunus in a parched land once ruled o’er a peasant folk, shall be famed for having been the first to adapt Aeolian song to Italian verse. Accept the proud honour won by thy merits, Melpomene, and graciously crown my locks with Delphic bays.

 

[W. G. Shepherd, 1983, Penguin Classics]

          I have achieved a monument more lasting

          than bronze, and loftier than the pyramids of kings,

          which neither gnawing rain nor blustering wind

          may destroy, nor innumerable series of years,

          nor the passage of ages. I shall not wholly die,

          a large part of me will escape Libitina:

          while Pontiff and Vestal shall climb the Capitoline Hill,

          I shall be renewed and flourish in further praise.

          Where churning Aufidus resounds, where Daunus

          poor in water governed his rustic people,

          I shall be spoken of as one who was princely

          though of humble birth, the first to have brought

          Greek song into Latin numbers. Take hard-won pride

          in your success, Melpomene, and willingly

          wreathe my hair with Apollo’s laurel.

 

[David West, 1997, Oxford World’s Classics]

I have built a monument more lasting than bronze

and set higher than the pyramids of kings.

It cannot be destroyed by gnawing rain

or wild north wind, by the procession

of unnumbered years or by the flight of time.

I shall not wholly die. A great part of me

will escape Libitina. My fame will grow,

ever-renewed in time to come, as long as

the priest climbs the Capitol with the silent Virgin.

I shall be spoken of where fierce Aufidius thunders

and where Daunus, poor in water,

rules the country people. From humble beginnings

I was able to be the first to bring Aeolian song

to Italian measures. Take the proud honour

well-deserved, Melpomene, and be pleased

to circle my hair with the laurel of Delphi.

 

[Niall Rudd, 2004, rev. 2012, Loeb Classical Library]

The poet’s monument

I have finished a monument more lasting than bronze, more lofty than the regal structure of the pyramids, one which neither corroding rain nor the ungovernable North Wind can ever destroy, nor the countless series of the years, nor the flight of time.

I shall not wholly die, and a large part of me will elude the Goddess of Death. I shall continue to grow, fresh with the praise of posterity, as long as the priest climbs the Capitol with the silent virgin. I shall be spoken of where the violent Aufidus thunders and where Daunus, short of water, ruled over a country people, as one who, rising from a lowly state to a position of power, was the first to bring Aeolian verse to the tunes of Italy.

Take the pride, Melpomene, that you have so well earned, and, if you would be so kind, surround my hair with Delphic bay.

 

Book IV, Ode 13

 

[Latin original, ed. E. C. Wickham, Opera Omnia, Oxford, 2^nd edn., 1877]

Audivere, Lyce, di mea vota, di

Audivere, Lyce: fis anus, et tamen

Vis formosa videri

Ludisque et bibis impudens

Et cantu tremulo pota Cupidinem

Lentum sollicitas. Ille virentis et

Doctae psallere Chiae

Pulchris excubat in genis.

Importunus enim transvolat aridas

Quercus et refugit te, quia luridi lo

Dentes, te quia rugae

Turpant et capitis nives.

Nec Coae referunt iam tibi purpurae

Nec cari lapides tempora, quae semel

Notis condita fastis.

Inclusit volucris dies.

Quo fugit venus, heu, quove color? decens

Quo motus? quid habes iilius, illius,

Quae spirabat amores,

Quae me surpuerat mihi,

Felix post Cinaram, notaque et artium

Gratarum facies? Sed Cinarae breves

Annos fata dederunt,

Servatura diu parem

Cornicis vetulae temporibus Lycen,

Possent ut iuvenes visere fervidi

Multo non sine risu

Dilapsam in cineres facem.

 

[John Conington, 1863, rev. 1863 & 1865]

The gods have heard, the gods have heard my prayer;

Yes, Lyce! you are growing old, and still

You struggle to look fair;

You drink, and dance, and trill

Your songs to youthful Love, in accents weak

With wine, and age, and passion. Youthful Love!

He dwells in Chia’s cheek,

And hears her harp-strings move.

Rude boy, he flies like lightning o’er the heath

Past wither’d trees like you; you're wrinkled now;

The white has left your teeth

And settled on your brow.

Your Coan silks, your jewels bright as stars,

Ah no! they bring not back the days of old,

In public calendars

By flying Time enroll’d.

Where now that beauty? where those movements? where

That colour? what of her, of her is left,

Who, breathing Love’s own air,

Me of myself bereft,

Who reign’d in Cinara’s stead, a fair, fair face,

Queen of sweet arts? but Fate to Cinara gave

A life of little space;

And now she cheats the grave

Of Lyce, spared to raven’s length of days,

That youth may see, with laughter and disgust

A fire-brand, once ablaze,

Now smouldering in grey dust.

 

[John Marshall, 1908, Everyman Library, 1911]

TO LYCE, GROWN OLD

Lyce, the gods have heard, have heard my vows!

Old art thou now, yet still would’st fain seem fine,

In the old sports would’st shine,

And, shameless still, dost still carouse.

Tipsy, in tones that quavering die away,

To wake dull Love thou singest. He’s elsewhere.

On guard o’er Chia fair,

Fresh-cheeked, skilled on the lyre to play!

Ruthless is Love; for past each oak-tree dead

He flies, as he flies thee, thy skin defaced,

With wrinkles overlaced,

Teeth yellow, hair with snows bespread.

Not Coan gauze, though steeped in purple’s glow,

Nor costly jewels e’er the years restored,

Which Time’s swift pen hath scored

On records which all men may know.

Whither hath fled thy charm, whither thy hue

And comely gait? What’s left of that fair face,

Whereof the matchless grace

Could from my soul its senses woo,

The face, since my loved Cinara’s, dearest known

And daintiest? To Cinara, woe’s me!

Brief years did Fate decree,

But chose, till Lyce should have grown

Old as an ancient raven, still to keep

Her life hung on, for hot young bloods to gaze

Amused, as sinks the blaze

‘Mid smouldering ashes to its sleep.

 

[E. C. Bennett, 1912, Loeb Classical Library]

Retribution

The gods have heard my prayer, O Lyce, aye, the gods have heard it. Thou art becoming old, and yet desirest to seem beauteous and joinest in the merriment and drinkest hard and, already maudlin, seekest with quavering song to rouse unwilling Cupid. He keeps his watch on the fair cheeks of blooming Chia, skilled in playing on the harp. For disdainfully he flies past withered oaks, and shrinks from thee, because yellow teeth and wrinkles and snowy locks disfigure thee.

No more do robes of Coan purple or costly jewels bring back to thee the days that time in its flight has once laid away and locked up in the archives known to all.

Whither has fled thy grace, alas! or thy bloom whither? Whither thy comely carriage? What dost thou retain of her, of her, I ask, who once breathed love, who stole me from myself, thou happy after Cinara was gone, once famous for thy beauty and thy winning ways? Brief years the Fates to Cinara granted, resolved on keeping Lyce long, to match the age of the ancient crow, so that hot youths with many a laugh might come to see the torch to ashes fallen.

 

[W. G. Shepherd, 1983, Penguin Classics]

The Gods have heard my prayers, Lyce,

          Lyce, the Gods have heard: you are old,

          and yet you want to seem lovely

          and sportive, and you drink,

          and drunk you solicit indifferent Cupid

          with a           quavering song. Cupid, however,

          keeps watch and flourishes in clever

          musical Chia’s fair cheeks.

          Rude, he won’t break his flight for sapless

          oaks and avoids you – for yellow teeth

          and wrinkles and the snow

          on your head pollute you.

          Nor glistening Coan silk nor precious

          gems can bring you back the days

          that transient time has shut away

          in superseded calendars.

          Alas, where has Venus fled, and where

          complexion and graceful carriage – oh where

          is she, Cinara’s happy successor,

          that she who breathed desire,

          whose noted form and charming skills

          usurped me from myself? To Cinara

          the Fates allowed few years,

          but Lyce shall be long,

          preserved, an aged crow,

          that burning young men may study

          (not without much laughter)

          the torch collapsed in ashes.                

 

[David West, 1997, Oxford World’s Classics]

          The gods have listened, Lyce, the gods have listened

          to my prayers; you’re becoming an old woman

                    and you still want to be thought beautiful,

                              you still play about and drink too much,

          and sing in your cups in that wobbling voice of yours

          to rouse the sluggish god of love, but he is out

                    for the night, on duty on the lovely cheeks

                              of a young Chian lyre-player.

          That demanding god soars over dry oaks.

          He flies away from you, your black teeth

                    your wrinkles, and the snow

                              in your hair. You are ugly.

          Neither Coan purples nor precious stones

          bring back the time

                    buried in old calendars

                              by the swiftly flying days.

          Where has your charm gone? Where is your complexion?

          Where is that lovely way of moving? What remains

                    of the girl, who breathed the breath of love,

                              who stole me from myself,         

          the girl I so loved after Cinara, and where is

          that artful beauty of yours I knew so well? But the Fates,

                    who did not give Cinara many years,

                              were to keep you alive

          as long as any ancient crow, to raise

          a laugh among hot-blooded young men

                    as they see your torch

                              crumbling into ashes.

 

[Niall Rudd, 2004, rev. 2012, Loeb Classical Library]

A lampoon

The gods have heard my prayers, Lyce; yes, the gods have heard them: you are growing old! And you still want to look pretty; you join in the fun and the drinking without any shame, and when you are tight you try to arouse the reluctant sex god with your tremulous singing. He keeps watch on the lovely cheeks of Chia, who is in the flush of youth and is also accomplished at playing the lyre; without any consideration he flies past withered oaks, and shuns you with your ugly discoloured teeth and your wrinkles and your head of snowy hair.

It is too late. Neither dresses of Coan purple nor expensive jewelry can bring back the days that winged time has once locked up and stored away in the records that all can read. Where has your sex appeal gone? Ah, what has happened to your bloom? Your graceful movement? What do you retain of her, yes her, whose very breath was love, who stole me from myself – the girl who, after Cinara, won my heart, and was a beauty also well known for her delightful skills? To Cinara the Fates granted just a few short years, but resolved to keep Lyce alive to rival an old crow in her longevity, so that hot-blooded lads might laugh and laugh at the sight of a torch that had crumbled into ashes.