_TO MAECENAS. III-29_
Maecenas, scion of Tyrrhenian rulers,
A jar, as yet unpierced, of mellow wine
Long waits thee here, with balm for thee made ready
And blooming roses in thy locks to twine.
No more delay, nor always look with favor
The sloping fields of AEsula upon;
Why gaze so long on ever marshy Tibur
Near by the mount of murderer Telegon?
Give up thy luxury--it palls upon thee--
Thy tower that reaches yonder lofty cloud;
Cease to admire the smoke, the wealth, the uproar,
And all that well hath made our Rome so proud.
Sometimes a change is grateful to the rich man,
A simple meal beneath a humble roof
Has often smoothed from care the furrowed forehead,
Though unadorned that home with purple woof.
Bright Cepheus now his long-hid fire is showing,
Now flames on high the angry lion-star,
Now Procyon rages, and the sun revolving
Brings back the thirsty season from afar.
Seeking a cooling stream, the weary shepherd
His languid flock leads to the shady wood
Where rough Sylvanus reigns, yet by the brookside.
No truant breeze disturbs the solitude.
Ah, who but thee is busy now with statecraft?
Thou plannest for Rome's weal, disquieted,
Lest warring Scythian, Bactrian, or Persian
Should'st plunge the city into awful dread.
A prudent deity in pitchy darkness
The issue of futurity conceals,
And smiles when man beyond the right of mortals,
His fear about the time to come reveals.
Thou should'st concern thee only with the present,
All else progresses as the river flows,
Which gliding at one time in middle channel
Toward the Tuscan Sea unruffled goes;
Or at another time, herds, trees, and houses,
And broken rocks to one destruction drags,
When wild the flood provokes the quiet current
With noise from neighboring woods and distant
crags.
Happy he lives, and of himself is master,
That man who can at night with truth declare,
"I have lived to-day, to-morrow let the Father
Make as he will my sky or dark or fair,
"It is not his to render vain and worthless
My happy past--the bliss has dearer grown
That the fleet-footed hour carried with it;
The joys that once have been are still my own.
"Now upon me, again on others smiling,
Fortune rejoices in her savage trade
Of shifting thus at will uncertain honors,
As stubbornly her mocking game is played.
"I praise her when she stays, but if she leave me,
Fluttering her airy wings in hasty flight,
I yield her what she gave, and wrapped in virtue,
In dowerless Poverty find my delight.
"Although the mast may crack beneath the South
wind,
I will not rush with many a doleful prayer
To barter thus my vows, lest all my treasure
From Tyre and Cyprus should become a share
"Of what the greedy sea has in possession;
Nay! then, protected in my two-oared boat,
With favoring winds, and with twin Pollux guiding
Safe through the AEgean tempests I will float."
(_This version won, in 1890, the Sargent Prize, offered annually to
students of Harvard University and Radcliffe College._)
_TO LEUCONOE. I-11_
Seek not to learn--Leuconoe,--a mortal may not know--
What term of life on you or me our deities bestow.
The Babylonian soothsayer consult not; better bear
Whatever comes, whether to you more winters Jove shall spare,
Or whether this may be the last, grinding the Tuscan sea
On yonder rocks. Even as we talk, time envious shall flee.
Filter your wine, be wise, and clip your hopes to life's brief span.
Then seize today; to-morrow trust as little as you can.
_TO NEOBULE. III-12_
Ah! Unhappy are the maidens, who love's game are kept from playing,
Nor in mellow wine may wash away their cares;
Who, scared by scolding uncles' tongues, their terror are
displaying,--
But from you, though, Neobule, Cupid bears
Your basket and your webs, yet all the zeal you have been showing
For industrious Minerva, is the prey
Of fair Hebrus, Liparaean, when his shoulders, oiled and glowing,
He has bathed in Tiber's waters. Let me say
As a horseman, than Bellerophon he's really something greater;
Never worsted in a hand-fight, nor a race.
Skilled to shoot the flying stag-herd in the open,--swift he later
Snares the boar, close-hidden in a shady place.
_THE HARDY YOUTH. III-2_
The hardy youth, my friends, in bitter warfare
To narrow poverty must learn to bend,
And, for his spear a horseman to be dreaded,
Courageous Parthians into flight must send.
And he must try all dangerous adventures,
His life out in the open he must pass;
The warring tyrant's wife and growing daughter
Him spying from their hostile walls, "Alas,"
They sigh--for fear the royal husband,
Unskilled in warlike arts, should dare attack
This lion, fierce to touch, whom bloody anger
Into the midst of slaughter has dragged back.
'Tis sweet and fit to perish for one's country,
Death follows fast upon the man who flees,
Nor spares the coward backs of youth retreating,
Nor saves them trembling on their timid knees,
Valor, of shabby failure all unconscious,
Gleams with untarnished honor where she stands,
Assuming not, nor laying down her emblems,
As now the gaping populace demands.
Valor, when opening Heaven to those, who dying
Deserve not death, by paths no other knows
Points out the way, and still while she is soaring,
Her scorn for crowds and humid earth she shows.
And there's a sure reward for loyal silence.
Him I'll forbid under my roof to sit
Who has divulged the Elusinian mysteries,
Nor in my fragile shallop shall he flit
Often great Jupiter, when once neglected,
The wicked near the innocent has put,
But punishment to overtake the guilty
Has rarely failed, though she is lame of foot
_TO THE STATE. I-14_
Oh! Ship of State! fresh billows to sea will bear thee back,
Then turn about and bravely toward the harbor tack,
Thou see'st that thy naked sides defending oarsmen lack.
Behold! thy mast lies shattered before the swift south wind,
Listen! the yards are creaking, the ropes no longer bind,
Strength to endure the boisterous waves thy keel can hardly find.
Now all thy sails are ragged; the gods are swept away
To whom, borne down by peril, thy quaking soul would pray.
Though lofty be thy lineage, its pride is vain today.
The power and name thou boastest are now of no avail,
Thy stern is gayly painted, and still thy seamen quail,
Beware lest thou art made the sport of every idle gale.
Ah! dearly loved, my country; my fond yet heavy care!
Thy discords lately wearied me, but now I breathe a prayer
That thee the tides of faction, the glittering rocks may spare.
_TO APOLLO. I-31_
What prays the poet of enshrined Apollo?
What is he asking for with lifted hands,
Pouring a fresh libation from his flagon?--
Not fertile crop from rich Sardinian lands,--
Not the fair herds of sultry, damp Calabria,--
Not even Indian ivory and gold;--
Nor meadows that the Liris, silent river,
With sluggish flow has nibbled, as it rolled.
Let those whom Fortune has endowed with vineyards,
With the Calenian knife their grapevines trim,
Let the rich merchant from his golden goblet
Drink wine by Syrian traffic bought for him.
Dear to the very gods he three times yearly,
Yes four times, travels the Atlantic Sea
Unharmed. But I--I feed myself on olives,
Ay, succory and soft mallows are for me.
Let one enjoy sound health and my possessions--
Son of Latona, grant to me, I pray,
With a sane mind an old age all unsullied,
Nor let my gift--my lyre--be taken away.
_TO DIANA. III-22_
Diana, Protector of mountain and wood,
Who when three times invoked, hast so well understood,
And young mothers in child-birth hast rescued from death,
Goddess, triply endowed!
Let this tree overhanging my house here, this pine
Be for thee, that each year I shall consecrate thine,
Happy still--with the blood of a boar, whose last breath,
Planned a side-long attack.
_TO MELPOMENE. IV-3_
Oh, him whom at birth you with favor regarded
Melpomene! never an Isthmian game
Shall render renowned, though he's skilled as a boxer,
Nor shall a swift horse lead him onward to fame.
Though a victor he rides in a chariot Achaian,
Not him shall the fortune of war ever show.
In the Capitol wearing the garland of laurel
Because the proud threatenings of kings he laid low.
But every stream flowing over the country
Fertile Tibur around, and so every grove
With its thick-growing leaves shall ennoble the poet,
In AEolian song he ennobled shall prove.
The offspring of Rome, that is Queen among cities,
Me have deemed as a bard to be worthy a place
In her glorious choir, and less and less keenly
Already the sharp bite of Envy I trace.
Oh--Pieris! oh Muse, who the sweet tone controllest
Of the golden-tongued lyre, able too, to endow
The dumb fishes as well, if it happen to please thee,
With the notes of the swan, 'tis from thee it comes now,
That I by the finger of those who are passing
The Lord of our own Roman lyre am shown,
For all inspiration, for all that is pleasing,
If it happen to please, thou hast made it my own.
_HORACE AND LYDIA. III-9_
"One time when I was pleasing to you, Lydia,
And when no other youth, preferred to me,
Your snowy neck could with his arms encircle,
Then happier I than Persia's King may be."
"When of another you were less enamored,
Nor ranked me after Chloe in your love,
Then I, your Lydia, of wide reputation,
Than Roman Ilia more renowned could prove."
"Now Thracian Chloe, skilled in mellow measures,
And expert on the harp, holds me her slave,
To die for her would never cause me terror,
If her--my soul--the Fates alive would save."
"'Tis Calais, Ornytus' son, the Thurian,
Who now consumes me with a mutual fire,
Ah! death for him twice over would I suffer,
Would but the Fates not let the boy expire."
"What if our former love to us returning,
Us in a stronger yoke should join again!
Should I unbar the door to cast-off Lydia,
And give up fair-haired Chloe, ah, what then?"
"Though he be lovelier than a constellation,
Though lighter than a cork, my dear, are you,
Than stormy Adriatic more uncertain,
With you I'd love to live, die gladly, too."
_TO CENSORINUS. IV-8_
With kindly thought I'd give, Oh Censorinus,
Bowls and bronze vases pleasing to each friend;
Tripods I'd offer, prizes of brave Grecians,
And not the worst of gifts to you I'd send
Were I, forsooth, rich in such artist's treasure
As Scopas and Parrhasius could convey,
This one in stone, and that in liquid color,
Skilled here a man,--a god there to portray.
But mine no power like this, nor does your spirit
Or your affairs need luxuries so choice.
Songs we can give, and on the gift set value,
Songs we can give, and you in songs rejoice.
Not marble carved with popular inscriptions
Whereby the spirit and the life return
After their death unto our upright leaders,
Nor Hannibal's swift flight, nor threatenings stern
Thrown back on him, nor flames from impious Carthage,
Ever more clearly pointed out the praise
Of him who, after Africa was conquered,
Acquired a name, than did the Calabrian lays.
And you would lose, if writings should be silent,
The price of all that you so well have done.
And Romulus,--his fame had envy silenced--
Where had he been--great Mars and Ilia's son?
AEacus, rescued from the Stygian waters,
The genius, the favor, and the tongue
Of mighty bards sent to the blessed islands,
He cannot die, whose praise the Muse has sung.
The Muse can deify. So tireless Hercules
In Jove's desired banquets has a share.
And the Tyndaridae's clear constellation
Of ships wrecked in the lowest depths takes care,
Liber, his brows adorned with living vine-leaf,
Brings to good issue every honest prayer.
_TO THALIARCHUS. I-9_
You see how our Soracte now is standing
Hoary with heavy snow, and now its weight
To bear the struggling woods are hardly able,
And with the bitter cold the streams stagnate.
The cold melt thou away, oh, Thaliarchus,
By heaping logs upon thy fire, again
Replenishing, and from a Sabine flagon
Wine of a four years' vintage draw thou then.
Leave to the gods the rest; for at the moment
They felled the winds upon the boiling sea
That battled fiercely, then there was not stirring
Or mountain-ash, or ancient cypress tree.
Cease thou to ask what is to be to-morrow,
The day that Fortune gives, score thou as gain.
As when a boy, thou shalt not scorn love's sweetness,
Nor smoothly moving dancers shalt disdain
While crabbed age from thy fresh youth is distant.
Now in the Field and in the Public Square
All the soft whisperings that come at night-fall
Shall at the trysting be repeated there.
Now, too, the tempting laugh from a far corner
That must the maiden lurking there betray!
Also the pledge that she in feigned resistance,
Lets from her arm or hand be taken away!
_TO CHLOE. I-23_
Ah Chloe, like a fawn you now elude me,
Seeking its timid dam on lonely hills,
Its dam who not without an idle tremor
At breezes in the forest thrills.
For if before the breeze the bushes quiver
With rustling leaves, or if green lizards start
Across the bramble, then it is it trembles,--
This little fawn--in knees and heart.
But Chloe, I am not a cruel tiger,
Nor a Gaetulian lion, thee to chase;
And now that thou art old enough to marry,
Beside thy mother take thy place.
_TO FUSCUS. I-22_
Oh, Fuscus, he whose life is pure and upright,
Wants not the Moorish javelin nor the bow,
Nor may he need the quiver, heavy laden
With arrows poisoned for the lurking foe.
Whether he is about to make a journey
To sultry Libya, or the unfriendly height
Of Caucasus, or to the distant places
That famed Hydaspes washes in his flight.
For lately me a wolf fled in the forest--
The Sabine forest, as my Lalage
I sang about,--beyond my boundaries wandering,
Care-free, unarmed--the creature fled from me.
Apulia, land of soldiers, never nourished
In her broad woods a monster of such girth,
Nor Mauritania, arid nurse of lions,
To such a one has ever given birth.
Ah, put me on those plains, remote and barren,
Where not a tree can feel the summer wind,
And grow again--a land of mist eternal--
Whereover Jupiter still broods, unkind;
Or place me in that land denied man's dwelling,
Too near the chariot of the sun above,--
Still my own Lalage so sweetly smiling,
My sweetly-speaking Lalage I'll love.
_TO VENUS. III-26_
Lately was I to gentle maidens suited,
And not without some glory did contend,
But now my weapons and my lute made useless
For contests, on this wall I will suspend,
That guards the left side of our sea-born Venus;
Here, here, place you my gleaming waxen torch,
My levers and my crow-bars that can threaten
The doors that ought to open on this porch.
Oh, Goddess, thou who blessed Cyprus rulest,
And Memphis ever lacking Thracian snow,
My Queen, in passing, with thy whip uplifted
Give to my haughty Chloe just one blow.
_A PALINODE. I-16_
Oh, daughter, lovelier than your lovely mother,
Whatever punishment you may desire
Give my offending verses; in the fire
Throw them, please you, or in the Adriatic.
Not Dindymene, no, nor even Apollo
So shakes the minds of priests within the shrine;
Nor so disturbing is the God of wine,
Nor Corybantes doubling their shrill cymbals,
As direful fits of anger that are frightened
Neither by Noric sword nor savage flame,
Nor by ship-wrecking seas, nor them can tame
Great Jupiter himself, with all his thunders.
To our original clay, they say Prometheus
Was forced to add a portion he had made
Of bits from every creature, and he laid
In human hearts rage from the furious lion.
With crushing ruin rage destroyed Thyestes;
And as a final cause rage may be known
Why mighty cities fell, quite overthrown,
And why upon their walls a sneering army
Its plowshare drags along. But keep your temper!
Me, too in my sweet youth a frenzied heart
Has tempted sorely, and its maddening dart
Has driven me to write impetuous verses
To change sad things for brighter I am seeking,
And since my offending verses I retract,
I beg of you in turn a friendly act,
That you again to me your heart give over.
_LASTING FAME. III-30_
A monument outlasting brass I have builded,
Higher than pyramids in their crumbling glory,
That no devouring storm, nor futile North wind
Can overthrow, nor years in long succession,
Nor fleeting seasons. I shall not wholly perish.
In great part I'll escape the funeral pyre;
And lately praised, my praise will go on growing
To latest years. As long as Priest and Vestal
Ascend the Capitol, I shall be mentioned
Where Aufidus fierce rages, and where Daunus
A rustic race rules in an arid country.
Great, though of humble birth, I the first poet
To write in Latin rhythms AEolian lyrics,
Take pride, Melpomene, in well-earned merits,
And crown me willingly with Delphic laurel.
_RELIGION. I-34_
God's mean and careless servant--while I wander
Deep in the madness of Philosophy,--
Now backward I must set my sail, and ponder
Where my forsaken course retraced shall be.
For Jupiter, who with his glittering fire
So often cleaves apart the threatening clouds,
His winged car and thundering horses higher
Toward air has driven where no shadow shrouds.
Whereat the sluggish earth, each vagrant river,--
The Styx, and hated Taenarus' dread abode,
And the Atlantic borders shake and shiver.
Ah--to reverse high things and low, our God
Is able, and the mighty he can lower,
The obscure can raise. From this man Fortune steals
The crown to give to that one;--in her power,
Showing with hissing wings the joy she feels.