BOOK I.

David Moynihan, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

THE ODES AND CARMEN SAECULARE OF HORACE

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH VERSE

BY JOHN CONINGTON, M.A.

CORPUS PROFESSOR OF LATIN IN THE

UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

THIRD EDITION.

PREFACE.

I scarcely know what excuse I can offer for making public this attempt

to "translate the untranslatable." No one can be more convinced than I

am that a really successful translator must be himself an original

poet; and where the author translated happens to be one whose special

characteristic is incommunicable grace of expression, the demand on the

translator's powers would seem to be indefinitely increased. Yet the

time appears to be gone by when men of great original gifts could find

satisfaction in reproducing the thoughts and words of others; and the

work, if done at all, must now be done by writers of inferior

pretension. Among these, however, there are still degrees; and the

experience which I have gained since I first adventured as a poetical

translator has made me doubt whether I may not be ill-advised in

resuming the experiment under any circumstances. Still, an experiment

of this kind may have an advantage of its own, even when it is

unsuccessful; it may serve as a piece of embodied criticism, showing

what the experimenter conceived to be the conditions of success, and

may thus, to borrow Horace's own metaphor of the whetstone, impart to

others a quality which it is itself without. Perhaps I may be allowed,

for a few moments, to combine precept with example, and imitate my

distinguished friend and colleague, Professor Arnold, in offering some

counsels to the future translator of Horace's Odes, referring, at the

same time, by way of illustration, to my own attempt.

The first thing at which, as it seems to me, a Horatian translator

ought to aim, is some kind of metrical conformity to his original.

Without this we are in danger of losing not only the metrical, but the

general effect of the Latin; we express ourselves in a different

compass, and the character of the expression is altered accordingly.

For instance, one of Horace's leading features is his occasional

sententiousness. It is this, perhaps more than anything else, that has

made him a storehouse of quotations. He condenses a general truth in a

few words, and thus makes his wisdom portable. "Non, si male nunc, et

olim sic erit;" "Nihil est ab omni parte beatum;" "Omnes eodem

cogimur,"--these and similar expressions remain in the memory when

other features of Horace's style, equally characteristic, but less

obvious, are forgotten. It is almost impossible for a translator to do

justice to this sententious brevity unless the stanza in which he

writes is in some sort analogous to the metre of Horace. If he chooses

a longer and more diffuse measure, he will be apt to spoil the proverb

by expansion; not to mention that much will often depend on the very

position of the sentence in the stanza. Perhaps, in order to preserve

these external peculiarities, it may be necessary to recast the

expression, to substitute, in fact, one form of proverb for another;

but this is far preferable to retaining the words in a diluted form,

and so losing what gives them their character, I cannot doubt, then,

that it is necessary in translating an Ode of Horace to choose some

analogous metre; as little can I doubt that a translator of the Odes

should appropriate to each Ode some particular metre as its own. It may

be true that Horace himself does not invariably suit his metre to his

subject; the solemn Alcaic is used for a poem in dispraise of serious

thought and praise of wine; the Asclepiad stanza in which Quintilius is

lamented is employed to describe the loves of Maecenas and Licymnia.

But though this consideration may influence us in our choice of an

English metre, it is no reason for not adhering to the one which we may

have chosen. If we translate an Alcaic and a Sapphic Ode into the same

English measure, because the feeling in both appears to be the same, we

are sure to sacrifice some important characteristic of the original in

the case of one or the other, perhaps of both. It is better to try to

make an English metre more flexible than to use two different English

metres to represent two different aspects of one measure in Latin. I am

sorry to say that I have myself deviated from this rule occasionally,

under circumstances which I shall soon have to explain; but though I

may perhaps succeed in showing that my offences have not been serious,

I believe the rule itself to be one of universal application, always

honoured in the observance, if not always equally dishonoured in the

breach.

The question, what metres should be selected, is of course one of very

great difficulty. I can only explain what my own practice has been,

with some of the reasons which have influenced me in particular cases.

Perhaps we may take Milton's celebrated translation of the Ode to

Pyrrha as a starting point. There can be no doubt that to an English

reader the metre chosen does give much of the effect of the original;

yet the resemblance depends rather on the length of the respective

lines than on any similarity in the cadences. But it is evident that he

chose the iambic movement as the ordinary movement of English poetry;

and it is evident, I think, that in translating Horace we shall be

right in doing the same, as a general rule. Anapaestic and other

rhythms may be beautiful and appropriate in themselves, but they cannot

be manipulated so easily; the stanzas with which they are associated

bear no resemblance, as stanzas, to the stanzas of Horace's Odes. I

have then followed Milton in appropriating the measure in question to

the Latin metre, technically called the fourth Asclepiad, at the same

time that I have substituted rhyme for blank verse, believing rhyme to

be an inferior artist's only chance of giving pleasure. There still

remains a question about the distribution of the rhymes, which here, as

in most other cases, I have chosen to make alternate. Successive rhymes

have their advantages, but they do not give the effect of interlinking,

which is so natural in a stanza; the quatrain is reduced to two

couplets, and its unity is gone. From the fourth to the third Asclepiad

the step is easy. Taking an English iambic line of ten syllables to

represent the longer lines of the Latin, an English iambic line of six

syllables to represent the shorter, we see that the metre of Horace's

"Scriberis Vario" finds its representative in the metre of Mr.

Tennyson's "Dream of Fair Women." My experience would lead me to

believe the English metre to be quite capable, in really skilful hands,

of preserving the effect of the Latin, though, as I have said above,

the Latin measure is employed by Horace both for a threnody and for a

love-song.

The Sapphic and the Alcaic involve more difficult questions. Here,

however, as in the Asclepiad, I believe we must be guided, to some

extent, by external similarity. We must choose the iambic movement as

being most congenial to English; we must avoid the ten-syllable iambic

as already appropriated to the longer Asclepiad line. This leads me to

conclude that the staple of each stanza should be the eight-syllable

iambic, a measure more familiar to English lyric poetry than any other,

and as such well adapted to represent the most familiar lyric measures

of Horace. With regard to the Sapphic, it seems desirable that it

should be represented by a measure of which the three first lines are

eight-syllable iambics, the fourth some shorter variety. Of this

stanza there are at least two kinds for which something might be said.

It might be constructed so that the three first lines should rhyme with

each other, the fourth being otherwise dealt with; or it might be

framed on the plan of alternate rhymes, the fourth line still being

shorter than the rest. Of the former kind two or three specimens are to

be found in Francis' translation of Horace. In these the fourth line

consists of but three syllables, the two last of which rhyme with the

two last syllables of the fourth line of the next succeeding stanza, as

for instance:--

You shoot; she whets her tusks to bite;

While he who sits to judge the fight

Treads on the palm with foot so white,

Disdainful,

And sweetly floating in the air

Wanton he spreads his fragrant hair,

Like Ganymede or Nireus fair,

And vainful.

It would be possible, no doubt, to produce verses better adapted to

recommend the measure than these stanzas, which are, however, the best

that can be quoted from Francis; it might be possible, too, to suggest

some improvement in the structure of the fourth line. But, however

managed, this stanza would, I think, be open to two serious objections;

the difficulty of finding three suitable rhymes for each stanza, and

the difficulty of disposing of the fourth line, which, if made to rhyme

with the fourth line of the next stanza, produces an awkwardness in the

case of those Odes which consist of an odd number of stanzas (a large

proportion of the whole amount), if left unrhymed, creates an obviously

disagreeable effect. We come then to the other alternative, the stanza

with alternate rhymes. Here the question is about the fourth line,

which may either consist of six syllables, like Coleridge's Fragment,

"O leave the lily on its stem," or of four, as in Pope's youthful "Ode

on Solitude," these types being further varied by the addition of an

extra syllable to form a double rhyme. Of these the four-syllable type

seems to me the one to be preferred, as giving the effect of the Adonic

better than if it had been two syllables longer. The double rhyme has,

I think, an advantage over the single, were it not for its greater

difficulty. Much as English lyric poetry owes to double rhymes, a

regular supply of them is not easy to procure; some of them are apt to

be cumbrous, such as words in-ATION; others, such as the participial-ING

(DYING, FLYING, &c.), spoil the language of poetry, leading to the

employment of participles where participles are not wanted, and of

verbal substantives that exist nowhere else. My first intention was to

adopt the double rhyme in this measure, and I accordingly executed

three Odes on that plan (Book I. Odes 22, 38; Book II. Ode 16);

afterwards I abandoned it, and contented myself with the single rhyme.

On the whole, I certainly think this measure answers sufficiently well

to the Latin Sapphic; but I have felt its brevity painfully in almost

every Ode that I have attempted, being constantly obliged to omit some

part of the Latin which I would gladly have preserved. The great number

of monosyllables in English is of course a reason for acquiescing in

lines shorter than the corresponding lines in Latin; but even in

English polysyllables are often necessary, and still oftener desirable

on grounds of harmony; and an allowance of twenty-eight syllables of

English for thirty-eight of Latin is, after all, rather short.

For the place of the Alcaic there are various candidates. Mr. Tennyson

has recently invented a measure which, if not intended to reproduce the

Alcaic, was doubtless suggested by it, that which appears in his poem

of "The Daisy," and, in a slightly different form, in the "Lines to Mr.

Maurice." The two last lines of the latter form of the stanza are

indeed evidently copied from the Alcaic, with the simple omission of

the last syllable of the last line of the original. Still, as a whole,

I doubt whether this form would be as suitable, at least for a

dignified Ode, as the other, where the initial iambic in the last line,

substituted for a trochec, makes the movement different. I was

deterred, however, from attempting either, partly by a doubt whether

either had been sufficiently naturalized in English to be safely

practised by an unskilful hand, partly by the obvious difficulty of

having to provide three rhymes per stanza, against which the occurrence

of one line in each without a rhyme at all was but a poor set-off. A

second metre which occurred to me is that of Andrew Marvel's Horatian

Ode, a variety of which is found twice in Mr. Keble's Christian Year.

Here two lines of eight syllables are followed by two of six, the

difference between the types being that in Marvel's Ode the rhymes are

successive, in Mr. Keble's alternate. The external correspondence

between this and the Alcaic is considerable; but the brevity of the

English measure struck me at once as a fatal obstacle, and I did not

try to encounter it. A third possibility is the stanza of "In

Memoriam," which has been adopted by the clever author of "Poems and

Translations, by C. S. C.," in his version of "Justum et tenacem." I

think it very probable that this will be found eventually to be the

best representation of the Alcaic in English, especially as it appears

to afford facilities for that linking of stanza to stanza which one who

wishes to adhere closely to the logical and rhythmical structure of the

Latin soon learns to desire. But I have not adopted it; and I believe

there is good reason for not doing so. With all its advantages, it has

the patent disadvantage of having been brought into notice by a poet

who is influencing the present generation as only a great living poet

can. A great writer now, an inferior writer hereafter, may be able to

handle it with some degree of independence; but the majority of those

who use it at present are sure in adopting Mr. Tennyson's metre to

adopt his manner. It is no reproach to "C. S. C." that his Ode reminds

us of Mr. Tennyson; it is a praise to him that the recollection is a

pleasant one. But Mr. Tennyson's manner is not the manner of Horace,

and it is the manner of a contemporary; the expression--a most powerful

and beautiful expression--of influences to which a translator of an

ancient classic feels himself to be too much subjected already. What is

wanted is a metre which shall have other associations than those of the

nineteenth century, which shall be the growth of various periods of

English poetry, and so be independent of any. Such a metre is that

which I have been led to choose, the eight-syllable iambic with

alternate rhymes. It is one of the commonest metres in the language,

and for that reason it is adapted to more than one class of subjects,

to the gay as well as to the grave. But I am mistaken if it is not

peculiarly suited to express that concentrated grandeur, that majestic

combination of high eloquence with high poetry, which make the early

Alcaic Odes of Horace's Third Book what they are to us. The main

difficulty is in accommodating its structure to that of the Latin, of

varying the pauses, and of linking stanza to stanza. It is a difficulty

before which I have felt myself almost powerless, and I have in

consequence been driven to the natural expedient of weakness,

compromise, sometimes evading it, sometimes coping with it

unsuccessfully. In other respects I may be allowed to say that I have

found the metre pleasanter to handle than any of the others that I have

attempted, except, perhaps, that of "The Dream of Fair Women." The

proportion of syllables in each stanza of English to each stanza of

Latin is not much greater than in the case of the Sapphic, thirty-two

against forty-one; yet, except in a few passages, chiefly those

containing proper names, I have had no disagreeable sense of

confinement. I believe the reason of this to be that the Latin Alcaic

generally contains fewer words in proportion than the Latin Sapphic,

the former being favourable to long words, the latter to short ones, as

may be seen by contrasting such lines as "Dissentientis conditionibus"

with such as "Dona praesentis rape laetus horae ac." This, no doubt,

shows that there is an inconvenience in applying the same English

iambic measure to two metres which differ so greatly in their practical

result; but so far as I can see at present, the evil appears to be one

of those which it is wiser to submit to than to attempt to cure.

The problem of finding English representatives for the other Horatian

metres, if a more difficult, is a less important one. The most pressing

case is that of the metre known as the second Asclepiad, the "Sic te

diva potens Cypri." With this, I fear, I shall be thought to have dealt

rather capriciously, having rendered it by four different measures,

three of them, however, varieties of the same general type. It so

happens that the first Ode which I translated was the celebrated

Amoebean Poem, the dialogue between Horace and Lydia. I had had at that

time not the most distant notion of translating the whole of the Odes,

or even any considerable number of them, so that in choosing a metre I

thought simply of the requirements of the Ode in question, not of those

of the rest of its class. Indeed, I may say that it was the thought of

the metre which led me to try if I could translate the Ode. Having

accomplished my attempt, I turned to another Ode of the same class, the

scarcely less celebrated "Quem tu, Melpomene." For this I took a

different metre, which happens to be identical with that of a solitary

Ode in the Second Book, "Non ebur neque aureum," being guided still by

my feeling about the individual Ode, not by any more general

considerations. I did not attempt a third until I had proceeded

sufficiently far in my undertaking to see that I should probably

continue to the end. Then I had to consider the question of a uniform

metre to answer to the Latin. Both of those which I had already tried

were rendered impracticable by a double rhyme, which, however

manageable in one or two Odes, is unmanageable, as I have before

intimated, in the case of a large number. The former of the two

measures, divested of the double rhyme, would, I think, lose most of

its attractiveness; the latter suffers much less from the privation:

the latter accordingly I chose. The trochaic character of the first

line seems to me to give it an advantage over any metre composed of

pure iambics, if it were only that it discriminates it from those

alternate ten-syllable and eight-syllable iambics into which it would

be natural to render many of the Epodes. At the same time, it did not

appear worth while to rewrite the two Odes already translated, merely

for the sake of uniformity, as the principle of correspondence to the

Latin, the alternation of longer and shorter lines, is really the same

in all three cases. Nay, so tentative has been my treatment of the

whole matter, that I have even translated one Ode, the third of Book I,

into successive rather than into alternate rhymes, so that readers may

judge of the comparative effect of the two varieties. After this

confession of irregularity, I need scarcely mention that on coming to

the Ode which had suggested the metre in its unmutilated state, I

translated it into the mutilated form, not caring either to encounter

the inconvenience of the double rhymes, or to make confusion worse

confounded by giving it, what it has in the Latin, a separate form of

its own.

The remaining metres may be dismissed in a very few words. As a general

rule, I have avoided couplets of any sort, and chosen some kind of

stanza. As a German critic has pointed out, all the Odes of Horace,

with one doubtful exception, may be reduced to quatrains; and though

this peculiarity does not, so far as we can see, affect the character

of any of the Horatian metres (except, of course, those that are

written in stanzas), or influence the structure of the Latin, it must

be considered as a happy circumstance for those who wish to render

Horace into English. In respect of restraint, indeed, the English

couplet may sometimes be less inconvenient than the quatrain, as it is,

on the whole, easier to run couplet into couplet than to run quatrain

into quatrain; but the couplet seems hardly suitable for an English

lyrical poem of any length, the very notion of lyrical poetry

apparently involving a complexity which can only be represented by

rhymes recurring at intervals. In the case of one of the three poems

written by Horace in the measure called the greater Asclepiad, ("Tu ne

quoesieris,") I have adopted the couplet; in another ("Nullam, Vare,")

the quatrain, the determining reason in the two cases being the length

of the two Odes, the former of which consists but of eight lines, the

latter of sixteen. The metre which I selected for each is the thirteen-

syllable trochaic of "Locksley Hall;" and it is curious to observe the

different effect of the metre according as it is written in two lines

or in four. In the "Locksley Hall" couplet its movement is undoubtedly

trochaic; but when it is expanded into a quatrain, as in Mrs.

Browning's poem of "Lady Geraldine's Courtship," the movement changes,

and instead of a more or less equal stress on the alternate syllables,

the full ictus is only felt in one syllable out of every four; in

ancient metrical language the metre becomes Ionic a minore. This very

Ionic a minore is itself, I need not say, the metre of a single Ode in

the Third Book, the "Miserarum est," and I have devised a stanza for

it, taking much more pains with the apportionment of the ictus than in

the case of the trochaic quatrain, which is better able to modulate

itself. I have also ventured to invent a metre for that technically

known as the Fourth Archilochian, the "Solvitur acris hiems," by

combining the fourteen-syllable with the ten-syllable iambic in an

alternately rhyming stanza. [Footnote: I may be permitted to mention

that Lord Derby, in a volume of Translations printed privately before

the appearance of this work, has employed the same measure in rendering

the same Ode, the only difference being that his rhymes are not

alternate, but successive.] The First Archilochian, "Diffugere nives,"

I have represented by a combination of the ten-syllable with the four-

syllable iambic. For the so-called greater Sapphic, the "Lydia, die per

omnes" I have made another iambic combination, the six-syllable with

the fourteen-syllable, arranged as a couplet. The choriambic I thought

might be exchanged for a heroic stanza, in which the first line should

rhyme with the fourth, the second with the third, a kind of "In

Memoriam" elongated. Lastly, I have chosen the heroic quatrain proper,

the metre of Gray's "Elegy," for the two Odes in the First Book written

in what is called the Metrum Alcmanium, "Laudabunt alii," and "Te maris

et terrae," rather from a vague notion of the dignity of the measure

than from any distinct sense of special appropriateness.

From this enumeration, which I fear has been somewhat tedious, it will

be seen that I have been guided throughout not by any systematic

principles, but by a multitude of minor considerations, some operating

more strongly in one case, and some in another. I trust, however, that

in all this diversity I shall be found to have kept in view the object

on which I have been insisting, a metrical correspondence with the

original. Even where I have been most inconsistent, I have still

adhered to the rule of comprising the English within the same number of

lines as the Latin. I believe tills to be almost essential to the

preservation of the character of the Horatian lyric, which always

retains a certain severity, and never loses itself in modern

exuberance; and though I am well aware that the result in my case has

frequently, perhaps generally, been a most un-Horatian stiffness, I am

convinced from my own experience that a really accomplished artist

would find the task of composing under these conditions far more

hopeful than he had previously imagined it to be. Yet it is a restraint

to which scarcely any of the previous translators of the Odes have been

willing to submit. Perhaps Professor Newman is the only one who has

carried it through the whole of the Four Books; most of my predecessors

have ignored it altogether. It is this which, in my judgment, is the

chief drawback to the success of the most distinguished of them, Mr.

Theodore Martin. He has brought to his work a grace and delicacy of

expression and a happy flow of musical verse which are beyond my

praise, and which render many of his Odes most pleasing to read as

poems. I wish he had combined with these qualities that terseness and

condensation which remind us that a Roman, even when writing "songs of

love and wine," was a Roman still.

Some may consider it extraordinary that in discussing the different

ways of representing Horatian metres I have said nothing of

transplanting those metres themselves into English. I think, however,

that an apology for my silence may he found in the present state of the

controversy about the English hexameter. Whatever may be the ultimate

fate of that struggling alien--and I confess myself to be one of those

who doubt whether he can ever be naturalized--most judges will, I

believe, agree that for the present at any rate his case is sufficient

to occupy the literary tribunals, and that to raise any discussion on

the rights of others of his class would be premature. Practice, after

all, is more powerful in such matters than theory; and hardly at any

time in the three hundred years during which we have had a formed

literature has the introduction of classical lyric measures into

English been a practical question. Stanihurst has had many successors

in the hexameter; probably he has not had more than one or two in the

Asclepiad. The Sapphic, indeed, has been tried repeatedly; but it is an

exception which is no exception, the metre thus intruded into our

language not being really the Latin Sapphic, but a metre of a different

kind, founded on a mistake in the manner of reading the Latin, into

which Englishmen naturally fall, and in which, for convenience'

sake, they as naturally persist. The late Mr. Clough, whose efforts in

literature were essentially tentative, in form as well as in spirit,

and whose loss for that very reason is perhaps of more serious import

to English poetry than if, with equal genius, he had possessed a more

conservative habit of mind, once attempted reproductions of nearly all

the different varieties of Horatian metres. They may he found in a

paper which he contributed to the fourth volume of the "Classical

Museum;" and a perusal of them will, I think, be likely to convince the

reader that the task is one in which even great rhythmical power and

mastery of language would be far from certain of succeeding. Even the

Alcaic fragment which he has inserted in his "Amours de Voyage"--

"Eager for battle here

Stood Vulcan, here matronal Juno,

And with the bow to his shoulder faithful

He who with pure dew laveth of Castaly

His flowing locks, who holdeth of Lycia

The oak forest and the wood that bore him,

Delos' and Patara's own Apollo,"--

admirably finished as it is, and highly pleasing as a fragment,

scarcely persuades us that twenty stanzas of the same workmanship would

be read with adequate pleasure, still less that the same satisfaction

would be felt through six-and-thirty Odes. After all, however, a sober

critic will be disposed rather to pass judgment on the past than to

predict the future, knowing, as he must, how easily the "solvitur

ambulando" of an artist like Mr. Tennyson may disturb a whole chain

of ingenious reasoning on the possibilities of things.

The question of the language into which Horace should be translated is

not less important than that of the metre; but it involves far less

discussion of points of detail, and may, in fact, be very soon

dismissed. I believe that the chief danger which a translator has to

avoid is that of subjection to the influences of his own period.

Whether or no Mr. Merivale is right in supposing that an analogy exists

between the literature of the present day and that of post-Augustan

Rome, it will not, I think, be disputed that between our period and the

Augustan period the resemblances are very few, perhaps not more than

must necessarily exist between two periods of high cultivation. It is

the fashion to say that the characteristic of the literature of the

last century was shallow clearness, the expression of obvious thoughts

in obvious, though highly finished language; it is the fashion to

retort upon our own generation that its tendency is to over-thinking

and over-expression, a constant search for thoughts which shall not he

obvious and words which shall be above the level of received

conventionality. Accepting these as descriptions, however imperfect, of

two different types of literature, we can have no doubt to which

division to refer the literary remains of Augustan Rome. The Odes of

Horace, in particular, will, I think, strike a reader who comes back to

them after reading other books, as distinguished by a simplicity,

monotony, and almost poverty of sentiment, and as depending for the

charm of their external form not so much on novel and ingenious images

as on musical words aptly chosen and aptly combined. We are always

hearing of wine-jars and Thracian convivialities, of parsley wreaths

and Syrian nard; the graver topics, which it is the poet's wisdom to

forget, are constantly typified by the terrors of quivered Medes and

painted Gelonians; there is the perpetual antithesis between youth and

age, there is the ever-recurring image of green and withered trees, and

it is only the attractiveness of the Latin, half real, half perhaps

arising from association and the romance of a language not one's own,

that makes us feel this "lyrical commonplace" more supportable than

common-place is usually found to be. It is this, indeed, which

constitutes the grand difficulty of the translator, who may well despair

when he undertakes to reproduce beauties depending on expression by a

process in which expression is sure to be sacrificed. But it would, I

think, be a mistake to attempt to get rid of this monotony by calling

in the aid of that variety of images and forms of language which modern

poetry presents. Here, as in the case of metres, it seems to me that to

exceed the bounds of what may be called classical parsimony would be to

abandon the one chance, faint as it may be, of producing on the

reader's mind something like the impression produced by Horace. I do

not say that I have always been as abstinent as I think a translator

ought to be; here, as in all matters connected with this most difficult

work, weakness may claim a licence of which strength would disdain to

avail itself; I only say that I have not surrendered myself to the

temptation habitually and without a struggle. As a general rule, while

not unfrequently compelled to vary the precise image Horace has chosen,

I have substituted one which he has used elsewhere; where he has talked

of triumphs, meaning no more than victories, I have talked of bays;

where he gives the picture of the luxuriant harvests of Sardinia, I

have spoken of the wheat on the threshing-floors. On the whole I have

tried, so far as my powers would allow me, to give my translation

something of the colour of our eighteenth-century poetry, believing the

poetry of that time to be the nearest analogue of the poetry of

Augustus' court that England has produced, and feeling quite sure that

a writer will bear traces enough of the language and manner of his own

time to redeem him from the charge of having forgotten what is after

all his native tongue. As one instance out of many, I may mention the

use of compound epithets as a temptation to which the translator of

Horace is sure to be exposed, and which, in my judgment, he ought in

general to resist. Their power of condensation naturally recommends

them to a writer who has to deal with inconvenient clauses, threatening

to swallow up the greater part of a line; but there is no doubt that in

the Augustan poets, as compared with the poets of the republic, they

are chiefly conspicuous for their absence, and it is equally certain, I

think, that a translator of an Augustan poet ought not to suffer them

to be a prominent feature of his style. I have, perhaps, indulged in

them too often myself to note them as a defect in others; but it seems

to me that they contribute, along with the Tennysonian metre, to

diminish the pleasure with which we read such a version as that of

which I have already spoken by "C. S. C." of "Justum et tenacem." I may

add, too, that I have occasionally allowed the desire of brevity to

lead me into an omission of the definite article, which, though perhaps

in keeping with the style of Milton, is certainly out of keeping with

that of the eighteenth century. It is one of a translator's many

refuges, and has been conceded so long that it can hardly he denied him

with justice, however it may remind the reader of a bald verbal

rendering.

A very few words will serve to conclude this somewhat protracted

Preface. I have not sought to interpret Horace with the minute accuracy

which I should think necessary in writing a commentary; and in general

I have been satisfied to consult two of the latest editions, those by

Orelli and Ritter. In a few instances I have preferred the views of the

latter; but his edition will not supersede that of the former, whose

commentary is one of the most judicious ever produced, within a

moderate compass, upon a classical author. In the few notes which I

have added at the end of this volume, I have noticed chiefly the

instances in which I have differed from him, in favour either of

Hitter's interpretation, or of some view of my own. At the same time it

must be said that my translation is not to be understood as always

indicating the interpretation I prefer. Sometimes, where the general

effect of two views of the construction of a passage has been the same,

I have followed that which I believed to be less correct, for reasons

of convenience. I have of course held myself free to deviate in a

thousand instances from the exact form of the Latin sentence; and it

did not seem reasonable to debar myself from a mode of expression which

appeared generally consistent with the original, because it happened to

be verbally consistent with a mistaken view of the Latin words. To take

an example mentioned in my notes, it may be better in Book III. Ode 3,

line 25, to make "adulterae" the genitive case after "hospes" than the

dative after "splendet;" but for practical purposes the two come to the

same thing, both being included in the full development of the thought;

and a translation which represents either is substantially a true

translation. I have omitted four Odes altogether, one in each Book, and

some stanzas of a fifth; and in some other instances I have been

studiously paraphrastic. Nor have I thought it worth while to extend my

translation from the Odes to the Epodes. The Epodes were the production

of Horace's youth, and probably would not have been much cared for

by posterity if they had constituted his only title to fame. A few of

them are beautiful, but some are revolting, and the rest, as pictures

of a roving and sensual passion, remind us of the least attractive

portion of the Odes. In the case of a writer like Horace it is not easy

to draw an exact line; but though in the Odes our admiration of much

that is graceful and tender and even true may balance our moral

repugnance to many parts of the poet's philosophy of life, it does not

seem equally desirable to dwell minutely on a class of compositions

where the beauties are fewer and the deformities more numerous and more

undisguised.

I should add that any coincidences that may be noticed between my

version and those of my predecessors are, for the most part, merely

coincidences. In some cases I may have knowingly borrowed a rhyme, but

only where the rhyme was too common to have created a right of

property.

PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION.

I am very sensible of the favour which has carried this translation

from a first edition into a second. The interval between the two has

been too short to admit of my altering my judgment in any large number

of instances; but I have been glad to employ the present opportunity in

amending, as I hope, an occasional word or expression, and, in one or

two cases, recasting a stanza. The notices which my book has received,

and the opinions communicated by the kindness of friends, have been

gratifying to me, both in themselves, and as showing the interest which

is being felt in the subject of Horatian translation. It is not

surprising that there should be considerable differences of opinion

about the manner in which Horace is to be rendered, and also about the

metre appropriate to particular Odes; but I need not say that it is

through such discussion that questions like these advance towards

settlement. It would indeed be a satisfaction to me to think that the

question of translating Horace had been brought a step nearer to its

solution by the experiment which I again venture to submit to the

public.

PREFACE TO THIRD EDITION.

The changes which I have made in this impression of my translation are

somewhat more numerous than those which I was able to introduce into

the last, as might be expected from the longer interval between the

times of publication; but the work may still be spoken of as

substantially unaltered.

THE ODES OF HORACE.

BOOK I.

I.

MAECENAS ATAVIS.

Maecenas, born of monarch ancestors,

The shield at once and glory of my life!

There are who joy them in the Olympic strife

And love the dust they gather in the course;

The goal by hot wheels shunn'd, the famous prize,

Exalt them to the gods that rule mankind;

This joys, if rabbles fickle as the wind

Through triple grade of honours bid him rise,

That, if his granary has stored away

Of Libya's thousand floors the yield entire;

The man who digs his field as did his sire,

With honest pride, no Attalus may sway

By proffer'd wealth to tempt Myrtoan seas,

The timorous captain of a Cyprian bark.

The winds that make Icarian billows dark

The merchant fears, and hugs the rural ease

Of his own village home; but soon, ashamed

Of penury, he refits his batter'd craft.

There is, who thinks no scorn of Massic draught,

Who robs the daylight of an hour unblamed,

Now stretch'd beneath the arbute on the sward,

Now by some gentle river's sacred spring;

Some love the camp, the clarion's joyous ring,

And battle, by the mother's soul abhorr'd.

See, patient waiting in the clear keen air,

The hunter, thoughtless of his delicate bride,

Whether the trusty hounds a stag have eyed,

Or the fierce Marsian boar has burst the snare.

To me the artist's meed, the ivy wreath

Is very heaven: me the sweet cool of woods,

Where Satyrs frolic with the Nymphs, secludes

From rabble rout, so but Euterpe's breath

Fail not the flute, nor Polyhymnia fly

Averse from stringing new the Lesbian lyre.

O, write my name among that minstrel choir,

And my proud head shall strike upon the sky!

II.

JAM SATIS TERRIS.

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,

Caesar'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 Caesar thou!

III.

SIC TE DIVA.

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.

Daedalus 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.

IV.

SOLVITUR ACRIS HIEMS.

The touch of Zephyr and of Spring has loosen'd Winter's thrall;

The well-dried keels are wheel'd again to sea:

The ploughman cares not for his fire, nor cattle for their stall,

And frost no more is whitening all the lea.

Now Cytherea leads the dance, the bright moon overhead;

The Graces and the Nymphs, together knit,

With rhythmic feet the meadow beat, while Vulcan, fiery red,

Heats the Cyclopian forge in Aetna's pit.

'Tis now the time to wreathe the brow with branch of myrtle green,

Or flowers, just opening to the vernal breeze;

Now Faunus claims his sacrifice among the shady treen,

Lambkin or kidling, which soe'er he please.

Pale Death, impartial, walks his round; he knocks at cottage-gate

And palace-portal. Sestius, child of bliss!

How should a mortal's hopes be long, when short his being's date?

Lo here! the fabulous ghosts, the dark abyss,

The void of the Plutonian hall, where soon as e'er you go,

No more for you shall leap the auspicious die

To seat you on the throne of wine; no more your breast shall glow

For Lycidas, the star of every eye.

V.

QUIS MULTA GRACILIS.

What slender youth, besprinkled with perfume,

Courts you on roses in some grotto's shade?

Fair Pyrrha, say, for whom

Your yellow hair you braid,

So trim, so simple! Ah! how oft shall he

Lament that faith can fail, that gods can change,

Viewing the rough black sea

With eyes to tempests strange,

Who now is basking in your golden smile,

And dreams of you still fancy-free, still kind,

Poor fool, nor knows the guile

Of the deceitful wind!

Woe to the eyes you dazzle without cloud

Untried! For me, they show in yonder fane

My dripping garments, vow'd

To Him who curbs the main.

VI.

SCRIBERIS VARIO.

Not I, but Varius:--he, of Homer's brood

A tuneful swan, shall bear you on his wing,

Your tale of trophies, won by field or flood,

Mighty alike to sing.

Not mine such themes, Agrippa; no, nor mine

To chant the wrath that fill'd Pelides' breast,

Nor dark Ulysses' wanderings o'er the brine,

Nor Pelops' house unblest.

Vast were the task, I feeble; inborn shame,

And she, who makes the peaceful lyre submit,

Forbid me to impair great Caesar's fame

And yours by my weak wit.

But who may fitly sing of Mars array'd

In adamant mail, or Merion, black with dust

Of Troy, or Tydeus' son by Pallas' aid

Strong against gods to thrust?

Feasts are my theme, my warriors maidens fair,

Who with pared nails encounter youths in fight;

Be Fancy free or caught in Cupid's snare,

Her temper still is light.

VII.

LAUDABUNT ALII.

Let others Rhodes or Mytilene sing,

Or Ephesus, or Corinth, set between

Two seas, or Thebes, or Delphi, for its king

Each famous, or Thessalian Tempe green;

There are who make chaste Pallas' virgin tower

The daily burden of unending song,

And search for wreaths the olive's rifled bower;

The praise of Juno sounds from many a tongue,

Telling of Argos' steeds, Mycenaes's gold.

For me stern Sparta forges no such spell,

No, nor Larissa's plain of richest mould,

As bright Albunea echoing from her cell.

O headlong Anio! O Tiburnian groves,

And orchards saturate with shifting streams!

Look how the clear fresh south from heaven removes

The tempest, nor with rain perpetual teems!

You too be wise, my Plancus: life's worst cloud

Will melt in air, by mellow wine allay'd,

Dwell you in camps, with glittering banners proud,

Or 'neath your Tibur's canopy of shade.

When Teucer fled before his father's frown

From Salamis, they say his temples deep

He dipp'd in wine, then wreath'd with poplar crown,

And bade his comrades lay their grief to sleep:

"Where Fortune bears us, than my sire more kind,

There let us go, my own, my gallant crew.

'Tis Teucer leads, 'tis Teucer breathes the wind;

No more despair; Apollo's word is true.

Another Salamis in kindlier air

Shall yet arise. Hearts, that have borne with me

Worse buffets! drown to-day in wine your care;

To-morrow we recross the wide, wide sea!"

VIII.

LYDIA, DIC PER OMNES.

Lydia, by all above,

Why bear so hard on Sybaris, to ruin him with love?

What change has made him shun

The playing-ground, who once so well could bear the dust and sun?

Why does he never sit

On horseback in his company, nor with uneven bit

His Gallic courser tame?

Why dreads he yellow Tiber, as 'twould sully that fair frame?

Like poison loathes the oil,

His arms no longer black and blue with honourable toil,

He who erewhile was known

For quoit or javelin oft and oft beyond the limit thrown?

Why skulks he, as they say

Did Thetis' son before the dawn of Ilion's fatal day,

For fear the manly dress

Should fling him into danger's arms, amid the Lycian press?

IX.

VIDES UT ALTA.

See, how it stands, one pile of snow,

Soracte! 'neath the pressure yield

Its groaning woods; the torrents' flow

With clear sharp ice is all congeal'd.

Heap high the logs, and melt the cold,

Good Thaliarch; draw the wine we ask,

That mellower vintage, four-year-old,

From out the cellar'd Sabine cask.

The future trust with Jove; when He

Has still'd the warring tempests' roar

On the vex'd deep, the cypress-tree

And aged ash are rock'd no more.

O, ask not what the morn will bring,

But count as gain each day that chance

May give you; sport in life's young spring,

Nor scorn sweet love, nor merry dance,

While years are green, while sullen eld

Is distant. Now the walk, the game,

The whisper'd talk at sunset held,

Each in its hour, prefer their claim.

Sweet too the laugh, whose feign'd alarm

The hiding-place of beauty tells,

The token, ravish'd from the arm

Or finger, that but ill rebels.

X.

MERCURI FACUNDE.

Grandson of Atlas, wise of tongue,

O Mercury, whose wit could tame

Man's savage youth by power of song

And plastic game!

Thee sing I, herald of the sky,

Who gav'st the lyre its music sweet,

Hiding whate'er might please thine eye

In frolic cheat.

See, threatening thee, poor guileless child,

Apollo claims, in angry tone,

His cattle;--all at once he smiled,

His quiver gone.

Strong in thy guidance, Hector's sire

Escaped the Atridae, pass'd between

Thessalian tents and warders' fire,

Of all unseen.

Thou lay'st unspotted souls to rest;

Thy golden rod pale spectres know;

Blest power! by all thy brethren blest,

Above, below!

XI

TU NE QUAESIERIS.

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.

XII.

QUEMN VIRUM AUT HEROA.

What man, what hero, Clio sweet,

On harp or flute wilt thou proclaim?

What god shall echo's voice repeat

In mocking game

To Helicon's sequester'd shade,

Or Pindus, or on Haemus chill,

Where once the hurrying woods obey'd

The minstrel's will,

Who, by his mother's gift of song,

Held the fleet stream, the rapid breeze,

And led with blandishment along

The listening trees?

Whom praise we first? the Sire on high,

Who gods and men unerring guides,

Who rules the sea, the earth, the sky,

Their times and tides.

No mightier birth may He beget;

No like, no second has He known;

Yet nearest to her sire's is set

Minerva's throne.

Nor yet shall Bacchus pass unsaid,

Bold warrior, nor the virgin foe

Of savage beasts, nor Phoebus, dread

With deadly bow.

Alcides too shall be my theme,

And Leda's twins, for horses be,

He famed for boxing; soon as gleam

Their stars at sea,

The lash'd spray trickles from the steep,

The wind sinks down, the storm-cloud flies,

The threatening billow on the deep

Obedient lies.

Shall now Quirinus take his turn,

Or quiet Numa, or the state

Proud Tarquin held, or Cato stern,

By death made great?

Ay, Regulus and the Scaurian name,

And Paullus, who at Cannae gave

His glorious soul, fair record claim,

For all were brave.

Thee, Furius, and Fabricius, thee,

Rough Curius too, with untrimm'd beard,

Your sires' transmitted poverty

To conquest rear'd.

Marcellus' fame, its up-growth hid,

Springs like a tree; great Julius' light

Shines, like the radiant moon amid

The lamps of night.

Dread Sire and Guardian of man's race,

To Thee, O Jove, the Fates assign

Our Caesar's charge; his power and place

Be next to Thine.

Whether the Parthian, threatening Rome,

His eagles scatter to the wind,

Or follow to their eastern home

Cathay and Ind,

Thy second let him rule below:

Thy car shall shake the realms above;

Thy vengeful bolts shall overthrow

Each guilty grove.

XIII.

CUM TU, LYDIA.

Telephus--you praise him still,

His waxen arms, his rosy-tinted neck;

Ah! and all the while I thrill

With jealous pangs I cannot, cannot check.

See, my colour comes and goes,

My poor heart flutters, Lydia, and the dew,

Down my cheek soft stealing, shows

What lingering torments rack me through and through.

Oh, 'tis agony to see

Those snowwhite shoulders scarr'd in drunken fray,

Or those ruby lips, where he

Has left strange marks, that show how rough his play!

Never, never look to find

A faithful heart in him whose rage can harm

Sweetest lips, which Venus kind

Has tinctured with her quintessential charm.

Happy, happy, happy they

Whose living love, untroubled by all strife,

Binds them till the last sad day,

Nor parts asunder but with parting life!

XIV

O NAVIS, REFERENT.

O LUCKLESS bark! new waves will force you back

To sea. O, haste to make the haven yours!

E'en now, a helpless wrack,

You drift, despoil'd of oars;

The Afric gale has dealt your mast a wound;

Your sailyards groan, nor can your keel sustain,

Till lash'd with cables round,

A more imperious main.

Your canvass hangs in ribbons, rent and torn;

No gods are left to pray to in fresh need.

A pine of Pontus born

Of noble forest breed,

You boast your name and lineage--madly blind!

Can painted timbers quell a seaman's fear?

Beware! or else the wind

Makes you its mock and jeer.

Your trouble late made sick this heart of mine,

And still I love you, still am ill at ease.

O, shun the sea, where shine

The thick-sown Cyclades!

XV.

PASTOR CUM TRAHERET.

When the false swain was hurrying o'er the deep

His Spartan hostess in the Idaean bark,

Old Nereus laid the unwilling winds asleep,

That all to Fate might hark,

Speaking through him:--"Home in ill hour you take

A prize whom Greece shall claim with troops untold,

Leagued by an oath your marriage tie to break

And Priam's kingdom old.

Alas! what deaths you launch on Dardan realm!

What toils are waiting, man and horse to tire!

See! Pallas trims her aegis and her helm,

Her chariot and her ire.

Vainly shall you, in Venus' favour strong,

Your tresses comb, and for your dames divide

On peaceful lyre the several parts of song;

Vainly in chamber hide

From spears and Gnossian arrows, barb'd with fate,

And battle's din, and Ajax in the chase

Unconquer'd; those adulterous locks, though late,

Shall gory dust deface.

Hark! 'tis the death-cry of your race! look back!

Ulysses comes, and Pylian Nestor grey;

See! Salaminian Teucer on your track,

And Sthenelus, in the fray

Versed, or with whip and rein, should need require,

No laggard. Merion too your eyes shall know

From far. Tydides, fiercer than his sire,

Pursues you, all aglow;

Him, as the stag forgets to graze for fright,

Seeing the wolf at distance in the glade,

And flies, high panting, you shall fly, despite

Boasts to your leman made.

What though Achilles' wrathful fleet postpone

The day of doom to Troy and Troy's proud dames,

Her towers shall fall, the number'd winters flown,

Wrapp'd in Achaean flames."

XVI.

O MATRE PULCHRA.

O lovelier than the lovely dame

That bore you, sentence as you please

Those scurril verses, be it flame

Your vengeance craves, or Hadrian seas.

Not Cybele, nor he that haunts

Rich Pytho, worse the brain confounds,

Not Bacchus, nor the Corybants

Clash their loud gongs with fiercer sounds

Than savage wrath; nor sword nor spear

Appals it, no, nor ocean's frown,

Nor ravening fire, nor Jupiter

In hideous ruin crashing down.

Prometheus, forced, they say, to add

To his prime clay some favourite part

From every kind, took lion mad,

And lodged its gall in man's poor heart.

'Twas wrath that laid Thyestes low;

'Tis wrath that oft destruction calls

On cities, and invites the foe

To drive his plough o'er ruin'd walls.

Then calm your spirit; I can tell

How once, when youth in all my veins

Was glowing, blind with rage, I fell

On friend and foe in ribald strains.

Come, let me change my sour for sweet,

And smile complacent as before:

Hear me my palinode repeat,

And give me back your heart once more.

XVII. VELOX AMOENUM.

The pleasures of Lucretilis

Tempt Faunus from his Grecian seat;

He keeps my little goats in bliss

Apart from wind, and rain, and heat.

In safety rambling o'er the sward

For arbutes and for thyme they peer,

The ladies of the unfragrant lord,

Nor vipers, green with venom, fear,

Nor savage wolves, of Mars' own breed,

My Tyndaris, while Ustica's dell

Is vocal with the silvan reed,

And music thrills the limestone fell.

Heaven is my guardian; Heaven approves

A blameless life, by song made sweet;

Come hither, and the fields and groves

Their horn shall empty at your feet.

Here, shelter'd by a friendly tree,

In Teian measures you shall sing

Bright Circe and Penelope,

Love-smitten both by one sharp sting.

Here shall you quaff beneath the shade

Sweet Lesbian draughts that injure none,

Nor fear lest Mars the realm invade

Of Semele's Thyonian son,

Lest Cyrus on a foe too weak

Lay the rude hand of wild excess,

His passion on your chaplet wreak,

Or spoil your undeserving dress.

XVIII.

NULLAM, VARE.

Varus, are your trees in planting? put in none before the vine,

In the rich domain of Tibur, by the walls of Catilus;

There's a power above that hampers all that sober brains design,

And the troubles man is heir to thus are quell'd, and only thus.

Who can talk of want or warfare when the wine is in his head,

Not of thee, good father Bacchus, and of Venus fair and bright?

But should any dream of licence, there's a lesson may be read,

How 'twas wine that drove the Centaurs with the Lapithae to fight.

And the Thracians too may warn us; truth and falsehood, good and

ill,

How they mix them, when the wine-god's hand is heavy on them laid!

Never, never, gracious Bacchus, may I move thee 'gainst thy will,

Or uncover what is hidden in the verdure of thy shade!

Silence thou thy savage cymbals, and the Berecyntine horn;

In their train Self-love still follows, dully, desperately

blind,

And Vain-glory, towering upwards in its empty-headed scorn,

And the Faith that keeps no secrets, with a window in its mind.

XIX.

MATER SAEVA CUPIDINUM

Cupid's mother, cruel dame,

And Semele's Theban boy, and Licence bold,

Bid me kindle into flame

This heart, by waning passion now left cold.

O, the charms of Glycera,

That hue, more dazzling than the Parian stone!

O, that sweet tormenting play,

That too fair face, that blinds when look'd upon!

Venus comes in all her might,

Quits Cyprus for my heart, nor lets me tell

Of the Parthian, hold in flight,

Nor Scythian hordes, nor aught that breaks her spell.

Heap the grassy altar up,

Bring vervain, boys, and sacred frankincense;

Fill the sacrificial cup;

A victim's blood will soothe her vehemence.

XX.

VILE POTABIS.

Not large my cups, nor rich my cheer,

This Sabine wine, which erst I seal'd,

That day the applauding theatre

Your welcome peal'd,

Dear knight Maecenas! as 'twere fain

That your paternal river's banks,

And Vatican, in sportive strain,

Should echo thanks.

For you Calenian grapes are press'd,

And Caecuban; these cups of mine

Falernum's bounty ne'er has bless'd,

Nor Formian vine.

XXI.

DIANAM TENERAE.

Of Dian's praises, tender maidens, tell;

Of Cynthus' unshorn god, young striplings, sing;

And bright Latona, well

Beloved of Heaven's high King.

Sing her that streams and silvan foliage loves,

Whate'er on Algidus' chill brow is seen,

In Erymanthian groves

Dark-leaved, or Cragus green.

Sing Tempe too, glad youths, in strain as loud,

And Phoebus' birthplace, and that shoulder fair,

His golden quiver proud

And brother's lyre to bear.

His arm shall banish Hunger, Plague, and War

To Persia and to Britain's coast, away

From Rome and Caesar far,

If you have zeal to pray.

XXII.

INTEGER VITAE.

No need of Moorish archer's craft

To guard the pure and stainless liver;

He wants not, Fuscus, poison'd shaft

To store his quiver,

Whether he traverse Libyan shoals,

Or Caucasus, forlorn and horrent,

Or lands where far Hydaspes rolls

His fabled torrent.

A wolf, while roaming trouble-free

In Sabine wood, as fancy led me,

Unarm'd I sang my Lalage,

Beheld, and fled me.

Dire monster! in her broad oak woods

Fierce Daunia fosters none such other,

Nor Juba's land, of lion broods

The thirsty mother.

Place me where on the ice-bound plain

No tree is cheer'd by summer breezes,

Where Jove descends in sleety rain

Or sullen freezes;

Place me where none can live for heat,

'Neath Phoebus' very chariot plant me,

That smile so sweet, that voice so sweet,

Shall still enchant me.

XXIII.

VITAS HINNULEO.

You fly me, Chloe, as o'er trackless hills

A young fawn runs her timorous dam to find,

Whom empty terror thrills

Of woods and whispering wind.

Whether 'tis Spring's first shiver, faintly heard

Through the light leaves, or lizards in the brake

The rustling thorns have stirr'd,

Her heart, her knees, they quake.

Yet I, who chase you, no grim lion am,

No tiger fell, to crush you in my gripe:

Come, learn to leave your dam,

For lover's kisses ripe.

XXIV.

QUIS DESIDERIO.

Why blush to let our tears unmeasured fall

For one so dear? Begin the mournful stave,

Melpomene, to whom the Sire of all

Sweet voice with music gave.

And sleeps he then the heavy sleep of death,

Quintilius? Piety, twin sister dear

Of Justice! naked Truth! unsullied Faith!

When will ye find his peer?

By many a good man wept. Quintilius dies;

By none than you, my Virgil, trulier wept:

Devout in vain, you chide the faithless skies,

Asking your loan ill-kept.

No, though more suasive than the bard of Thrace

You swept the lyre that trees were fain to hear,

Ne'er should the blood revisit his pale face

Whom once with wand severe

Mercury has folded with the sons of night,

Untaught to prayer Fate's prison to unseal.

Ah, heavy grief! but patience makes more light

What sorrow may not heal.

XXVI.

MUSIS AMICUS.

The Muses love me: fear and grief,

The winds may blow them to the sea;

Who quail before the wintry chief

Of Scythia's realm, is nought to me.

What cloud o'er Tiridates lowers,

I care not, I. O, nymph divine

Of virgin springs, with sunniest flowers

A chaplet for my Lamia twine,

Pimplea sweet! my praise were vain

Without thee. String this maiden lyre,

Attune for him the Lesbian strain,

O goddess, with thy sister quire!

XXVII.

NATIS IN USUM.

What, fight with cups that should give joy?

'Tis barbarous; leave such savage ways

To Thracians. Bacchus, shamefaced boy,

Is blushing at your bloody frays.

The Median sabre! lights and wine!

Was stranger contrast ever seen?

Cease, cease this brawling, comrades mine,

And still upon your elbows lean.

Well, shall I take a toper's part

Of fierce Falernian? let our guest,

Megilla's brother, say what dart

Gave the death-wound that makes him blest.

He hesitates? no other hire

Shall tempt my sober brains. Whate'er

The goddess tames you, no base fire

She kindles; 'tis some gentle fair

Allures you still. Come, tell me truth,

And trust my honour.--That the name?

That wild Charybdis yours? Poor youth!

O, you deserved a better flame!

What wizard, what Thessalian spell,

What god can save you, hamper'd thus?

To cope with this Chimaera fell

Would task another Pegasus.

XXVIII.

TE MARIS ET TERRA.

The sea, the earth, the innumerable sand,

Archytas, thou couldst measure; now, alas!

A little dust on Matine shore has spann'd

That soaring spirit; vain it was to pass

The gates of heaven, and send thy soul in quest

O'er air's wide realms; for thou hadst yet to die.

Ay, dead is Pelops' father, heaven's own guest,

And old Tithonus, rapt from earth to sky,

And Minos, made the council-friend of Jove;

And Panthus' son has yielded up his breath

Once more, though down he pluck'd the shield, to prove

His prowess under Troy, and bade grim death

O'er skin and nerves alone exert its power,

Not he, you grant, in nature meanly read.

Yes, all "await the inevitable hour;"

The downward journey all one day must tread.

Some bleed, to glut the war-god's savage eyes;

Fate meets the sailor from the hungry brine;

Youth jostles age in funeral obsequies;

Each brow in turn is touch'd by Proserpine.

Me, too, Orion's mate, the Southern blast,

Whelm'd in deep death beneath the Illyrian wave.

But grudge not, sailor, of driven sand to cast

A handful on my head, that owns no grave.

So, though the eastern tempests loudly threat

Hesperia's main, may green Venusia's crown

Be stripp'd, while you lie warm; may blessings yet

Stream from Tarentum's guard, great Neptune, down,

And gracious Jove, into your open lap!

What! shrink you not from crime whose punishment

Falls on your innocent children? it may hap

Imperious Fate will make yourself repent.

My prayers shall reach the avengers of all wrong;

No expiations shall the curse unbind.

Great though your haste, I would not task you long;

Thrice sprinkle dust, then scud before the wind.

XXIX.

ICCI, BEATIS.

Your heart on Arab wealth is set,

Good Iccius: you would try your steel

On Saba's kings, unconquer'd yet,

And make the Mede your fetters feel.

Come, tell me what barbarian fair

Will serve you now, her bridegroom slain?

What page from court with essenced hair

Will tender you the bowl you drain,

Well skill'd to bend the Serian bow

His father carried? Who shall say

That rivers may not uphill flow,

And Tiber's self return one day,

If you would change Panaetius' works,

That costly purchase, and the clan

Of Socrates, for shields and dirks,

Whom once we thought a saner man?

XXX.

O VENUS.

Come, Cnidian, Paphian Venus, come,

Thy well-beloved Cyprus spurn,

Haste, where for thee in Glycera's home

Sweet odours burn.

Bring too thy Cupid, glowing warm,

Graces and Nymphs, unzoned and free,

And Youth, that lacking thee lacks charm,

And Mercury.

XXXI.

QUID DEDICATUM.

What blessing shall the bard entreat

The god he hallows, as he pours

The winecup? Not the mounds of wheat

That load Sardinian threshing floors;

Not Indian gold or ivory--no,

Nor flocks that o'er Calabria stray,

Nor fields that Liris, still and slow,

Is eating, unperceived, away.

Let those whose fate allows them train

Calenum's vine; let trader bold

From golden cups rich liquor drain

For wares of Syria bought and sold,

Heaven's favourite, sooth, for thrice a-year

He comes and goes across the brine

Undamaged. I in plenty here

On endives, mallows, succory dine.

O grant me, Phoebus, calm content,

Strength unimpair'd, a mind entire,

Old age without dishonour spent,

Nor unbefriended by the lyre!

XXXII.

POSCIMUR.

They call;--if aught in shady dell

We twain have warbled, to remain

Long months or years, now breathe, my shell,

A Roman strain,

Thou, strung by Lesbos' minstrel hand,

The bard, who 'mid the clash of steel,

Or haply mooring to the strand

His batter'd keel,

Of Bacchus and the Muses sung,

And Cupid, still at Venus' side,

And Lycus, beautiful and young,

Dark-hair'd, dark-eyed.

O sweetest lyre, to Phoebus dear,

Delight of Jove's high festival,

Blest balm in trouble, hail and hear

Whene'er I call!

XXXIII.

ALBI, NE DOLEAS.

What, Albius! why this passionate despair

For cruel Glycera? why melt your voice

In dolorous strains, because the perjured fair

Has made a younger choice?

See, narrow-brow'd Lycoris, how she glows

For Cyrus! Cyrus turns away his head

To Pholoe's frown; but sooner gentle roes

Apulian wolves shall wed,

Than Pholoe to so mean a conqueror strike:

So Venus wills it; 'neath her brazen yoke

She loves to couple forms and minds unlike,

All for a heartless joke.

For me sweet Love had forged a milder spell;

But Myrtale still kept me her fond slave,

More stormy she than the tempestuous swell

That crests Calabria's wave.

XXXIV.

PARCUS DEORUM.

My prayers were scant, my offerings few,

While witless wisdom fool'd my mind;

But now I trim my sails anew,

And trace the course I left behind.

For lo! the Sire of heaven on high,

By whose fierce bolts the clouds are riven,

To-day through an unclouded sky

His thundering steeds and car has driven.

E'en now dull earth and wandering floods,

And Atlas' limitary range,

And Styx, and Taenarus' dark abodes

Are reeling. He can lowliest change

And loftiest; bring the mighty down

And lift the weak; with whirring flight

Comes Fortune, plucks the monarch's crown,

And decks therewith some meaner wight.

XXXV.

O DIVA, GRATUM.

Lady of Antium, grave and stern!

O Goddess, who canst lift the low

To high estate, and sudden turn

A triumph to a funeral show!

Thee the poor hind that tills the soil

Implores; their queen they own in thee,

Who in Bithynian vessel toil

Amid the vex'd Carpathian sea.

Thee Dacians fierce, and Scythian hordes,

Peoples and towns, and Koine, their head,

And mothers of barbarian lords,

And tyrants in their purple dread,

Lest, spurn'd by thee in scorn, should fall

The state's tall prop, lest crowds on fire

To arms, to arms! the loiterers call,

And thrones be tumbled in the mire.

Necessity precedes thee still

With hard fierce eyes and heavy tramp:

Her hand the nails and wedges fill,

The molten lead and stubborn clamp.

Hope, precious Truth in garb of white,

Attend thee still, nor quit thy side

When with changed robes thou tak'st thy flight

In anger from the homes of pride.

Then the false herd, the faithless fair,

Start backward; when the wine runs dry,

The jocund guests, too light to bear

An equal yoke, asunder fly.

O shield our Caesar as he goes

To furthest Britain, and his band,

Rome's harvest! Send on Eastern foes

Their fear, and on the Red Sea strand!

O wounds that scarce have ceased to run!

O brother's blood! O iron time!

What horror have we left undone?

Has conscience shrunk from aught of crime?

What shrine has rapine held in awe?

What altar spared? O haste and beat

The blunted steel we yet may draw

On Arab and on Massagete!

XXXVI.

ET THURE, ET FIDIBUS.

Bid the lyre and cittern play;

Enkindle incense, shed the victim's gore;

Heaven has watch'd o'er Numida,

And brings him safe from far Hispania's shore.

Now, returning, he bestows

On each, dear comrade all the love he can;

But to Lamia most he owes,

By whose sweet side he grew from boy to man.

Note we in our calendar

This festal day with whitest mark from Crete:

Let it flow, the old wine-jar,

And ply to Salian time your restless feet.

Damalis tosses off her wine,

But Bassus sure must prove her match to-night.

Give us roses all to twine,

And parsley green, and lilies deathly white.

Every melting eye will rest

On Damalis' lovely face; but none may part

Damalis from our new-found guest;

She clings, and clings, like ivy, round his heart.

XXXVII.

NUNC EST BIBENDUM.

Now drink we deep, now featly tread

A measure; now before each shrine

With Salian feasts the table spread;

The time invites us, comrades mine.

'Twas shame to broach, before to-day,

The Caecuban, 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 Caesar 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 Haemonia'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.

XXXVIII.

PERSICOS ODI.

No Persian cumber, boy, for me;

I hate your garlands linden-plaited;

Leave winter's rose where on the tree

It hangs belated.

Wreath me plain myrtle; never think

Plain myrtle either's wear unfitting,

Yours as you wait, mine as I drink

In vine-bower sitting.