The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace

VII

DIFFUGERE NIVES

     The snow is fled: the trees their leaves put on,           The fields their green:     Earth owns the change, and rivers lessening run.           Their banks between.     Naked the Nymphs and Graces in the meads           The dance essay:     "No 'scaping death" proclaims the year, that speeds           This sweet spring day.     Frosts yield to zephyrs; Summer drives out Spring,           To vanish, when     Rich Autumn sheds his fruits; round wheels the ring,—           Winter again!     Yet the swift moons repair Heaven's detriment:           We, soon as thrust     Where good Aeneas, Tullus, Ancus went,           What are we? dust.     Can Hope assure you one more day to live           From powers above?     You rescue from your heir whate'er you give           The self you love.     When life is o'er, and Minos has rehearsed           The grand last doom,     Not birth, nor eloquence, nor worth, shall burst           Torquatus' tomb.     Not Dian's self can chaste Hippolytus           To life recall,     Nor Theseus free his loved Pirithous           From Lethe's thrall.

VIII

DONAREM PATERAS

     Ah Censorinus! to my comrades true       Rich cups, rare bronzes, gladly would I send:     Choice tripods from Olympia on each friend       Would I confer, choicer on none than you,     Had but my fate such gems of art bestow'd       As cunning Scopas or Parrhasius wrought,       This with the brush, that with the chisel taught     To image now a mortal, now a god.     But these are not my riches: your desire       Such luxury craves not, and your means disdain:       A poet's strain you love; a poet's strain     Accept, and learn the value of the lyre.     Not public gravings on a marble base,       Whence comes a second life to men of might       E'en in the tomb: not Hannibal's swift flight,     Nor those fierce threats flung back into his face,     Not impious Carthage in its last red blaze,       In clearer light sets forth his spotless fame,       Who from crush'd Afric took away—a name,     Than rude Calabria's tributary lays.     Let silence hide the good your hand has wrought.       Farewell, reward! Had blank oblivion's power       Dimm'd the bright deeds of Romulus, at this hour,     Despite his sire and mother, he were nought.     Thus Aeacus has 'scaped the Stygian wave,       By grace of poets and their silver tongue,       Henceforth to live the happy isles among.     No, trust the Muse: she opes the good man's grave,     And lifts him to the gods. So Hercules,       His labours o'er, sits at the board of Jove:       So Tyndareus' offspring shine as stars above,     Saving lorn vessels from the yawning seas:     So Bacchus, with the vine-wreath round his hair,       Gives prosperous issue to his votary's prayer.

IX

NE FORTE CREDAS

     Think not those strains can e'er expire,       Which, cradled 'mid the echoing roar     Of Aufidus, to Latium's lyre       I sing with arts unknown before.     Though Homer fill the foremost throne,       Yet grave Stesichorus still can please,     And fierce Alcaeus holds his own,       With Pindar and Simonides.     The songs of Teos are not mute,       And Sappho's love is breathing still:     She told her secret to the lute,       And yet its chords with passion thrill.     Not Sparta's queen alone was fired       By broider'd robe and braided tress,     And all the splendours that attired       Her lover's guilty loveliness:     Not only Teucer to the field       His arrows brought, nor Ilion     Beneath a single conqueror reel'd:       Not Crete's majestic lord alone,     Or Sthenelus, earn'd the Muses' crown:       Not Hector first for child and wife,     Or brave Deiphobus, laid down       The burden of a manly life.     Before Atrides men were brave:       But ah! oblivion, dark and long,     Has lock'd them in a tearless grave,       For lack of consecrating song.     'Twixt worth and baseness, lapp'd in death,       What difference? YOU shall ne'er be dumb,     While strains of mine have voice and breath:       The dull neglect of days to come     Those hard-won honours shall not blight:       No, Lollius, no: a soul is yours,     Clear-sighted, keen, alike upright       When fortune smiles, and when she lowers:     To greed and rapine still severe,       Spurning the gain men find so sweet:     A consul, not of one brief year,       But oft as on the judgment-seat     You bend the expedient to the right,       Turn haughty eyes from bribes away,     Or bear your banners through the fight,       Scattering the foeman's firm array.     The lord of boundless revenues,       Salute not him as happy: no,     Call him the happy, who can use       The bounty that the gods bestow,     Can bear the load of poverty,       And tremble not at death, but sin:     No recreant he when called to die       In cause of country or of kin.

XI

EST MIHI NONUM

     Here is a cask of Alban, more       Than nine years old: here grows     Green parsley, Phyllis, and good store           Of ivy too      (Wreathed ivy suits your hair, you know)       The plate shines bright: the altar, strewn     With vervain, hungers for the flow           Of lambkin's blood.     There's stir among the serving folk;       They bustle, bustle, boy and girl;     The flickering flames send up the smoke           In many a curl.     But why, you ask, this special cheer?       We celebrate the feast of Ides,     Which April's month, to Venus dear,           In twain divides.     O, 'tis a day for reverence,       E'en my own birthday scarce so dear,     For my Maecenas counts from thence           Each added year.     'Tis Telephus that you'd bewitch:       But he is of a high degree;     Bound to a lady fair and rich,           He is not free.     O think of Phaethon half burn'd,       And moderate your passion's greed:     Think how Bellerophon was spurn'd           By his wing'd steed.     So learn to look for partners meet,       Shun lofty things, nor raise your aims     Above your fortune. Come then, sweet,           My last of flames      (For never shall another fair       Enslave me), learn a tune, to sing     With that dear voice: to music care           Shall yield its sting.

XII

JAM VERIS COMITES

     The gales of Thrace, that hush the unquiet sea,       Spring's comrades, on the bellying canvas blow:     Clogg'd earth and brawling streams alike are free         From winter's weight of snow.     Wailing her Itys in that sad, sad strain,       Builds the poor bird, reproach to after time     Of Cecrops' house, for bloody vengeance ta'en         On foul barbaric crime.     The keepers of fat lambkins chant their loves       To silvan reeds, all in the grassy lea,     And pleasure Him who tends the flocks and groves         Of dark-leaved Arcady.     It is a thirsty season, Virgil mine:       But would you taste the grape's Calenian juice,     Client of noble youths, to earn your wine         Some nard you must produce.     A tiny box of nard shall bring to light       The cask that in Sulpician cellar lies:     O, it can give new hopes, so fresh and bright,         And gladden gloomy eyes.     You take the bait? then come without delay       And bring your ware: be sure, 'tis not my plan     To let you drain my liquor and not pay,         As might some wealthy man.     Come, quit those covetous thoughts, those knitted brows,       Think on the last black embers, while you may,     And be for once unwise. When time allows,         'Tis sweet the fool to play.

XIII

AUDIVERE, LYCE

     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.

XIV

QUAE CURA PATRUM

     What honours can a grateful Rome,       A grateful senate, Caesar, give     To make thy worth through days to come       Emblazon'd on our records live,     Mightiest of chieftains whomsoe'er       The sun beholds from heaven on high?     They know thee now, thy strength in war,       Those unsubdued Vindelici.     Thine was the sword that Drusus drew,       When on the Breunian hordes he fell,     And storm'd the fierce Genaunian crew       E'en in their Alpine citadel,     And paid them back their debt twice told;       'Twas then the elder Nero came     To conflict, and in ruin roll'd       Stout Raetian kernes of giant frame.     O, 'twas a gallant sight to see       The shocks that beat upon the brave     Who chose to perish and be free!       As south winds scourge the rebel wave     When through rent clouds the Pleiads weep,       So keen his force to smite, and smite     The foe, or make his charger leap       Through the red furnace of the fight.     Thus Daunia's ancient river fares,       Proud Aufidus, with bull-like horn,     When swoln with choler he prepares       A deluge for the fields of corn.     So Claudius charged and overthrew       The grim barbarian's mail-clad host,     The foremost and the hindmost slew,       And conquer'd all, and nothing lost.     The force, the forethought, were thine own,       Thine own the gods. The selfsame day     When, port and palace open thrown,       Low at thy footstool Egypt lay,     That selfsame day, three lustres gone,       Another victory to thine hand     Was given; another field was won       By grace of Caesar's high command.     Thee Spanish tribes, unused to yield,       Mede, Indian, Scyth that knows no home,     Acknowledge, sword at once and shield       Of Italy and queenly Rome.     Ister to thee, and Tanais fleet,       And Nile that will not tell his birth,     To thee the monstrous seas that beat       On Britain's coast, the end of earth,     To thee the proud Iberians bow,       And Gauls, that scorn from death to flee;     The fierce Sygambrian bends his brow,       And drops his arms to worship thee

XV

PHOEBUS VOLENTEM

     Of battles fought I fain had told,       And conquer'd towns, when Phoebus smote     His harp-string: "Sooth, 'twere over-bold       To tempt wide seas in that frail boat."     Thy age, great Caesar, has restored       To squalid fields the plenteous grain,     Given back to Rome's almighty Lord       Our standards, torn from Parthian fane,     Has closed Quirinian Janus' gate,       Wild passion's erring walk controll'd,     Heal'd the foul plague-spot of the state,       And brought again the life of old,     Life, by whose healthful power increased       The glorious name of Latium spread     To where the sun illumes the east       From where he seeks his western bed.     While Caesar rules, no civil strife       Shall break our rest, nor violence rude,     Nor rage, that whets the slaughtering knife       And plunges wretched towns in feud.     The sons of Danube shall not scorn       The Julian edicts; no, nor they     By Tanais' distant river born,       Nor Persia, Scythia, or Cathay.     And we on feast and working-tide,       While Bacchus' bounties freely flow,     Our wives and children at our side,       First paying Heaven the prayers we owe,     Shall sing of chiefs whose deeds are done,       As wont our sires, to flute or shell,     And Troy, Anchises, and the son       Of Venus on our tongues shall dwell.

CARMEN SAECULARE

PHOEBE, SILVARUMQUE

     Phoebus and Dian, huntress fair,       To-day and always magnified,     Bright lights of heaven, accord our prayer           This holy tide,     On which the Sibyl's volume wills       That youths and maidens without stain     To gods, who love the seven dear hills,           Should chant the strain!     Sun, that unchanged, yet ever new,       Lead'st out the day and bring'st it home,     May nought be present to thy view           More great than Rome!     Blest Ilithyia! be thou near       In travail to each Roman dame!     Lucina, Genitalis, hear,           Whate'er thy name!     O make our youth to live and grow!       The fathers' nuptial counsels speed,     Those laws that shall on Rome bestow           A plenteous seed!     So when a hundred years and ten       Bring round the cycle, game and song     Three days, three nights, shall charm again           The festal throng.     Ye too, ye Fates, whose righteous doom,       Declared but once, is sure as heaven,     Link on new blessings, yet to come,           To blessings given!     Let Earth, with grain and cattle rife,       Crown Ceres' brow with wreathen corn;     Soft winds, sweet waters, nurse to life           The newly born!     O lay thy shafts, Apollo, by!       Let suppliant youths obtain thine ear!     Thou Moon, fair "regent of the sky,"           Thy maidens hear!     If Rome is yours, if Troy's remains,       Safe by your conduct, sought and found     Another city, other fanes           On Tuscan ground,     For whom, 'mid fires and piles of slain,       AEneas made a broad highway,     Destined, pure heart, with greater gain.           Their loss to pay,     Grant to our sons unblemish'd ways;       Grant to our sires an age of peace;     Grant to our nation power and praise,           And large increase!     See, at your shrine, with victims white,       Prays Venus and Anchises' heir!     O prompt him still the foe to smite,           The fallen to spare!     Now Media dreads our Alban steel,       Our victories land and ocean o'er;     Scythia and Ind in suppliance kneel,           So proud before.     Faith, Honour, ancient Modesty,       And Peace, and Virtue, spite of scorn,     Come back to earth; and Plenty, see,           With teeming horn.     Augur and lord of silver bow,       Apollo, darling of the Nine,     Who heal'st our frame when languors slow           Have made it pine;     Lov'st thou thine own Palatial hill,       Prolong the glorious life of Rome     To other cycles, brightening still           Through time to come!     From Algidus and Aventine       List, goddess, to our grave Fifteen!     To praying youths thine ear incline,           Diana queen!     Thus Jove and all the gods agree!       So trusting, wend we home again,     Phoebus and Dian's singers we,           And this our strain.FINIS