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{{header
|author=Horace
|author=Horace
|title=[[The Odes]]
|title=[[The Odes]]
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|previous=[[The Odes/Book I|Book I]]
|previous=[[The Odes/Book I|Book I]]
|section= Book II
|section= Book II
|notes=Translated by [[A. S. Kline]]
|notes=
}}
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<div class="verse">
<div class="verse">


 
=== Book II ===
# [[The Odes/Book II/1|To Pollio, Writing His History of the Civil Wars]]  
# [[The Odes/Book II/1|To Pollio, Writing His History of the Civil Wars]]  
# [[The Odes/Book II/2|Money]]  
# [[The Odes/Book II/2|Money]]  
Line 23: Line 25:
# [[The Odes/Book II/11|Don’t Ask]]
# [[The Odes/Book II/11|Don’t Ask]]
# [[The Odes/Book II/12|Terentia’s Singing]]
# [[The Odes/Book II/12|Terentia’s Singing]]
=== BkII:XIII Nearly, Tree ===
# [[The Odes/Book II/13|Nearly, Tree]]
# [[The Odes/Book II/14|Eheu Fugaces]]
# [[The Odes/Book II/15|Excess]]
# [[The Odes/Book II/16|Contentment]]
# [[The Odes/Book II/17|We’ll Go Together]]
# [[The Odes/Book II/18|Vain Riches]]
# [[The Odes/Book II/19|To Bacchus]]
# [[The Odes/Book II/20|Poetic Immortality]]


=== Index of First Lines ===


=== Metres Used in Book I ===
Tree, whoever planted you first it was done


on an evil day, and, with sacrilegious


hands, he raised you for utter ruin
[[Category:Poetry]]
 
of posterity, and this region’s shame.
 
 
He’ll have broken his father’s neck, I guess:
 
he’ll have sprinkled the blood of a guest around,
 
in an inner room, in deepest night:
 
he’ll have dabbled with Colchian poisons,
 
 
and whatever, wherever, evil’s conceived,
 
that man who one planted you there in my field,
 
you, sad trunk, who were destined to fall
 
on the head of your innocent master.
 
 
Men are never quite careful enough about
 
what they should avoid: the Carthaginian
 
sailor’s afraid of the Bosphorus,
 
but not the hidden dangers, beyond, elsewhere:
 
 
Soldiers fear the Persians’ arrows and rapid
 
flight, the Persians fear Italian power, and chains:
 
but they don’t expect the forces of death,
 
that have snatched away the races of men.
 
 
How close I was, now, to seeing the kingdom
 
of dark Proserpine, and Aeacus judging,
 
and the seats set aside for the good,
 
and Sappho still complaining about
 
 
the local girls, on her Aeolian lyre,
 
and you, Alcaeus, with a golden plectrum,
 
sounding more fully the sailor’s woe,
 
the woe of harsh exile, the woe of war.
 
 
The spirits wonder at both of them, singing,
 
they’re worth a reverent silence, but the crowd,
 
packed shoulder to shoulder, drinks deeper
 
of tales of warfare and banished tyrants.
 
 
No wonder that, lulled by the songs, the monster
 
with a hundred heads lowers his jet-black ears,
 
and the snakes that wriggle in the hair
 
of the Furies take time out for a rest.
 
 
Even Prometheus, even Tantalus,
 
are seduced in their torments by the sweet sound:
 
Orion doesn’t even bother
 
to chase the lions, or wary lynxes.
 
 
 
 
=== BkII:XIV Eheu Fugaces ===
 
 
Oh how the years fly, Postumus, Postumus,
 
they’re slipping away, virtue brings no respite
 
from the wrinkles that furrow our brow,
 
impending old age, Death the invincible:
 
 
not even, my friend, if with three hundred bulls
 
every day, you appease pitiless Pluto,
 
jailor of three-bodied Geryon,
 
who imprisons Tityos by the sad
 
 
stream, that every one of us must sail over,
 
whoever we are that enjoy earth’s riches,
 
whether we’re wealthy, or whether we are
 
the most destitute of humble farmers.
 
 
In vain we’ll escape from bloodiest warfare,
 
from the breakers’ roar in the Adriatic,
 
in vain, on the autumn seas, we’ll fear
 
the southerly that shatters our bodies:
 
 
We’re destined to gaze at Cocytus, winding,
 
dark languid river: the infamous daughters
 
of Danaus: and at Sisyphus,
 
son of Aeolus, condemned to long toil.
 
 
We’re destined to leave earth, home, our loving wife,
 
nor will a single tree, that you planted here,
 
follow you, it’s briefly-known master,
 
except for the much-detested cypress.
 
 
A worthier heir will drink your Caecuban,
 
that cellar a hundred keys are protecting,
 
and stain the street with a vintage wine,
 
finer than those at the Pontiff’s table.
 
 
 
 
 
=== BkII:XV Excess ===
 
 
Not long now and our princely buildings will leave
 
few acres under the plough, ornamental
 
waters appearing everywhere, spread
 
wider than the Lucrine Lake is, plane trees,
 
 
without vines, will drive out the elms: and violet
 
beds, and myrtles, and all the wealth of perfumes
 
will scatter their scent through olive groves
 
that gave their crops for a former owner.
 
 
Then thick laurel branches will shut out the sun’s
 
raging. It wasn’t the case under Romulus,
 
or long-haired Cato, it wasn’t the rule,
 
that our ancient predecessors ordained.
 
 
Private property was modest in their day,
 
the common lands vast: no private citizen
 
had a portico, measuring tens
 
of feet, laid out facing the shady north,
 
 
nor did the laws allow ordinary turf
 
to be scorned for altars, ordering cities
 
and the gods’ temples, to be adorned,
 
at public expense, with rarest marbles.
 
 
 
 
=== BkII:XVI Contentment ===
 
 
It’s peace the sailor asks of the gods, when he’s
 
caught out on the open Aegean, when dark clouds
 
have hidden the moon, and the constellations
 
shine uncertainly:
 
 
It’s peace for Thrace, so furious in battle,
 
peace for the Parthians, adorned with quivers,
 
and, Grosphus, it can’t be purchased with jewels,
 
or purple or gold.
 
 
No treasure, no consular attendants,
 
can remove the miserable mind’s disorders,
 
and all of the cares that go flying around
 
our panelled ceilings.
 
 
He lives well on little, whose meagre table
 
gleams with his father’s salt-cellar, whose soft sleep
 
isn’t driven away by anxiety,
 
or by sordid greed
 
 
Why do we struggle so hard in our brief lives
 
for possessions? Why do we exchange our land
 
for a burning foreign soil? What exile flees
 
from himself as well?
 
 
Corrupting care climbs aboard the bronze-clad ship,
 
and never falls behind the troops of horses,
 
swifter than deer, swifter than easterly winds
 
that drive on the clouds.
 
 
Let the spirit be happy today, and hate
 
the worry of what’s beyond, let bitterness
 
be tempered by a gentle smile. Nothing is
 
altogether blessed.
 
 
Bright Achilles was snatched away by swift death,
 
Tithonus was wasted by lingering old age:
 
perhaps the passing hour will offer to me
 
what it denies you.
 
 
A hundred herds of Sicilian cattle
 
low around you, mares fit for the chariot
 
bring you their neighing, you’re dressed in wool:
 
African purple
 
 
has stained it twice: truthful Fates, ‘the Sparing Ones’,
 
the Parcae, gave me a little estate, and
 
the purified breath of Greek song, and my scorn
 
for the spiteful crowd.
 
 
 
 
=== BkII:XVII We’ll Go Together ===
 
 
Why do you stifle me with your complaining?
 
It’s neither the gods’ idea nor mine to die
 
before you, Maecenas, you’re the great
 
glory, and pillar of my existence.
 
 
Ah, if some premature blow snatches away
 
half of my spirit, why should the rest remain,
 
no longer as loved, nor surviving
 
entire? That day shall lead us to ruin
 
 
together. I’m not making some treacherous
 
promise: whenever you lead the way, let’s go,
 
let’s go, prepared as friends to set out,
 
you and I, to try the final journey.
 
 
No Chimaera’s fiery breath will ever tear
 
me from you, or if he should rise against me
 
hundred handed Gyas: that’s the will
 
of all-powerful Justice and the Fates.
 
 
Whether Libra or fearful Scorpio shone
 
more powerfully on me at my natal hour,
 
or Capricorn, which is the ruler
 
of the waters that flow round Italy,
 
 
our stars were mutually aspected in their
 
marvellous way. Jupiter’s protection shone,
 
brighter for you than baleful Saturn,
 
and rescued you, and held back the rapid
 
 
wings of Fate, that day when the people crowding
 
the theatre, three times broke into wild applause:
 
I’d have received the trunk of a tree
 
on my head, if Faunus, the guardian
 
 
of Mercurial poets, hadn’t warded off
 
the blow with his hand. So remember to make
 
due offering: you build a votive shrine:
 
I’ll come and sacrifice a humble lamb.
 
 
 
=== BkII:XVIII Vain Riches ===
 
 
There’s no ivory, there’s no
 
gilded panelling, gleaming here in my house,
 
no beams of Hymettian
 
marble rest on pillars quarried in deepest
 
 
Africa, I’ve not, as heir
 
to Attalus, become unwitting owner
 
of some palace, no noble
 
ladies trail robes of Spartan purple for me.
 
 
But I’ve honour, and a vein
 
of kindly wit, and though I’m poor the rich man
 
seeks me out: I don’t demand
 
anything more of the gods, or my powerful
 
 
friend, I’m contented enough
 
blessed with my one and only Sabine Farm.
 
Day treads on the heels of day,
 
and new moons still continue to wane away.
 
 
Yet you contract on the edge
 
of the grave itself for cut marble, forget
 
the tomb and raise a palace,
 
pushing hard to extend the shore of Baiae’s
 
 
roaring seas, not rich enough
 
in mainland coast. What’s the point of tearing down
 
every neighbouring boundary
 
edging your fields, leaping over, in your greed,
 
 
the limits of your tenants? Both the husband
 
and wife, and their miserable
 
children, are driven out, and they’re left clutching
 
their household gods to their breast.
 
 
Yet there’s no royal courtyard
 
that more surely waits for a wealthy owner,
 
than greedy Orcus’ fateful
 
limits. Why stretch for more? Earth’s equally open
 
 
to the poorest of men and
 
the sons of kings: and Orcus’s ferryman
 
couldn’t be seduced by gold
 
to row back and return crafty Prometheus.
 
 
Proud Tantalus, and Pelops
 
his son, he holds fast, and whether he’s summoned,
 
or whether he’s not, he lends
 
an ear, and frees the poor man, his labours done.
 
 
 
 
=== BkII:XIX To Bacchus ===
 
 
I saw Bacchus on distant cliffs - believe me,
 
O posterity - he was teaching songs there,
 
and the Nymphs were learning them, and all
 
the goat-footed Satyrs with pointed ears.
 
 
Evoe! My mind fills with fresh fear, my heart
 
filled with Bacchus, is troubled, and violently
 
rejoices. Evoe! Spare me, Liber,
 
dreaded for your mighty thyrsus, spare me.
 
 
It’s right to sing of the wilful Bacchantes,
 
the fountain of wine, and the rivers of milk,
 
to sing of the honey that’s welling,
 
and sliding down from the hollow tree-trunks:
 
 
It’s right to sing of your bride turned goddess, your
 
Ariadne, crowned among stars: the palace
 
of Pentheus, shattered in ruins,
 
and the ending of Thracian Lycurgus.
 
 
You direct the streams, and the barbarous sea,
 
and on distant summits, you drunkenly tie
 
the hair of the Bistonian women,
 
with harmless knots made of venomous snakes.
 
 
When the impious army of Giants tried
 
to climb through the sky to Jupiter’s kingdom,
 
you hurled back Rhoetus, with the claws
 
and teeth of the terrifying lion.
 
 
Though you’re said to be more suited to dancing,
 
laughter, and games, and not equipped to suffer
 
the fighting, nevertheless you shared
 
the thick of battle as well as the peace.
 
 
Cerberus saw you, unharmed, and adorned
 
with your golden horn, and, stroking you gently,
 
with his tail, as you departed, licked
 
your ankles and feet with his triple tongue.
 
 
 
 
 
=== BkII:XX Poetic Immortality ===
 
 
A poet of dual form, I won’t be carried
 
through the flowing air on weak or mundane wings,
 
nor will I linger down here on earth,
 
for any length of time: beyond envy,
 
 
I’ll leave the cities behind. It’s not I, born
 
of poor parents, it’s not I, who hear your voice,


beloved Maecenas, I who’ll die,
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or be encircled by Stygian waters.
 
 
Even now the rough skin is settling around
 
my ankles, and now above them I’ve become
 
a snow-white swan, and soft feathers are
 
emerging over my arms and shoulders.
 
 
Soon, a melodious bird, and more famous
 
than Icarus, Daedalus’ son, I’ll visit
 
Bosphorus’ loud shores, Gaetulian
 
Syrtes, and the Hyperborean plains.
 
 
Colchis will know me, so will the Scythians,
 
who pretend to show no fear of Italian
 
troops, and the Geloni: Spain will learn
 
from me, the expert, and those who drink Rhone.
 
 
No dirges at my insubstantial funeral,
 
no elegies, and no unseemly grieving:
 
suppress all the clamour, not for me
 
the superfluous honour of a tomb.
 
 
 
 
 
== Index of First Lines ==
 
 
 
You’re handling the Civil Wars, since Metellus. 5
 
Crispus, silver concealed in the greedy earth. 7
 
When things are troublesome, always remember,8
 
Phocian Xanthis, don’t be ashamed of love. 9
 
She’s not ready to bear a yoke on her bowed. 10
 
Septimus, you, who are prepared to visit11
 
O Pompey, often led, with me, by Brutus,12
 
If any punishment ever visited. 13
 
The rain doesn’t fall from the clouds forever14
 
You’ll live more virtuously, my Murena,15
 
Don’t ask what the warlike Spaniards are plotting,16
 
You’d not wish the theme of Numantia’s fierce wars. 17
 
Tree, whoever planted you first it was done. 18
 
Oh how the years fly, Postumus, Postumus,20
 
Not long now and our princely buildings will leave. 21
 
It’s peace the sailor asks of the gods, when he’s. 22
 
Why do you stifle me with your complaining?. 24
 
There’s no ivory, there’s no. 26
 
I saw Bacchus on distant cliffs - believe me,28
 
A poet of dual form, I won’t be carried. 30
 
 
 
== Metres Used in Book II. ==
 
 
 
The number of syllables most commonly employed in each standard line of the verse is given. This may vary slightly for effect (two beats substituted for three etc.) in a given line.
 
 
Alcaic Strophe: 11 (5+6) twice, 9, 10   
 
used in Odes: 1,3,5,7,9,11,13,14,15,17,19, 20
 
 
Sapphic and Adonic: 11(5+6) three times, 5
 
Odes: 2,4,6,8,10,16
 
 
First Asclepiadean: 12 (6+6) all lines
 
Odes: None in Book II
 
 
Second Asclepiadean: 8, 12 (6+6), alternating
 
Odes: None in Book II
 
 
Third Asclepiadean: 12 (6+6) three times, 8
 
Ode: 12
 
 
Fourth Asclepiadean: 12 (6+6) twice, 7, 8
 
Odes: None in Book II
 
 
Fifth Asclepiadean: 16 (6+4+6) all lines
 
Odes: None in Book II
 
 
Alcmanic Strophe: 17 (7+10) or less, 11 or less, alternating
 
Odes: None in Book II
 
 
First Archilochian: 17 (7+10) or less, 7 alternating
 
Odes: None in Book II
 
 
Fourth Archilochian Strophe: 18 (7+11) or less, 11 (5+6) alternating
 
Odes: None in Book II
 
 
Second Sapphic Strophe: 7, 15 (5+10) alternating
 
Odes: None in Book II
 
 
Trochaic Strophe: 7,11 alternating
 
Ode: 18
 
 
Ionic a Minore: 16 twice, 8
 
Odes: None in Book II
 
[[Category:Poetry]]

Latest revision as of 09:41, 27 January 2013

Book I The Odes
Book II
written by Horace 		Book III



Book II

  1. To Pollio, Writing His History of the Civil Wars
  2. Money
  3. One Ending
  4. Loving A Servant Girl
  5. Be Patient
  6. Tibur and Tarentum
  7. A Friend Home From the Wars
  8. Faithless Barine
  9. Stop Weeping
  10. The Golden Mean
  11. Don’t Ask
  12. Terentia’s Singing
  13. Nearly, Tree
  14. Eheu Fugaces
  15. Excess
  16. Contentment
  17. We’ll Go Together
  18. Vain Riches
  19. To Bacchus
  20. Poetic Immortality

Index of First Lines

Metres Used in Book I

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