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|author=Horace
|author=Horace
|title=[[The Odes]]
|title=[[The Odes]]
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|previous=[[The Odes/Book III|Book III]]
|previous=[[The Odes/Book III|Book III]]
|section= Book IV
|section= Book IV
|notes=Translated by [[A. S. Kline]]
|notes=
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=== Book IV ===
#[[The Odes/Book IV/1|Venus, be Merciful]]
#[[The Odes/Book IV/1|Venus, be Merciful]]
#[[The Odes/Book IV/2|Augustus’s Return]]
#[[The Odes/Book IV/2|Augustus’s Return]]
Line 17: Line 19:
#[[The Odes/Book IV/5|To Augustus]]
#[[The Odes/Book IV/5|To Augustus]]
#[[The Odes/Book IV/6|To Apollo]]
#[[The Odes/Book IV/6|To Apollo]]
=== BkIV:VII Diffugere Nives ===
#[[The Odes/Book IV/7|Diffugere Nives]]
 
#[[The Odes/Book IV/8|Poetry]]
 
#[[The Odes/Book IV/9|Lollius]]
#[[The Odes/Book IV/10|Age]]
The snow has vanished, already the grass returns to the fields,
#[[The Odes/Book IV/11|Maecenas’ Birthday]]
 
#[[The Odes/Book IV/12|Spring]]
and the leaves to the branches:
#[[The Odes/Book IV/13|You too, Lyce]]
 
#[[The Odes/Book IV/14|Drusus and Tiberius]]
earth alters its state, and the steadily lessening rivers
#[[The Odes/Book IV/15|To Augustus]]
 
slide quietly past their banks:
 
 
The Grace, and the Nymphs, with both of her sisters, is daring enough,
 
leading her dancers, naked.
 
The year, and the hour that snatches the kindly day away, warn you:
 
don’t hope for undying things.
 
 
Winter gives way to the westerly winds, spring’s trampled to ruin
 
by summer, and in its turn
 
fruitful autumn pours out its harvest, barely a moment before
 
lifeless winter is back again.
 
 
Yet swift moons are always repairing celestial losses:
 
while, when we have descended
 
to virtuous Aeneas, to rich Tullus and Ancus, our kings,
 
we’re only dust and shadow.
 
 
Who knows whether the gods above will add tomorrow’s hours
 
to the total of today?
 
All those you devote to a friendly spirit will escape from
 
the grasping hands of your heirs.
 
 
When once you’re dead, my Torquatus, and Minos pronounces
 
his splendid judgement on you,
 
no family, no eloquence, no righteousness even,
 
can restore you again:
 
 
Persephone never frees Hippolytus, chaste as he is,
 
from the shadow of darkness,
 
nor has Theseus, for his dear Pirithous, the power to
 
shatter those Lethean chains.
 
 
 
 
=== BkIV:VIII Poetry ===
 
 
I’d give bowls, generously, and pleasing bronzes,
 
to all of my comrades, my dear Censorinus,
 
I’d give tripods, the prizes that mighty Greeks gave,
 
and you wouldn’t be seeing the least of my gifts,
 
if I were, appropriately, rich in the works
 
Scopas produced, or Parrhasius created,
 
the latter in marble, the former in painting,
 
now expert in showing heroes, and now, a god.
 
But I’ve no such powers, and your spirit and state
 
don’t ask for any such kinds of amusement.
 
You delight in poetry, poetry we can
 
deliver, and establish the worth of the gift.
 
It’s not marble, carved out with public inscriptions,
 
and by which, after death, life and spirit return
 
to great generals, it’s not Hannibal’s rapid
 
retreat, once repulsed, with his threats turned against him,
 
nor is it the burning of impious Carthage,
 
that more gloriously declares all the praises
 
of him who winning a name from his African
 
conquest, came home, than the Calabrian Muses:
 
and you wouldn’t receive the reward for your deeds
 
if the books were silent. What would the child of Mars
 
and of Ilia be today, if mute envy
 
stood in the way of Romulus’s just merits?
 
The virtue, and favour, and speech of powerful
 
poets snatches Aeacus from Stygian streams,
 
immortalising him, in the Isles of the Blessed.
 
It’s the Muse who prevents the hero worth praising
 
from dying. The Muse gladdens heaven. So, tireless
 
Heracles shares the table of Jove he hoped for,
 
so the bright stars of the Twins, Tyndareus’ sons,
 
snatch storm-tossed ships out of the depths of the waters,
 
and Bacchus, his brow wreathed, in the green sprays of vine,
 
brings all of our prayers to a fortunate outcome.
 
 
 
 
=== BkIV:IX Lollius ===
 
 
Don’t think that the words I speak to accompany
 
the lyre ( I, born near thunderous Aufidus,
 
plying those skills not generally known
 
before) are destined to utterly die:
 
 
Though Maeonian Homer holds the first place,
 
Pindar’s Muse is not hidden, Simonides’
 
of Ceos, nor threatening Alcaeus’,
 
nor that of the stately Stesichorus:
 
 
time hasn’t erased what Anacreon once
 
played: and the love of the Lesbian girl still
 
breathes, all the passion that Sappho
 
committed to that Aeolian lyre.
 
 
Laconian Helen wasn’t the only one
 
inflamed by marvelling at an adulterer’s
 
elegant hair, or gold-spangled clothes,
 
his regal manners, and his companions,
 
 
Teucer wasn’t the first to fire an arrow
 
from a Cydonian bow, more than once great
 
Troy was troubled: Idomeneus
 
the mighty, and Sthenelus weren’t alone
 
 
in fighting wars sung by the Muses: Hector
 
the fierce and brave Deiophobus weren’t the first
 
to suffer the weight of heavy blows
 
for the sake of their chaste wives, and children.
 
 
Many brave men lived before Agamemnon:
 
but all are imprisoned in unending night,
 
all of them are unwept and unknown,
 
because of the lack of a sacred bard.
 
 
Courage that’s concealed in the tomb, is little
 
different to cowardice. Lollius I won’t
 
be silent about you in my verse,
 
(you’re celebrated) nor allow envious
 
 
oblivion to prey with impunity
 
on your many exploits. You’ve a mind that’s versed
 
in affairs, that’s just, in dubious
 
times, or in the most favourable ones,
 
 
punishing avaricious deceit, restrained
 
with money that draws everything to itself,
 
not a Consul of a single year,
 
but a judge often, one honest and true,
 
 
preferring honour to expediency,
 
with a noble look rejecting the criminal’s
 
bribe, a conqueror carrying arms
 
through the hostile ranks of the enemy.
 
 
It’s not right to call a man blessed because he
 
owns much: he more truly deserves a name for
 
being happy, who knows how to make
 
a wiser use of the gifts from the gods,
 
 
and how to endure the harshest poverty,
 
who’s a greater fear of dishonour than death:
 
he’s not afraid to die for the friends
 
that he loves, or to die for his country.
 
 
 
 
=== BkIV:X Age ===
 
 
O you who are cruel still, and a master of Venus’s gifts,
 
when a white, unexpected plumage surmounts all your arrogance,
 
and the tresses that wave on your shoulders have all been shorn away,
 
and the colour that now outshines the flower of the crimson rose
 
is transformed, my Ligurinus, and has changed into roughened skin:
 
whenever you look at your altered face in the mirror, you’ll say:
 
‘Why didn’t I have, when I was a youth, the mind I have today,
 
or why can’t those untouched cheeks return to visit this soul of mine?’
 
 
 
 
=== BkIV:XI Maecenas’ Birthday ===
 
 
I’ve a jar of Alban wine over nine years
 
old: and there’s parsley for weaving your garlands,
 
in the garden, Phyllis, and see, there’s a huge
 
amount of ivy,
 
 
with which you shine whenever it ties your hair:
 
the house gleams with silver: the altar is wreathed
 
with pure vervain, and waits to be stained with blood,
 
a sacrificed lamb:
 
 
All hands are scurrying: here and there, a crowd
 
of boys and girls are running, and see the flames
 
are flickering, sending the sooty smoke rolling
 
high up in the air.
 
 
And so that you know to what happiness you’re
 
invited, it’s the Ides that are the reason,
 
they’re the days that divide the month of April,
 
of sea-born Venus,
 
 
it’s truly a solemn day for me, and more
 
sacred to me almost than my own birthday,
 
because from that morning Maecenas reckons
 
the flow of his years.
 
 
A rich, an impudent, young girl has captured
 
Telephus, one you desire, and who’s above
 
your station, and holds him prisoner, fettered
 
with beautiful chains.
 
 
Scorched Phaethon’s a warning to hope’s ambition,
 
and winged Pegasus offered a harsh example
 
in refusing his back to Bellerephon,
 
his earthly rider:
 
 
always pursue what’s appropriate for you,
 
consider it wrong to hope for what isn’t
 
allowed, for someone who isn’t your equal.
 
Come now, my last love,
 
 
(since I’ll burn for no other woman after
 
you) learn verses you’ll repeat in your lovely
 
voice: the darkest of cares will be lessened
 
by means of your song.
 
 
 
 
=== BkIV:XII Spring ===
 
 
Now Spring’s companions, the Thracian northerlies,
 
that quieten the ocean, are swelling the canvas:
 
now fields are unfrozen, and rivers stop roaring
 
with their volumes of winter snow.
 
 
The sad swallow, tearfully mourning Itys, builds
 
her nest, she’s the House of Cecrops’ eternal shame,
 
avenging the barbarous lust of Tereus
 
with too savage a cruelty.
 
 
The shepherds, with indolent sheep, in the soft grass,
 
sing their songs to the sound of the pipes, and delight
 
great god, Pan, who is pleased with the flocks, and is pleased
 
by the dark hills of Arcady.
 
 
And, Virgil, the season has brought its thirst to us:
 
but if you’re eager to sip at a grape that was pressed
 
at Cales, you follower of noble youth, then
 
earn your wine with a gift of nard.
 
 
One small onyx box of nard elicits a jar
 
that’s lying there now in Sulpicius’ cellar,
 
sufficient for granting fresh hope, and effective
 
at washing away bitter care.
 
 
If you’re in a rush for pleasures like this, come quick
 
with your purchase: since I refuse to consider
 
dipping a gift-less you, in my wine, as if I’m
 
rich, my house filled with everything.
 
 
But abolish delay, and desire for profit,
 
and, remembering death’s sombre flames, while you can,
 
mix a little brief foolishness with your wisdom:
 
it’s sweet sometimes to play the fool.
 
 
 
 
=== BkIV:XIII You too, Lyce ===
 
 
Lyce, the gods have heard my prayers, the gods have
 
heard me, Lyce: you’re growing old, but still desire
 
the power of beauty, and still
 
you play, and drink quite shamelessly,
 
 
and, drunk, you urge dull Cupid on with tremulous
 
singing. He’s keeping watch on the beautiful cheeks
 
of Chia the young and fresh,
 
who’s expert at playing the harp.
 
 
For he flies disdainfully past the withered oak,
 
and he runs away from you, since you’re disfigured
 
by those now yellowing teeth,
 
those wrinkles, and that greying hair.
 
 
Now gowns of Coan purple, and those expensive
 
jewels, won’t bring back time, that the passage of days
 
has shut away, and buried,
 
a matter of public record.
 
 
Where’s Venus fled, alas, and beauty? And where now
 
are your graceful gestures? What is left of that girl,
 
that girl who once breathed of love,
 
who stole me away from myself,
 
 
happy when Cinara had vanished, and famous
 
for your looks and your charming ways? The Fates granted
 
Cinara the briefest years,
 
preserving Lyce, endlessly,
 
 
to suffer as long a life as an ancient crow,
 
so that the burning youths with many a ripple
 
of laughter, are here to gaze
 
at a fire that’s fallen to ashes.
 
 
 
 
=== BkIV:XIV Drusus and Tiberius ===
 
 
What care the Citizens and the Senators
 
shall take in immortalising your virtues,
 
granting you full honours, Augustus,
 
with titles and memorial plaques, O,
 
 
greatest of princes, wherever the sun shines
 
over the countries where people can live, you,
 
whose power in war the Vindelici
 
free of our Roman laws, till now, have learnt.
 
 
For, with your army, brave Drusus, demolished
 
the Genauni, that implacable race, in more
 
direct retaliation, the swift
 
Breuni, and their defences, established
 
 
on the formidable Alpine heights: and soon
 
Tiberius, the elder Nero, entered
 
that fierce fight, with his favourable
 
omens, defeating the wild Rhaetians:
 
 
it was wonderful to see with what destruction,
 
in contesting the war, he exhausted those minds
 
intent on the deaths of our freemen,
 
as the south wind, almost, when it troubles
 
 
the ungovernable waves, while the Pleiades’
 
constellation pierces the clouds, he was eager
 
to attack the hostile ranks, and drive
 
his neighing horse through the midst of their fire.
 
 
As, bull-like, the Aufidus rolls on, flowing
 
by the domains of Apulian Daunus,
 
when it rages and threatens fearful
 
destruction to their cultivated fields,
 
 
so Tiberius overwhelmed the armoured
 
ranks of barbarians, his fierce impetus
 
covering the earth, mowing down front
 
and rear, and conquering them without loss,
 
 
yours the troops, the strategy and the friendly
 
gods. For on that date when Alexandria
 
opened all its harbour, and empty
 
palaces to you, in supplication,
 
 
good Fortune, fifteen years later, delivered
 
a favourable outcome to the campaign,
 
and awarded fame, and the glory
 
hoped-for, to your imperial action.
 
 
The Spaniards, never conquered before, the Medes,
 
the Indians, marvel at you, the roving
 
Scythians, O eager protector
 
of Italy and Imperial Rome.
 
 
The Nile, that conceals its origin, hears you,
 
the Danube hears, and the swift-flowing Tigris,
 
the Ocean, filled with monsters, roaring
 
around the distant island of Britain,
 
 
and the regions of Gaul, unafraid of death,
 
and the stubborn Iberian land, hear you:
 
Sygambri, delighting in slaughter,
 
stand, with grounded weapons, worshipping you.
 
 
 
 
=== BkIV:XV To Augustus ===
 
 
Phoebus condemned my verse, when I tried to sing
 
of war and conquered cities, lest I unfurled
 
my tiny sail on Tyrrhenian
 
seas. Caesar, this age has restored rich crops
 
 
to the fields, and brought back the standards, at last,
 
to Jupiter, those that we’ve now recovered
 
from insolent Parthian pillars,
 
and closed the gates of Romulus’ temple,
 
 
freed at last from all war, and tightened the rein
 
on lawlessness, straying beyond just limits,
 
and has driven out crime, and summoned
 
the ancient arts again, by which the name
 
 
of Rome and Italian power grew great,
 
and the fame and majesty of our empire,
 
were spread from the sun’s lair in the west,
 
to the regions where it rises at dawn.
 
 
With Caesar protecting the state, no civil
 
disturbance will banish the peace, no violence,
 
no anger that forges swords, and makes
 
mutual enemies of wretched towns.
 


The tribes who drink from the depths of the Danube,
will not break the Julian law, the Getae,
nor Seres, nor faithless Persians,
nor those who are born by the Don’s wide stream.


   
   


On working days, and the same on holy days,
=== Index of First Lines ===


among laughter-loving Bacchus’ gifts to us,


with our wives and our children we’ll pray,


at first, to the gods, in the rites laid down,
=== Metres Used in Book IV. ===


then, in the manner of our fathers, bravely,
in verse, that’s accompanied by Lydian flutes,


we’ll sing past leaders, we’ll sing of Troy,
Anchises, and the people of Venus.
== Index of First Lines ==
Venus now you’ve returned again. 5
Iulus, whoever tries to rival Pindar,7
Melpomene, Muse, one whom you. 9
Like the winged agent of the bright lightning-bolt,10
Son of the blessed gods, and greatest defender13
God, whom Niobe’s children encountered, O.. 15
The snow has vanished, already the grass returns to the fields,17
I’d give bowls, generously, and pleasing bronzes,18
Don’t think that the words I speak to accompany. 19
O you who are cruel still, and a master of Venus’s gifts,21
I’ve a jar of Alban wine over nine years. 22
Now Spring’s companions, the Thracian northerlies,24
Lyce, the gods have heard my prayers, the gods have. 25
What care the Citizens and the Senators. 26
Phoebus condemned my verse, when I tried to sing. 28
== Metres Used in Book IV. ==
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: 4,9,14,15
Sapphic and Adonic: 11(5+6) three times, 5
Odes: 2,6,11
First Asclepiadean: 12 (6+6) all lines
Ode: 8
Second Asclepiadean: 8, 12 (6+6), alternating
Odes: 1,3
Third Asclepiadean: 12 (6+6) three times, 8
Odes 5,12
Fourth Asclepiadean: 12 (6+6) twice, 7, 8
Ode:13
Fifth Asclepiadean: 16 (6+4+6) all lines
Ode: 10
Alcmanic Strophe: 17 (7+10) or less, 11 or less, alternating
Odes: None in Book IV
First Archilochian: 17 (7+10) or less, 7 alternating
Ode: 7
Fourth Archilochian Strophe: 18 (7+11) or less, 11 (5+6) alternating
Odes: None in Book IV
Second Sapphic Strophe: 7, 15 (5+10) alternating
Odes: None in Book IV
Trochaic Strophe: 7,11 alternating
Odes: None in Book IV
Ionic a Minore: 16 twice, 8
Ode: None in Book IV
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[[Category:Poetry]]
[[Category:Poetry]]
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Latest revision as of 20:46, 26 January 2013

Book III The Odes
Book IV
written by Horace



Book IV

  1. Venus, be Merciful
  2. Augustus’s Return
  3. To The Muse
  4. Drusus and the Claudians
  5. To Augustus
  6. To Apollo
  7. Diffugere Nives
  8. Poetry
  9. Lollius
  10. Age
  11. Maecenas’ Birthday
  12. Spring
  13. You too, Lyce
  14. Drusus and Tiberius
  15. To Augustus



Index of First Lines

Metres Used in Book IV.

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