The Odes/Book II

Book I

The Odes Book II written by Horace

Book III

Translated by A. S. Kline

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

BkII:XII Terentia’s Singing

You’d not wish the theme of Numantia’s fierce wars

matched to the lyre’s soft tones, nor cruel Hannibal,

nor the Sicilian Sea turned to dark crimson

by the Carthaginians’ blood,

nor the savage Lapiths, and drunken Hylaeus

filled with excess wine, nor Hercules with his hand

taming the sons of earth, at the danger of which

ancient Saturn’s glittering house

was shaken: you’d be better yourself, Maecenas,

at writing prose histories of Caesar’s battles,

and telling us about all those menacing kings,

now led by the neck through the streets.

The Muse wishes me to speak of the sweet singing

of your lady Terentia, and speak of her bright

flashing eyes, and speak of that heart of hers, that is

so faithful in mutual love:

she to whom it’s not unbecoming to adopt

the lead among the dancers, or compete in wit,

or, that holy day that honours Diana, give

her arm in play to shining girls.

Would you exchange now, one hair of Terentia’s

for what rich Achaemenes owned, Mygdonian

wealth of fertile Phrygia, or

the Arabians’ well-stocked homes,

while she bends her neck for those passionate kisses,

or in gentle cruelty refuses to yield them,

more than he who asks likes having them taken: then

at times surprises by taking?

BkII:XIII Nearly, Tree

Tree, whoever planted you first it was done

on an evil day, and, with sacrilegious

hands, he raised you for utter ruin

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,

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