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The Odes/Book II
| Book I | The Odes Book II written by Horace |
Book III |
| Translated by A. S. Kline |
- To Pollio, Writing His History of the Civil Wars
- Money
- One Ending
- Loving A Servant Girl
- Be Patient
- Tibur and Tarentum
- A Friend Home From the Wars
- Faithless Barine
- Stop Weeping
- The Golden Mean
- Don’t Ask
- Terentia’s Singing
- Nearly, Tree
- Eheu Fugaces
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