The Odes/Book IV

Book III

The Odes Book IV written by Horace

Translated by A. S. Kline

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

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,

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,

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