The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace Part 2

Like poison loathes the oil, His arms no longer black and blue with honourable toil, He who erewhile was known For quoit or javelin oft and oft beyond the limit thrown?

Why skulks he, as they say Did Thetis' son before the dawn of Ilion's fatal day, For fear the manly dress Should fling him into danger's arms, amid the Lycian press?

IX.

VIDES UT ALTA.

See, how it stands, one pile of snow, Soracte! 'neath the pressure yield Its groaning woods; the torrents' flow With clear sharp ice is all congeal'd.

Heap high the logs, and melt the cold, Good Thaliarch; draw the wine we ask, That mellower vintage, four-year-old, From out the cellar'd Sabine cask.

The future trust with Jove; when He Has still'd the warring tempests' roar On the vex'd deep, the cypress-tree And aged ash are rock'd no more.

O, ask not what the morn will bring, But count as gain each day that chance May give you; sport in life's young spring, Nor scorn sweet love, nor merry dance, While years are green, while sullen eld Is distant. Now the walk, the game, The whisper'd talk at sunset held, Each in its hour, prefer their claim.

Sweet too the laugh, whose feign'd alarm The hiding-place of beauty tells, The token, ravish'd from the arm Or finger, that but ill rebels.

X.

MERCURI FACUNDE.

Grandson of Atlas, wise of tongue, O Mercury, whose wit could tame Man's savage youth by power of song And plastic game!

Thee sing I, herald of the sky, Who gav'st the lyre its music sweet, Hiding whate'er might please thine eye In frolic cheat.

See, threatening thee, poor guileless child, Apollo claims, in angry tone, His cattle;--all at once he smiled, His quiver gone.

Strong in thy guidance, Hector's sire Escaped the Atridae, pa.s.s'd between Thessalian tents and warders' fire, Of all unseen.

Thou lay'st unspotted souls to rest; Thy golden rod pale spectres know; Blest power! by all thy brethren blest, Above, below!

XI

TU NE QUAESIERIS.

Ask not ('tis forbidden knowledge), what our destined term of years, Mine and yours; nor scan the tables of your Babylonish seers.

Better far to bear the future, my Leuconoe, like the past, Whether Jove has many winters yet to give, or this our last; THIS, that makes the Tyrrhene billows spend their strength against the sh.o.r.e.

Strain your wine and prove your wisdom; life is short; should hope be more?

In the moment of our talking, envious time has ebb'd away.

Seize the present; trust to-morrow e'en as little as you may.

XII.

QUEMN VIRUM AUT HEROA.

What man, what hero, Clio sweet, On harp or flute wilt thou proclaim?

What G.o.d shall echo's voice repeat In mocking game To Helicon's sequester'd shade, Or Pindus, or on Haemus chill, Where once the hurrying woods obey'd The minstrel's will, Who, by his mother's gift of song, Held the fleet stream, the rapid breeze, And led with blandishment along The listening trees?

Whom praise we first? the Sire on high, Who G.o.ds and men unerring guides, Who rules the sea, the earth, the sky, Their times and tides.

No mightier birth may He beget; No like, no second has He known; Yet nearest to her sire's is set Minerva's throne.

Nor yet shall Bacchus pa.s.s unsaid, Bold warrior, nor the virgin foe Of savage beasts, nor Phoebus, dread With deadly bow.

Alcides too shall be my theme, And Leda's twins, for horses be, He famed for boxing; soon as gleam Their stars at sea, The lash'd spray trickles from the steep, The wind sinks down, the storm-cloud flies, The threatening billow on the deep Obedient lies.

Shall now Quirinus take his turn, Or quiet Numa, or the state Proud Tarquin held, or Cato stern, By death made great?

Ay, Regulus and the Scaurian name, And Paullus, who at Cannae gave His glorious soul, fair record claim, For all were brave.

Thee, Furius, and Fabricius, thee, Rough Curius too, with untrimm'd beard, Your sires' transmitted poverty To conquest rear'd.

Marcellus' fame, its up-growth hid, Springs like a tree; great Julius' light Shines, like the radiant moon amid The lamps of night.

Dread Sire and Guardian of man's race, To Thee, O Jove, the Fates a.s.sign Our Caesar's charge; his power and place Be next to Thine.

Whether the Parthian, threatening Rome, His eagles scatter to the wind, Or follow to their eastern home Cathay and Ind, Thy second let him rule below: Thy car shall shake the realms above; Thy vengeful bolts shall overthrow Each guilty grove.

XIII.

c.u.m TU, LYDIA.

Telephus--you praise him still, His waxen arms, his rosy-tinted neck; Ah! and all the while I thrill With jealous pangs I cannot, cannot check.

See, my colour comes and goes, My poor heart flutters, Lydia, and the dew, Down my cheek soft stealing, shows What lingering torments rack me through and through.

Oh, 'tis agony to see Those snowwhite shoulders scarr'd in drunken fray, Or those ruby lips, where he Has left strange marks, that show how rough his play!

Never, never look to find A faithful heart in him whose rage can harm Sweetest lips, which Venus kind Has tinctured with her quintessential charm.

Happy, happy, happy they Whose living love, untroubled by all strife, Binds them till the last sad day, Nor parts asunder but with parting life!

XIV

O NAVIS, REFERENT.

O LUCKLESS bark! new waves will force you back To sea. O, haste to make the haven yours!

E'en now, a helpless wrack, You drift, despoil'd of oars; The Afric gale has dealt your mast a wound; Your sailyards groan, nor can your keel sustain, Till lash'd with cables round, A more imperious main.

Your canva.s.s hangs in ribbons, rent and torn; No G.o.ds are left to pray to in fresh need.

A pine of Pontus born Of n.o.ble forest breed, You boast your name and lineage--madly blind!

Can painted timbers quell a seaman's fear?

Beware! or else the wind Makes you its mock and jeer.

Your trouble late made sick this heart of mine, And still I love you, still am ill at ease.

O, shun the sea, where shine The thick-sown Cyclades!

XV.