The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace Part 5

Come, Cnidian, Paphian Venus, come, Thy well-beloved Cyprus spurn, Haste, where for thee in Glycera's home Sweet odours burn.

Bring too thy Cupid, glowing warm, Graces and Nymphs, unzoned and free, And Youth, that lacking thee lacks charm, And Mercury.

x.x.xI.

QUID DEDICATUM.

What blessing shall the bard entreat The G.o.d he hallows, as he pours The winecup? Not the mounds of wheat That load Sardinian threshing floors; Not Indian gold or ivory--no, Nor flocks that o'er Calabria stray, Nor fields that Liris, still and slow, Is eating, unperceived, away.

Let those whose fate allows them train Calenum's vine; let trader bold From golden cups rich liquor drain For wares of Syria bought and sold, Heaven's favourite, sooth, for thrice a-year He comes and goes across the brine Undamaged. I in plenty here On endives, mallows, succory dine.

O grant me, Phoebus, calm content, Strength unimpair'd, a mind entire, Old age without dishonour spent, Nor unbefriended by the lyre!

x.x.xII.

POSCIMUR.

They call;--if aught in shady dell We twain have warbled, to remain Long months or years, now breathe, my sh.e.l.l, A Roman strain, Thou, strung by Lesbos' minstrel hand, The bard, who 'mid the clash of steel, Or haply mooring to the strand His batter'd keel, Of Bacchus and the Muses sung, And Cupid, still at Venus' side, And Lycus, beautiful and young, Dark-hair'd, dark-eyed.

O sweetest lyre, to Phoebus dear, Delight of Jove's high festival, Blest balm in trouble, hail and hear Whene'er I call!

x.x.xIII.

ALBI, NE DOLEAS.

What, Albius! why this pa.s.sionate despair For cruel Glycera? why melt your voice In dolorous strains, because the perjured fair Has made a younger choice?

See, narrow-brow'd Lycoris, how she glows For Cyrus! Cyrus turns away his head To Pholoe's frown; but sooner gentle roes Apulian wolves shall wed, Than Pholoe to so mean a conqueror strike: So Venus wills it; 'neath her brazen yoke She loves to couple forms and minds unlike, All for a heartless joke.

For me sweet Love had forged a milder spell; But Myrtale still kept me her fond slave, More stormy she than the tempestuous swell That crests Calabria's wave.

x.x.xIV.

PARCUS DEORUM.

My prayers were scant, my offerings few, While witless wisdom fool'd my mind; But now I trim my sails anew, And trace the course I left behind.

For lo! the Sire of heaven on high, By whose fierce bolts the clouds are riven, To-day through an unclouded sky His thundering steeds and car has driven.

E'en now dull earth and wandering floods, And Atlas' limitary range, And Styx, and Taenarus' dark abodes Are reeling. He can lowliest change And loftiest; bring the mighty down And lift the weak; with whirring flight Comes Fortune, plucks the monarch's crown, And decks therewith some meaner wight.

x.x.xV.

O DIVA, GRATUM.

Lady of Antium, grave and stern!

O G.o.ddess, who canst lift the low To high estate, and sudden turn A triumph to a funeral show!

Thee the poor hind that tills the soil Implores; their queen they own in thee, Who in Bithynian vessel toil Amid the vex'd Carpathian sea.

Thee Dacians fierce, and Scythian hordes, Peoples and towns, and Koine, their head, And mothers of barbarian lords, And tyrants in their purple dread, Lest, spurn'd by thee in scorn, should fall The state's tall prop, lest crowds on fire To arms, to arms! the loiterers call, And thrones be tumbled in the mire.

Necessity precedes thee still With hard fierce eyes and heavy tramp: Her hand the nails and wedges fill, The molten lead and stubborn clamp.

Hope, precious Truth in garb of white, Attend thee still, nor quit thy side When with changed robes thou tak'st thy flight In anger from the homes of pride.

Then the false herd, the faithless fair, Start backward; when the wine runs dry, The jocund guests, too light to bear An equal yoke, asunder fly.

O shield our Caesar as he goes To furthest Britain, and his band, Rome's harvest! Send on Eastern foes Their fear, and on the Red Sea strand!

O wounds that scarce have ceased to run!

O brother's blood! O iron time!

What horror have we left undone?

Has conscience shrunk from aught of crime?

What shrine has rapine held in awe?

What altar spared? O haste and beat The blunted steel we yet may draw On Arab and on Ma.s.sagete!

x.x.xVI.

ET THURE, ET FIDIBUS.

Bid the lyre and cittern play; Enkindle incense, shed the victim's gore; Heaven has watch'd o'er Numida, And brings him safe from far Hispania's sh.o.r.e.

Now, returning, he bestows On each, dear comrade all the love he can; But to Lamia most he owes, By whose sweet side he grew from boy to man.

Note we in our calendar This festal day with whitest mark from Crete: Let it flow, the old wine-jar, And ply to Salian time your restless feet.

Damalis tosses off her wine, But Ba.s.sus sure must prove her match to-night.

Give us roses all to twine, And parsley green, and lilies deathly white.

Every melting eye will rest On Damalis' lovely face; but none may part Damalis from our new-found guest; She clings, and clings, like ivy, round his heart.

x.x.xVII.

NUNC EST BIBENDUM.

Now drink we deep, now featly tread A measure; now before each shrine With Salian feasts the table spread; The time invites us, comrades mine.

'Twas shame to broach, before to-day, The Caecuban, while Egypt's dame Threaten'd our power in dust to lay And wrap the Capitol in flame, Girt with her foul emasculate throng, By Fortune's sweet new wine befool'd, In hope's ungovern'd weakness strong To hope for all; but soon she cool'd, To see one ship from burning 'scape; Great Caesar taught her dizzy brain, Made mad by Mareotic grape, To feel the sobering truth of pain, And gave her chase from Italy, As after doves fierce falcons speed, As hunters 'neath Haemonia's sky Chase the tired hare, so might he lead The fiend enchain'd; SHE sought to die More n.o.bly, nor with woman's dread Quail'd at the steel, nor timorously In her fleet ships to covert fled.

Amid her ruin'd halls she stood Unblench'd, and fearless to the end Grasp'd the fell snakes, that all her blood Might with the cold black venom blend, Death's purpose flushing in her face; Nor to our ships the glory gave, That she, no vulgar dame, should grace A triumph, crownless, and a slave.