The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace Part 6

x.x.xVIII.

PERSICOS ODI.

No Persian c.u.mber, boy, for me; I hate your garlands linden-plaited; Leave winter's rose where on the tree It hangs belated.

Wreath me plain myrtle; never think Plain myrtle either's wear unfitting, Yours as you wait, mine as I drink In vine-bower sitting.

BOOK II.

I.

MOTUM EX METELLO.

The broils that from Metellus date, The secret springs, the dark intrigues, The freaks of Fortune, and the great Confederate in disastrous leagues, And arms with uncleansed slaughter red, A work of danger and distrust, You treat, as one on fire should tread, Scarce hid by treacherous ashen crust.

Let Tragedy's stern muse be mute Awhile; and when your order'd page Has told Rome's tale, that buskin'd foot Again shall mount the Attic stage, Pollio, the pale defendant's s.h.i.+eld, In deep debate the senate's stay, The hero of Dalmatic field By Triumph crown'd with deathless bay.

E'en now with trumpet's threatening blare You thrill our ears; the clarion brays; The lightnings of the armour scare The steed, and daunt the rider's gaze.

Methinks I hear of leaders proud With no uncomely dust distain'd, And all the world by conquest bow'd, And only Cato's soul unchain'd.

Yes, Juno and the powers on high That left their Afric to its doom, Have led the victors' progeny As victims to Jugurtha's tomb.

What field, by Latian blood-drops fed, Proclaims not the unnatural deeds It buries, and the earthquake dread Whose distant thunder shook the Medes?

What gulf, what river has not seen Those sights of sorrow? nay, what sea Has Daunian carnage yet left green?

What coast from Roman blood is free?

But pause, gay Muse, nor leave your play Another Cean dirge to sing; With me to Venus' bower away, And there attune a lighter string.

II.

NULLUS ARGENTO.

The silver, Sall.u.s.t, shows not fair While buried in the greedy mine: You love it not till moderate wear Have given it s.h.i.+ne.

Honour to Proculeius! he To brethren play'd a father's part; Fame shall embalm through years to be That n.o.ble heart.

Who curbs a greedy soul may boast More power than if his broad-based throne Bridged Libya's sea, and either coast Were all his own.

Indulgence bids the dropsy grow; Who fain would quench the palate's flame Must rescue from the watery foe The pale weak frame.

Phraates, throned where Cyrus sate, May count for blest with vulgar herds, But not with Virtue; soon or late From lying words She weans men's lips; for him she keeps The crown, the purple, and the bays, Who dares to look on treasure-heaps With unblench'd gaze.

III.

AEQUAM, MEMENTO.

An equal mind, when storms o'ercloud, Maintain, nor 'neath a brighter sky Let pleasure make your heart too proud, O Dellius, Dellius! sure to die, Whether in gloom you spend each year, Or through long holydays at ease In gra.s.sy nook your spirit cheer With old Falernian vintages, Where poplar pale, and pine-tree high Their hospitable shadows spread Entwined, and panting waters try To hurry down their zigzag bed.

Bring wine and scents, and roses' bloom, Too brief, alas! to that sweet place, While life, and fortune, and the loom Of the Three Sisters yield you grace.

Soon must you leave the woods you buy, Your villa, wash'd by Tiber's flow, Leave,--and your treasures, heap'd so high, Your reckless heir will level low.

Whether from Argos' founder born In wealth you lived beneath the sun, Or nursed in beggary and scorn, You fall to Death, who pities none.

One way all travel; the dark urn Shakes each man's lot, that soon or late Will force him, hopeless of return, On board the exile-s.h.i.+p of Fate.

IV.

NE SIT ANCILLAE

Why, Xanthias, blush to own you love Your slave? Briseis, long ago, A captive, could Achilles move With breast of snow.

Tecmessa's charms enslaved her lord, Stout Ajax, heir of Telamon; Atrides, in his pride, adored The maid he won, When Troy to Thessaly gave way, And Hector's all too quick decease Made Pergamus an easier prey To wearied Greece.

What if, as auburn Phyllis' mate, You graft yourself on regal stem?

Oh yes! be sure her sires were great; She weeps for THEM.

Believe me, from no rascal sc.u.m Your charmer sprang; so true a flame, Such hate of greed, could never come From vulgar dame.

With honest fervour I commend Those lips, those eyes; you need not fear A rival, hurrying on to end His fortieth year.

VI.

SEPTIMI, GADES.

Septimius, who with me would brave Far Gades, and Cantabrian land Untamed by Home, and Moorish wave That whirls the sand; Fair Tibur, town of Argive kings, There would I end my days serene, At rest from seas and travellings, And service seen.

Should angry Fate those wishes foil, Then let me seek Galesus, sweet To skin-clad sheep, and that rich soil, The Spartan's seat.

O, what can match the green recess, Whose honey not to Hybla yields, Whose olives vie with those that bless Venafrum's fields?

Long springs, mild winters glad that spot By Jove's good grace, and Aulon, dear To fruitful Bacchus, envies not Falernian cheer.

That spot, those happy heights desire Our sojourn; there, when life shall end, Your tear shall dew my yet warm pyre, Your bard and friend.

VII.

O SAEPE MEc.u.m.

O, Oft with me in troublous time Involved, when Brutus warr'd in Greece, Who gives you back to your own clime And your own G.o.ds, a man of peace, Pompey, the earliest friend I knew, With whom I oft cut short the hours With wine, my hair bright bathed in dew Of Syrian oils, and wreathed with flowers?

With you I shared Philippi's rout, Unseemly parted from my s.h.i.+eld, When Valour fell, and warriors stout Were tumbled on the inglorious field: But I was saved by Mercury, Wrapp'd in thick mist, yet trembling sore, While you to that tempestuous sea Were swept by battle's tide once more.

Come, pay to Jove the feast you owe; Lay down those limbs, with warfare spent, Beneath my laurel; nor be slow To drain my cask; for you 'twas meant.

Lethe's true draught is Ma.s.sic wine; Fill high the goblet; pour out free Rich streams of unguent. Who will twine The hasty wreath from myrtle-tree Or parsley? Whom will Venus seat Chairman of cups? Are Bacchants sane?