Kitabı oku: «The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace», sayfa 6

XI
MERCURI, NAM TE

 
     Come, Mercury, by whose minstrel spell
       Amphion raised the Theban stones,
     Come, with thy seven sweet strings, my shell,
         Thy "diverse tones,"
     Nor vocal once nor pleasant, now
       To rich man's board and temple dear:
     Put forth thy power, till Lyde bow
         Her stubborn ear.
     She, like a three year colt unbroke,
       Is frisking o'er the spacious plain,
     Too shy to bear a lover's yoke,
         A husband's rein.
     The wood, the tiger, at thy call
       Have follow'd: thou canst rivers stay:
     The monstrous guard of Pluto's hall
         To thee gave way,
     Grim Cerberus, round whose Gorgon head
       A hundred snakes are hissing death,
     Whose triple jaws black venom shed,
         And sickening breath.
     Ixion too and Tityos smooth'd
       Their rugged brows: the urn stood dry
     One hour, while Danaus' maids were sooth'd
         With minstrelsy.
     Let Lyde hear those maidens' guilt,
       Their famous doom, the ceaseless drain
     Of outpour'd water, ever spilt,
         And all the pain
     Reserved for sinners, e'en when dead:
       Those impious hands, (could crime do more?)
     Those impious hands had hearts to shed
         Their bridegrooms' gore!
     One only, true to Hymen's flame,
       Was traitress to her sire forsworn:
     That splendid falsehood lights her name
         Through times unborn.
     "Wake!" to her youthful spouse she cried,
       "Wake! or you yet may sleep too well:
     Fly—from the father of your bride,
         Her sisters fell:
     They, as she-lions bullocks rend,
       Tear each her victim: I, less hard
     Than these, will slay you not, poor friend,
         Nor hold in ward:
     Me let my sire in fetters lay
       For mercy to my husband shown:
     Me let him ship far hence away,
         To climes unknown.
     Go; speed your flight o'er land and wave,
       While Night and Venus shield you; go
     Be blest: and on my tomb engrave
         This tale of woe."
 

XII
MISERARUM EST

 
     How unhappy are the maidens who with Cupid may not play,
     Who may never touch the wine-cup, but must tremble all the day
       At an uncle, and the scourging of his tongue!
     Neobule, there's a robber takes your needle and your thread,
     Lets the lessons of Minerva run no longer in your head;
       It is Hebrus, the athletic and the young!
     O, to see him when anointed he is plunging in the flood!
     What a seat he has on horseback! was Bellerophon's as good?
       As a boxer, as a runner, past compare!
     When the deer are flying blindly all the open country o'er,
     He can aim and he can hit them; he can steal upon the boar,
       As it couches in the thicket unaware.
 

XIII
O FONS BANDUSIAE

 
     Bandusia's fount, in clearness crystalline,
       O worthy of the wine, the flowers we vow!
         To-morrow shall be thine
           A kid, whose crescent brow
     Is sprouting all for love and victory.
       In vain: his warm red blood, so early stirr'd,
         Thy gelid stream shall dye,
           Child of the wanton herd.
     Thee the fierce Sirian star, to madness fired,
        Forbears to touch: sweet cool thy waters yield
         To ox with ploughing tired,
           And lazy sheep afield.
     Thou too one day shalt win proud eminence
       'Mid honour'd founts, while I the ilex sing
         Crowning the cavern, whence
           Thy babbling wavelets spring.
 

XIV
HERCULIS RITU

 
     Our Hercules, they told us, Rome,
       Had sought the laurel Death bestows:
     Now Glory brings him conqueror home
           From Spaniard foes.
     Proud of her spouse, the imperial fair
       Must thank the gods that shield from death;
     His sister too:—let matrons wear
           The suppliant wreath
     For daughters and for sons restored:
       Ye youths and damsels newly wed,
     Let decent awe restrain each word
           Best left unsaid.
     This day, true holyday to me,
       Shall banish care: I will not fear
     Rude broils or bloody death to see,
           While Caesar's here.
     Quick, boy, the chaplets and the nard,
       And wine, that knew the Marsian war,
     If roving Spartacus have spared
           A single jar.
     And bid Neaera come and trill,
       Her bright locks bound with careless art:
     If her rough porter cross your will,
           Why then depart.
     Soon palls the taste for noise and fray,
       When hair is white and leaves are sere:
     How had I fired in life's warm May,
           In Plancus' year!
 

XV
UXOR PAUPERIS IBYCI

 
       Wife of Ibycus the poor,
     Let aged scandals have at length their bound:
       Give your graceless doings o'er,
     Ripe as you are for going underground.
       YOU the maidens' dance to lead,
     And cast your gloom upon those beaming stars!
       Daughter Pholoe may succeed,
     But mother Chloris what she touches mars.
       Young men's homes your daughter storms,
     Like Thyiad, madden'd by the cymbals' beat:
       Nothus' love her bosom warms:
     She gambols like a fawn with silver feet.
       Yours should be the wool that grows
     By fair Luceria, not the merry lute:
       Flowers beseem not wither'd brows,
     Nor wither'd lips with emptied wine-jars suit.
 

XVI
INCLUSAM DANAEN

 
     Full well had Danae been secured, in truth,
       By oaken portals, and a brazen tower,
     And savage watch-dogs, from the roving youth
         That prowl at midnight's hour:
     But Jove and Venus mock'd with gay disdain
       The jealous warder of that close stronghold:
     The way, they knew, must soon be smooth and plain
           When gods could change to gold.
     Gold, gold can pass the tyrant's sentinel,
       Can shiver rocks with more resistless blow
     Than is the thunder's. Argos' prophet fell,
           He and his house laid low,
     And all for gain. The man of Macedon
       Cleft gates of cities, rival kings o'erthrew
     By force of gifts: their cunning snares have won
           Rude captains and their crew.
     As riches grow, care follows: men repine
       And thirst for more. No lofty crest I raise:
     Wisdom that thought forbids, Maecenas mine,
           The knightly order's praise.
     He that denies himself shall gain the more
       From bounteous Heaven. I strip me of my pride,
     Desert the rich man's standard, and pass o'er
           To bare Contentment's side,
     More proud as lord of what the great despise
       Than if the wheat thresh'd on Apulia's floor
     I hoarded all in my huge granaries,
           'Mid vast possessions poor.
     A clear fresh stream, a little field o'ergrown
       With shady trees, a crop that ne'er deceives,
     Pass, though men know it not, their wealth, that own
           All Afric's golden sheaves.
     Though no Calabrian bees their honey yield
       For me, nor mellowing sleeps the god of wine
     In Formian jar, nor in Gaul's pasture-field
           The wool grows long and fine,
     Yet Poverty ne'er comes to break my peace;
       If more I craved, you would not more refuse.
     Desiring less, I better shall increase
           My tiny revenues,
     Than if to Alyattes' wide domains
       I join'd the realms of Mygdon. Great desires
     Sort with great wants. 'Tis best, when prayer obtains
           No more than life requires.
 

XVII
AELI VETUSTO

 
     Aelius, of Lamus' ancient name
         (For since from that high parentage
     The prehistoric Lamias came
       And all who fill the storied page,
     No doubt you trace your line from him,
       Who stretch'd his sway o'er Formiae,
     And Liris, whose still waters swim
       Where green Marica skirts the sea,
     Lord of broad realms), an eastern gale
       Will blow to-morrow, and bestrew
     The shore with weeds, with leaves the vale,
       If rain's old prophet tell me true,
     The raven. Gather, while 'tis fine,
       Your wood; to-morrow shall be gay
     With smoking pig and streaming wine,
       And lord and slave keep holyday.
 

XVIII
FAUNE, NYMPHARUM

 
     O wont the flying Nymphs to woo,
       Good Faunus, through my sunny farm
     Pass gently, gently pass, nor do
           My younglings harm.
     Each year, thou know'st, a kid must die
       For thee; nor lacks the wine's full stream
     To Venus' mate, the bowl; and high
           The altars steam.
     Sure as December's nones appear,
       All o'er the grass the cattle play;
     The village, with the lazy steer,
           Keeps holyday.
     Wolves rove among the fearless sheep;
       The woods for thee their foliage strow;
     The delver loves on earth to leap,
           His ancient foe.
 

XIX
QUANTUM DISTAT

 
         What the time from Inachus
     To Codrus, who in patriot battle fell,
         Who were sprung from Aeacus,
     And how men fought at Ilion,—this you tell.
         What the wines of Chios cost,
     Who with due heat our water can allay,
         What the hour, and who the host
     To give us house-room,—this you will not say.
         Ho, there! wine to moonrise, wine
     To midnight, wine to our new augur too!
         Nine to three or three to nine,
     As each man pleases, makes proportion true.
         Who the uneven Muses loves,
     Will fire his dizzy brain with three times three;
         Three once told the Grace approves;
     She with her two bright sisters, gay and free,
         Shrinks, as maiden should, from strife:
     But I'm for madness. What has dull'd the fire
         Of the Berecyntian fife?
     Why hangs the flute in silence with the lyre?
         Out on niggard-handed boys!
     Rain showers of roses; let old Lycus hear,
         Envious churl, our senseless noise,
     And she, our neighbour, his ill-sorted fere.
         You with your bright clustering hair,
     Your beauty, Telephus, like evening's sky,
         Rhoda loves, as young, as fair;
     I for my Glycera slowly, slowly die.
 

XXI
O NATE MECUM

 
     O born in Manlius' year with me,
       Whate'er you bring us, plaint or jest,
     Or passion and wild revelry,
       Or, like a gentle wine-jar, rest;
     Howe'er men call your Massic juice,
       Its broaching claims a festal day;
     Come then; Corvinus bids produce
       A mellower wine, and I obey.
     Though steep'd in all Socratic lore
       He will not slight you; do not fear.
     They say old Cato o'er and o'er
       With wine his honest heart would cheer.
     Tough wits to your mild torture yield
        Their treasures; you unlock the soul
     Of wisdom and its stores conceal'd,
        Arm'd with Lyaeus' kind control.
     'Tis yours the drooping heart to heal;
        Your strength uplifts the poor man's horn;
     Inspired by you, the soldier's steel,
        The monarch's crown, he laughs to scorn.
     Liber and Venus, wills she so,
        And sister Graces, ne'er unknit,
     And living lamps shall see you flow
        Till stars before the sunrise flit.
 

XXII
MONTIUM CUSTOS

 
     Guardian of hill and woodland, Maid,
       Who to young wives in childbirth's hour
     Thrice call'd, vouchsafest sovereign aid,
           O three-form'd power!
     This pine that shades my cot be thine;
       Here will I slay, as years come round,
     A youngling boar, whose tusks design
           The side-long wound.
 

XXIII
COELO SUPINAS

 
     If, Phidyle, your hands you lift
       To heaven, as each new moon is born,
     Soothing your Lares with the gift
       Of slaughter'd swine, and spice, and corn,
     Ne'er shall Scirocco's bane assail
       Your vines, nor mildew blast your wheat,
     Ne'er shall your tender younglings fail
       In autumn, when the fruits are sweet.
     The destined victim 'mid the snows
       Of Algidus in oakwoods fed,
     Or where the Alban herbage grows,
       Shall dye the pontiff's axes red;
     No need of butcher'd sheep for you
       To make your homely prayers prevail;
     Give but your little gods their due,
       The rosemary twined with myrtle frail.
     The sprinkled salt, the votive meal,
       As soon their favour will regain,
     Let but the hand be pure and leal,
       As all the pomp of heifers slain.
 

XXIV
INTACTIS OPULENTIOR

 
         Though your buried wealth surpass
     The unsunn'd gold of Ind or Araby,
         Though with many a ponderous mass
     You crowd the Tuscan and Apulian sea,
         Let Necessity but drive
     Her wedge of adamant into that proud head,
         Vainly battling will you strive
     To 'scape Death's noose, or rid your soul of dread.
         Better life the Scythians lead,
     Trailing on waggon wheels their wandering home,
         Or the hardy Getan breed,
     As o'er their vast unmeasured steppes they roam;
         Free the crops that bless their soil;
     Their tillage wearies after one year's space;
         Each in turn fulfils his toil;
     His period o'er, another takes his place.
         There the step-dame keeps her hand
     From guilty plots, from blood of orphans clean;
         There no dowried wives command
     Their feeble lords, or on adulterers lean.
         Theirs are dowries not of gold,
     Their parents' worth, their own pure chastity,
         True to one, to others cold;
     They dare not sin, or, if they dare, they die.
         O, whoe'er has heart and head
     To stay our plague of blood, our civic brawls,
         Would he that his name be read
     "Father of Rome" on lofty pedestals,
         Let him chain this lawless will,
     And be our children's hero! cursed spite!
         Living worth we envy still,
     Then seek it with strain'd eyes, when snatch'd from sight.
         What can sad laments avail
     Unless sharp justice kill the taint of sin?
         What can laws, that needs must fail
     Shorn of the aid of manners form'd within,
         If the merchant turns not back
     From the fierce heats that round the tropic glow,
         Turns not from the regions black
     With northern winds, and hard with frozen snow;
         Sailors override the wave,
     While guilty poverty, more fear'd than vice,
         Bids us crime and suffering brave,
     And shuns the ascent of virtue's precipice?
         Let the Capitolian fane,
     The favour'd goal of yon vociferous crowd,
         Aye, or let the nearest main
     Receive our gold, our jewels rich and proud:
         Slay we thus the cause of crime,
     If yet we would repent and choose the good:
         Ours the task to take in time
     This baleful lust, and crush it in the bud.
         Ours to mould our weakling sons
     To nobler sentiment and manlier deed:
         Now the noble's first-born shuns
     The perilous chase, nor learns to sit his steed:
         Set him to the unlawful dice,
     Or Grecian hoop, how skilfully he plays!
         While his sire, mature in vice,
     A friend, a partner, or a guest betrays,
         Hurrying, for an heir so base,
     To gather riches. Money, root of ill,
         Doubt it not, still grows apace:
     Yet the scant heap has somewhat lacking still.
 

XXV
QUO ME, BACCHE

 
         Whither, Bacchus, tear'st thou me,
     Fill'd with thy strength? What dens, what forests these,
         Thus in wildering race I see?
     What cave shall hearken to my melodies,
         Tuned to tell of Caesar's praise
     And throne him high the heavenly ranks among?
         Sweet and strange shall be my lays,
     A tale till now by poet voice unsung.
         As the Evian on the height,
     Roused from her sleep, looks wonderingly abroad,
         Looks on Thrace with snow-drifts white,
     And Rhodope by barbarous footstep trod,
         So my truant eyes admire
     The banks, the desolate forests. O great King
         Who the Naiads dost inspire,
     And Bacchants, strong from earth huge trees to wring!
         Not a lowly strain is mine,
     No mere man's utterance. O, 'tis venture sweet
         Thee to follow, God of wine,
     Making the vine-branch round thy temples meet!
 

XXVI
VIXI PUELLIS

 
     For ladies's love I late was fit,
       And good success my warfare blest,
     But now my arms, my lyre I quit,
       And hang them up to rust or rest.
     Here, where arising from the sea
       Stands Venus, lay the load at last,
     Links, crowbars, and artillery,
       Threatening all doors that dared be fast.
     O Goddess! Cyprus owns thy sway,
       And Memphis, far from Thracian snow:
     Raise high thy lash, and deal me, pray,
       That haughty Chloe just one blow!
 

XXVII
IMPIOS PARRAE

 
     When guilt goes forth, let lapwings shrill,
       And dogs and foxes great with young,
     And wolves from far Lanuvian hill,
           Give clamorous tongue:
     Across the roadway dart the snake,
       Frightening, like arrow loosed from string,
     The horses. I, for friendship's sake,
            Watching each wing,
     Ere to his haunt, the stagnant marsh,
       The harbinger of tempest flies,
     Will call the raven, croaking harsh,
            From eastern skies.
     Farewell!—and wheresoe'er you go,
       My Galatea, think of me:
     Let lefthand pie and roving crow
            Still leave you free.
     But mark with what a front of fear
       Orion lowers. Ah! well I know
     How Hadria glooms, how falsely clear
            The west-winds blow.
     Let foemen's wives and children feel
       The gathering south-wind's angry roar,
     The black wave's crash, the thunder-peal,
            The quivering shore.
     So to the bull Europa gave
       Her beauteous form, and when she saw
     The monstrous deep, the yawning grave,
            Grew pale with awe.
     That morn of meadow-flowers she thought,
       Weaving a crown the nymphs to please:
     That gloomy night she look'd on nought
            But stars and seas.
     Then, as in hundred-citied Crete
       She landed,—"O my sire!" she said,
     "O childly duty! passion's heat
            Has struck thee dead.
     Whence came I? death, for maiden's shame,
       Were little. Do I wake to weep
     My sin? or am I pure of blame,
            And is it sleep
     From dreamland brings a form to trick
       My senses? Which was best? to go
     Over the long, long waves, or pick
            The flowers in blow?
     O, were that monster made my prize,
       How would I strive to wound that brow,
     How tear those horns, my frantic eyes
            Adored but now!
     Shameless I left my father's home;
       Shameless I cheat the expectant grave;
     O heaven, that naked I might roam
            In lions' cave!
     Now, ere decay my bloom devour
       Or thin the richness of my blood,
     Fain would I fall in youth's first flower,
            The tigers' food.
     Hark! 'tis my father—Worthless one!
       What, yet alive? the oak is nigh.
     'Twas well you kept your maiden zone,
            The noose to tie.
     Or if your choice be that rude pike,
       New barb'd with death, leap down and ask
     The wind to bear you. Would you like
            The bondmaid's task,
     You, child of kings, a master's toy,
       A mistress' slave?'" Beside her, lo!
     Stood Venus smiling, and her boy
            With unstrung bow.
     Then, when her laughter ceased, "Have done
       With fume and fret," she cried, "my fair;
     That odious bull will give you soon
            His horns to tear.
     You know not you are Jove's own dame:
       Away with sobbing; be resign'd
     To greatness: you shall give your name
            To half mankind."
 

XXVIII
FESTO QUID POTIUS

 
     Neptune's feast-day! what should man
       Think first of doing? Lyde mine, be bold,
       Broach the treasured Caecuban,
     And batter Wisdom in her own stronghold.
       Now the noon has pass'd the full,
     Yet sure you deem swift Time has made a halt,
       Tardy as you are to pull
     Old Bibulus' wine-jar from its sleepy vault.
       I will take my turn and sing
     Neptune and Nereus' train with locks of green;
       You shall warble to the string
     Latona and her Cynthia's arrowy sheen.
       Hers our latest song, who sways
     Cnidos and Cyclads, and to Paphos goes
       With her swans, on holydays;
     Night too shall claim the homage music owes.
 

XXIX
TYRRHENA REGUM

 
     Heir of Tyrrhenian kings, for you
       A mellow cask, unbroach'd as yet,
     Maecenas mine, and roses new,
       And fresh-drawn oil your locks to wet,
     Are waiting here. Delay not still,
       Nor gaze on Tibur, never dried,
     And sloping AEsule, and the hill
       Of Telegon the parricide.
     O leave that pomp that can but tire,
       Those piles, among the clouds at home;
     Cease for a moment to admire
       The smoke, the wealth, the noise of Rome!
     In change e'en luxury finds a zest:
       The poor man's supper, neat, but spare,
     With no gay couch to seat the guest,
       Has smooth'd the rugged brow of care.
     Now glows the Ethiop maiden's sire;
       Now Procyon rages all ablaze;
     The Lion maddens in his ire,
       As suns bring back the sultry days:
     The shepherd with his weary sheep
       Seeks out the streamlet and the trees,
     Silvanus' lair: the still banks sleep
       Untroubled by the wandering breeze.
     You ponder on imperial schemes,
       And o'er the city's danger brood:
     Bactrian and Serian haunt your dreams,
       And Tanais, toss'd by inward feud.
     The issue of the time to be
       Heaven wisely hides in blackest night,
     And laughs, should man's anxiety
       Transgress the bounds of man's short sight.
     Control the present: all beside
       Flows like a river seaward borne,
     Now rolling on its placid tide,
       Now whirling massy trunks uptorn,
     And waveworn crags, and farms, and stock,
       In chaos blent, while hill and wood
     Reverberate to the enormous shock,
       When savage rains the tranquil flood
     Have stirr'd to madness. Happy he,
       Self-centred, who each night can say,
     "My life is lived: the morn may see
       A clouded or a sunny day:
     That rests with Jove: but what is gone,
       He will not, cannot turn to nought;
     Nor cancel, as a thing undone,
       What once the flying hour has brought."
     Fortune, who loves her cruel game,
       Still bent upon some heartless whim,
     Shifts her caresses, fickle dame,
       Now kind to me, and now to him:
     She stays; 'tis well: but let her shake
       Those wings, her presents I resign,
     Cloak me in native worth, and take
       Chaste Poverty undower'd for mine.
     Though storms around my vessel rave,
       I will not fall to craven prayers,
     Nor bargain by my vows to save
       My Cyprian and Sidonian wares,
     Else added to the insatiate main.
       Then through the wild Aegean roar
     The breezes and the Brethren Twain
       Shall waft my little boat ashore.