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Death’s lake that all we
sons of mortality. . . Book II: Ode 14
Book III: Ode 13
Book III: Ode 30
Source: http://www.penguin.com
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The verse of the first-century BC poet Horace
shows tremendous breadth and variety. While some of his poetry
possesses sensuality and a charming lightness of touch, other
poems are remarkable for their profundity or their lyrical
beauty. The sheer range of his work is reflected in the
following selection that consists of an erotic poem of warning
to young men; a lament on the fleeting nature of time; an ode
to a spring; and, finally, a defiant declaration of his own
poetic achievement.
Horatian Odes
Book I: Ode 5
What slim youngster, his hair dripping with
fragrant oil,
Makes hot love to you now, Pyrrha, ensconced
in a
Snug cave curtained with roses?
Who lays claim to that casually
Chic blonde hair in a braid? Soon he’ll be
scolding the
Gods, whose promise, like yours, failed him,
and gaping at
Black winds making his ocean’s
Fair face unrecognisable.
He’s still credulous, though, hugging the
prize he thinks
Pure gold, shining and fond, his for
eternity.
Ah, poor fool, but the breeze plays
Tricks. Doomed, all who would venture to
Sail that glittering sea. Fixed to the
temple wall,
My plaque tells of an old sailor who
foundered and,
Half-drowned, hung up his clothes to
Neptune, lord of the element.
Ah, how they glide by, Postumus, Postumus,
The years, the swift years! Wrinkles and
imminent
Old age and death, whom no one conquers—
Piety cannot delay their onward
March; no, my friend, not were you to
sacrifice
Three hundred bulls each day to inflexible
Pluto, whose grim moat holds the triple
Geryon jailed with his fellow Giants—
Death’s lake that all we sons of mortality
Who have the good earth’s fruits for the
picking are
Foredoomed to cross, no matter whether
Rulers of kingdoms or needy peasants.
In vain we stay unscratched by the bloody
wars,
In vain escape tumultuous Hadria’s
Storm-waves, in vain each autumn dread the
Southern sirocco, our health’s destroyer.
We must at last set eyes on the scenery
Of Hell: the ill-famed daughters of Danaus,
Cocytus’ dark, slow, winding current,
Sisyphus damned to his endless labour.
Farewell to lands, home, dear and
affectionate
Wife then. Of all those trees that you
tended well
Not one, a true friend, save the hated
Cypress shall follow its short-lived master.
An heir shall drain those cellars of
Caecuban
You treble-locked (indeed he deserves it
more)
And drench the stone-flagged floor with
prouder
Wine than is drunk at the pontiffs’
banquet.
Spring of Bandusia, whose crystalline
Glitter deserves our garlands and best wine,
You shall be given a kid
Tomorrow. Horns half-hid
In a bulging forehead forecast love and
war—
Fine destiny, but not the one in store:
The hot goat people’s son
Must with his crimson one
Dye your cool vein. No Dog-day in intense
August can touch the sweet chill you
dispense
To unfenced, wandering flocks
And the plough-weary ox.
My verse shall make you too a famous spring,
Known for the ilex on the echoing
Cavern beneath whose shade
Your garrulous streams cascade.
More durable than bronze, higher than
Pharaoh’s
Pyramids is the monument I have made,
A shape that angry wind or hungry rain
Cannot demolish, nor the innumerable
Ranks of the years that march in centuries.
I shall not wholly die: some part of me
Will cheat the goddess of death, for while
High Priest
And Vestal climb our Capitol in a hush,
My reputation shall keep green and growing.
Where Aufidus growls torrentially, where
once,
Lord of a dry kingdom, Daunus ruled
His rustic people, I shall be renowned
As one who, poor-born, rose and pioneered
A way to fit Greek rhythms to our tongue.
Be proud, Melpomene, for you deserve
What praise I have, and unreluctantly
Garland my forehead with Apollo’s laurel.