XXIX. TO MECENAS

XXX. THE IMMORTALITY OF HORACE

BOOK IV.

THE

ODES OF HORACE.

BOOK I.

I.

TO MECENAS.

O thou to ancient kings allied,
My patron, ornament, and pride!
Some love their chariot skill to show,
And clouds of dust raise as they go.
The goal just shunned with glowing wheel,
The palm, the prizes, make them feel
Lords of the world-nay, while they fly,
They almost seem to mount the sky.
When fickle crowds fresh honours add
Το grace their lineage, some are glad ;
Another in his granary stores
The wealth of Libyan threshing-floors.
While him who loves to plough and till
His own paternal acres still,

Not Attalus with all his gold

Will ever tempt to leave his hold,

B

And in a Cyprian bark to brave,
A timid sailor, storm and wave.
The merchant, scared by ocean's strife,
Praises repose and country life,
But presently fresh ships he finds,
For poverty is worse than winds.
Some love old Massic wine to quaff,
And of the day spend well nigh half,
Outstretched beneath a shady tree,
Or where the running stream flows free.
Some choose the camp and trumpet's bray,
And wars which mothers' hearts dismay.
The sportsman lives an outdoor life,
Forgetful of his tender wife;

Whether he hunt with hounds the hind

Or boar that bursts the toils he find.

Ivy, the prize of learning, given
To me, exalts my soul to heaven.

I care not with the crowd to join

The groves, the dancing nymphs are mine, And Satyrs too-if but the Muse

Her meed of fame will not refuse.

Could I to lyric honours rise,

My head would tower and touch the skies.

II.

TO AUGUSTUS.

Enough of dreadful hail and snow

'The Sire of heaven has sent below: From red right hand his bolts flew down

Upon our towers, and awed the town.

The nations trembled lest, alack!

The age of Pyrrha had come back,

Who mourned strange sights when Proteus led His flock up to the mountain's head:

On trees' tall summits fish found rest,
Where once the dove had built her nest ;
The sweeping flood o'ertook the deer,
Who swam through waves, inspired by fear.

We've seen old Tiber's tides mount high
And leave his Tuscan channel dry,
Raging 'gainst Venus fane to surge
And Numa's monuments submerge.

The river god, by passion wrought,
To avenge his mourning Ilia sought;
Jove viewed displeased the stream too fond
Burst his left bank and pour beyond.

Thinned by their sires, whose crimes are rife,
Our youth will list to civil strife;

Roman 'gainst Roman sharpens swords
And lets go free the Persian hordes.

What god shall now the people call
To stay the sinking empire's fall ?
How shall the holy virgins pray
To Vesta, careless what they say?

To whom will Jupiter assign
An expiator's part divine?

O leave at last thy augur home,

And, clothed in clouds, Apollo come!

Or thou, sweet queen of smiles, descend,
Whom Mirth and Cupid aye befriend.
Or Mars, do thou, our founder, face
Thy children and neglected race.

Alas! thou dalliest all too long,
Thou lov'st the plume and noisy throng,
To thee the Moor's dark face is dear
As 'gainst the foe he lifts his spear.

Come thou who ow'st to Maia birth,
A winged god transformed on earth;
Thou whose proud boast is that thy breath
Was given to avenge great Cæsar's death.
Late may'st thou make to heaven thy way,
And long among thy people stay;
Nor let our crimes excuse supply

For winds to waft thee to the sky.

Here rather may'st thou fame pursue,
Our father and our ruler too:
And let no Mede unpunished ride
Whilst thou art, Cæsar, at our side.

III.

TO THE SHIP WHICH CONVEYED VIRGIL TO

ATHENS.

Dear ship to whom we trust to-day

Our Virgil, take good care;
Receive my soul's best half, I pray,

And safe to Athens bear.