(Wisconsin Studies in Classics) Horace, David R. Slavitt - Odes-University of Wisconsin Press (2014) PDF

Odes
PubÂ�liÂ�caÂ�tion of this volÂ�ume has been made posÂ�sible, in part,

Â�through the genÂ�erÂ�ous supÂ�port and enÂ�durÂ�ing viÂ�sion of
WarÂ�ren G. Moon.
Odes
HorÂ�ace
TransÂ�lated with comÂ�menÂ�tary by

David R. SlaÂ�vitt
The UniÂ�verÂ�sity of WisÂ�conÂ�sin Press

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HorÂ�ace, auÂ�thor.
[CarÂ�mina. EnÂ�glish]
Odes / HorÂ�ace; transÂ�lated with comÂ�menÂ�tary by David R. SlaÂ�vitt.
pages cm—(WisÂ�conÂ�sin studÂ�ies in clasÂ�sics)
ISBN 978-0-299-29854-8 (pbk.: alk. paper)
ISBN 978-0-299-29853-1 (Â�e-Â�book)
1.â•‡ HorÂ�ace—TransÂ�laÂ�tions into EnÂ�glish.
2.â•‡ LauÂ�daÂ�tory Â�poetry, Latin—TransÂ�laÂ�tions into EnÂ�glish.
3.â•‡ Verse Â�satire, Latin—TransÂ�laÂ�tions into EnÂ�glish.
4.â•‡ Rome—Â�Poetry.â•‡â•‡ 5.â•‡ HorÂ�ace—CritÂ�iÂ�cism and interÂ�preÂ�taÂ�tion.
6.â•‡ Odes, Latin—HisÂ�tory and critÂ�iÂ�cism.
I.â•‡ SlaÂ�vitt, David R., 1935–, transÂ�laÂ�tor, Â�writer of added comÂ�menÂ�tary.
II.â•‡ Title.â•‡â•‡ III.â•‡ SeÂ�ries: WisÂ�conÂ�sin studÂ�ies in clasÂ�sics.
PA6395.S56 2014
874´.01—dc23
2013038599
For
Janet
Me Â�dulces domÂ�iÂ�nae Musa LiÂ�cymÂ�nia
canÂ�tus, me volÂ�uit diÂ�cere luÂ�cidum
fulÂ�genÂ�tis ocuÂ�los et bene muÂ�tuis
fidum pecÂ�tus aoÂ�riÂ�bus
II, 12
ConÂ�tents
IntroÂ�ducÂ�tion
xi
Book I
1
Book II
55
Book III
89
Book IV
153
ix
IntroÂ�ducÂ�tion
QuinÂ�tus HoÂ�raÂ�tius FlacÂ�cus (65–8 BCE), whom we call simÂ�ply

HorÂ�ace, was one of the great poets of the AuÂ�guÂ�stan Age, which
was—like the reign of ElizÂ�aÂ�beth I—a peÂ�riod of sudÂ�den litÂ�erÂ�ary
efÂ�floÂ�resÂ�cence. VirÂ�gil, HorÂ�ace, Ovid, ProÂ�perÂ�tius, and TiÂ�bulÂ�lus,
each of them splenÂ�did in his own way, were the orÂ�naÂ�ments of
what was also a peÂ�riod of great poÂ�litÂ�iÂ�cal and ecoÂ�nomic upÂ�heaÂ�val.
HorÂ�ace was, SueÂ�tonÂ�ius tells us, a short, plump man, and he
seems to have been “clubÂ�bable,” which is to say that he got on
well with the right peoÂ�ple, inÂ�cludÂ�ing MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas and AuÂ�gusÂ�tus,
who were his paÂ�trons and Â�friends. There are obÂ�viÂ�ous adÂ�vanÂ�tages
for a poet to have such conÂ�necÂ�tions with money and power,
but there are costs, too. DryÂ�den calls him a “Â�well-Â�mannered
court slave,” alÂ�though I think a close readÂ�ing of the Â�poetry
sugÂ�gests that he mainÂ�tained a deÂ�gree of inÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tual and moral
inÂ�deÂ�penÂ�dence that gives the work an interÂ�estÂ�ing edge. His keen
enÂ�thuÂ�siasm for wine and women (and boys, too) gives a cerÂ�tain
geÂ�niÂ�alÂ�ity to his songs.
It was his charm as much as anyÂ�thing else that alÂ�lowed him
to reÂ�pair his forÂ�tunes after havÂ�ing been on the wrong side in the
BatÂ�tle of PhilÂ�lipi (42 BCE). He Â�claimed, as it beÂ�came exÂ�peÂ�diÂ�ent
to do, that he ran from the field, leavÂ�ing his Â�shield beÂ�hind him.
When AuÂ�gusÂ�tus deÂ�clared an amÂ�nesty for those who had Â�fought
Â�against him, HorÂ�ace reÂ�turned to Italy to find that his Â�father’s
esÂ�tate in VeÂ�nuÂ�sia had been one of those conÂ�fisÂ�cated and
xi
Â�awarded to vetÂ�eÂ�rans of the army. He went to Rome, got a job as
a clerk in the treasÂ�ury, and began to write, hopÂ�ing no doubt to
find a paÂ�tron.
VirÂ�gil and VarÂ�ius introÂ�duced him to MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas, whose
amÂ�iÂ�cus he beÂ�came. This was the term for a rich man’s Â�client,
but evenÂ�tuÂ�ally he and MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas beÂ�came real Â�friends, amici, not
quite but alÂ�most Â�equals. MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas set him up on a farm in the
SaÂ�bine hills where he could deÂ�vote himÂ�self to writÂ�ing, delÂ�eÂ�gatÂ�ing
the acÂ�tual farm work to othÂ�ers.
His litÂ�erÂ�ary sucÂ�cess was such that, Â�through MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas, he
beÂ�came known to AuÂ�gusÂ�tus himÂ�self, and the emÂ�peror ofÂ�fered
him an apÂ�pointÂ�ment as his perÂ�sonal secÂ�reÂ�tary. HorÂ�ace was
Â�shrewd Â�enough (and graceÂ�ful Â�enough) to turn the job down
and he conÂ�trived to mainÂ�tain the forÂ�malÂ�ity of his reÂ�laÂ�tionÂ�ship
to AuÂ�gusÂ�tus. (As Ovid was to disÂ�cover, any deÂ�gree of inÂ�tiÂ�macy
with him was perÂ�iÂ�lous.) But HorÂ�ace was less moÂ�tiÂ�vated by
cauÂ�tion than by his prefÂ�erÂ�ence for the pasÂ�toÂ�ral life, which was
conÂ�genÂ�ial to his genÂ�tleÂ�manly EpiÂ�curÂ�ean views. After VirÂ�gil died
in 19 BCE, HorÂ�ace was genÂ�erÂ�ally recÂ�ogÂ�nized as Â�Rome’s leadÂ�ing
poet. MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas died in NoÂ�vemÂ�ber of 8 BCE, and HorÂ�ace, only
a few weeks later. He was burÂ�ied on the EsÂ�quiÂ�line Hill, near
Â�Maecenas’ tomb.
T he Â�poetry, writÂ�ten over the Â�course of three Â�decades, de-

velÂ�ops from the early exÂ�periÂ�menÂ�tal, to the maÂ�ture splenÂ�
did, and then to the Â�maybe-Â�not-Â�quite-Â�so splenÂ�did. The early
work inÂ�cludes the SerÂ�mones (suitÂ�ably transÂ�lated as ConÂ�verÂ�saÂ�tions,
or perÂ�haps Chats; CausÂ�erÂ�ies would be a betÂ�ter renÂ�diÂ�tion, but it
Â�doesn’t work in EnÂ�glish beÂ�cause it’s a Â�French term). The Â�Epodes,
too, are early work. And these are by no means Â�shabby works,
but the perÂ�sonal inÂ�volveÂ�ment and inÂ�tiÂ�macy of the Odes are not
yet exÂ�pressed. The work of the midÂ�dle Â�decade is what he is
faÂ�mous for—the Â�eighty-Â�eight poems of the first three books of
the Odes (book 4 came later). The EpisÂ�tles and the SecÂ�uÂ�lar Songs
xii Introduction
come from the last Â�decade of his life, folÂ�lowed by book 4 of
the Odes, which AuÂ�gusÂ�tus reÂ�quested that he comÂ�pose and
which apÂ�peared in 13 BCE. There are some fine Â�things in that
Â�fourth book, but one sees a Â�change from the supÂ�ple asÂ�suÂ�rance
of the first three books to the Â�rather scleÂ�rotic manÂ�ner of lauÂ�reate
Â�poetry. Put simÂ�ply, he had begun to take himÂ�self too seÂ�riÂ�ously
beÂ�cause everyÂ�one else did. It hapÂ�pens.
The Odes, which take as their forÂ�mal modÂ�els the Greek
poets of the Â�seventh cenÂ�tury BCE—esÂ�peÂ�cially SapÂ�pho and
AlÂ�caeus—are the obÂ�serÂ�vaÂ�tions of a wry, subÂ�tle mind on Â�events
and ocÂ�caÂ�sions of everyÂ�day life. They are at first readÂ�ing modÂ�est
works, but they build toÂ�ward a comÂ�preÂ�henÂ�sive atÂ�tiÂ�tude it would
not be an exÂ�agÂ�gerÂ�aÂ�tion to call a phiÂ�loÂ�soÂ�phy. The voice HorÂ�ace
uses is soÂ�phisÂ�tiÂ�cated but perÂ�sonal, and it modÂ�ulates from diÂ�rect
stateÂ�ment to irony so that the Â�reader must reÂ�main alert. When
I was young, I Â�thought readÂ�ing HorÂ�ace was like lisÂ�tenÂ�ing to the
conÂ�verÂ�saÂ�tion of Â�grown-Â�ups. I am in my late sevenÂ�ties now, and
I still think of the poems this way. His views are comÂ�fortÂ�ably
Stoic and EpiÂ�curÂ�ean—or say, simÂ�ply, Â�worldly. He Â�speaks Â�quietly
but with a preÂ�ciÂ�sion and an auÂ�thorÂ�ity that come Â�through loud
and clear. Even his apÂ�parÂ�ently deÂ�clarÂ�aÂ�tive poems on paÂ�triÂ�otic
subÂ�jects (the first six poems of book 3) have an edge to them,
and it is betÂ�ter to read them as draÂ�matic monoÂ�logues than as
straightÂ�forÂ�ward lecÂ�tures. Think of the music of DmiÂ�tri ShosÂ�taÂ�
kÂ�oÂ�vich that he wrote knowÂ�ing that StaÂ�lin would be lisÂ�tenÂ�ing to
it and judgÂ�ing it. And him.
W hat folÂ�lows is a transÂ�laÂ�tion of the Odes, fasÂ�ciÂ�natÂ�ing and

someÂ�times Â�deeply movÂ�ing poems. My inÂ�tenÂ�tion, howÂ�
ever, was to use these as exÂ�amÂ�ples of the Â�choices transÂ�laÂ�tors have
to make alÂ�most conÂ�tinÂ�uÂ�ally as we try to Â�re-Â�create a poem in
EnÂ�glish as faithÂ�fully as we can. “FaithÂ�ful,” Â�though, is a slipÂ�pery
word. To do a verÂ�baÂ�tim trot may be acÂ�cuÂ�rate, but it Â�leaves the
Â�reader with a prose acÂ�count of the sense of the text withÂ�out the
Introduction xiii
exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ence of havÂ�ing read a poem—which is, after all, the
point. The Â�proper use of the Loeb ClasÂ�siÂ�cal LiÂ�brary presÂ�enÂ�taÂ�
tions of Greek and Latin Â�poetry is for those readÂ�ers who are
Â�fluent Â�enough in the Â�source lanÂ�guages to read the origÂ�iÂ�nals even
if they may need help now and again with a word, a Â�phrase, or
perÂ�haps a gramÂ�matÂ�iÂ�cal conÂ�strucÂ�tion. The EnÂ�glish en face is conÂ�
venÂ�ient but adÂ�juÂ�vant, and it is Â�hardly what the poet or playÂ�
wright was aimÂ�ing for.
There are varÂ�iÂ�ous ideas of what the Â�translator’s Â�proper job
Â�should be, and these are easy to disÂ�cuss in the abÂ�stract. It is in
the deÂ�tails that the isÂ�sues Â�present themÂ�selves over and over in
speÂ�cific and someÂ�times chalÂ�lengÂ�ing cruÂ�ces. I Â�thought it would
be helpÂ�ful to comÂ�ment on what I’ve put in, what I’ve left out,
and what I’ve had to adapt or Â�change so that readÂ�ers and stuÂ�
dents might get an idea of the proÂ�cess by which I arÂ�rived at
my reÂ�sult. I don’t claim that these verÂ�sions of mine are perÂ�fect.
There is no perÂ�fect transÂ�laÂ�tion (exÂ�cept perÂ�haps for VladÂ�iÂ�mir
Â�Nabokov’s EnÂ�glish verÂ�sion of EuÂ�gene OnÂ�eÂ�gin—but that turns
out to be less a transÂ�laÂ�tion than a Â�course in RusÂ�sian). I have
made the best poems I could, and I think I have demÂ�onÂ�strated
with reaÂ�sonÂ�able transÂ�paÂ�rency what I have done to get to what I
beÂ�lieve HorÂ�ace wrote.
The art and craft of transÂ�laÂ�tion is of interÂ�est to seÂ�riÂ�ous readÂ�ers
as well as to litÂ�erÂ�ary theoÂ�reÂ�tiÂ�cians. There are some peoÂ�ple, of
Â�course, who don’t parÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�larly care about the proÂ�cess, so long
as the reÂ�sults are satisÂ�fyÂ�ing. For them, the poems are on the page
and they can just igÂ�nore the notes below. Those who know the
Latin can see easÂ�ily Â�enough what libÂ�erÂ�ties I have taken to do
HorÂ�ace jusÂ�tice. Fewer youngÂ�sters study Latin and Greek in high
Â�school than in my day, and this is a shame. But for those who
are cuÂ�riÂ�ous about what it is that they are holdÂ�ing in their hands
(or starÂ�ing at on the Â�screen), this odd forÂ�mat may help them get
some idea of the strugÂ�gle that goes on Â�between the rock and the
hard place.
xiv Introduction
Book I
1
MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas, scion of kings, my great proÂ�tecÂ�tor,
and auÂ�thor of all my achieveÂ�ments and my fame,
you know how some take pleasÂ�ure at the track
when the charÂ�iÂ�ots churn up OlymÂ�pic dust
and the winÂ�ner is Â�raised up to be like a god
beÂ�cause of his Â�horses’ Â�strength and his Â�driver’s skill
in just kissÂ�ing the turnÂ�ing posts with his axles.
To one the citÂ�iÂ�zens give the Â�triple palm
of poÂ�litÂ�iÂ�cal honÂ�ors; anÂ�other, who has been Â�shrewd
and has Â�stored up LibÂ�yan wheat Â�achieves
a moÂ�menÂ�tary reÂ�nown. The cauÂ�tious peasÂ�ant,
breakÂ�ing the clods in his field, never gives Â�thought
to Â�Attalus’ vast Â�wealth nor does he imÂ�aÂ�gine
sailÂ�ing in CyÂ�prian ships. The nerÂ�vous merÂ�chant,
worÂ�ried about the Â�tricky Â�African winds,
enÂ�vies that Â�farmer, but not his povÂ�erty,
and after disÂ�asÂ�ter reÂ�builds his shatÂ�tered vessels
to reÂ�gain what he’s lost. AnÂ�other likes
his cups of MasÂ�sic wine and lies on the grass
for much of the day in the Â�arbutus’ shade
or near some babÂ�bling brook. OthÂ�ers there are
who love the sound of trumÂ�pets, the danÂ�ger of batÂ�tle,
and the risks that wives and mothÂ�ers hate. HuntÂ�ers
3
out in the woods, under the froÂ�zen skies,
never trouÂ�bled by their Â�wives’ reÂ�proaches,
are eager for the Â�hounds to sound their cries
at havÂ�ing Â�caught sight of a deer or a wild boar
strugÂ�gling in the Â�meshes of rope nets.
My predÂ�iÂ�lecÂ�tion is learnÂ�ing; the Â�scholar’s ivy
Â�raises me to the gods in their Â�groves on high
where dancÂ�ing Â�nymphs and saÂ�tyrs inÂ�vite me to join them,
leavÂ�ing the Â�crowds beÂ�hind me and below.
If EuÂ�terpe lends me her flute and PolyÂ�hymÂ�nia
Â�strums on her LesÂ�bian lyre in my beÂ�half,
and if you, my Â�friend and paÂ�tron, enter my name
in the lists of lyric poets, I shall soar up
to feel my head tinÂ�gle, touchÂ�ing the stars.
T he Latin text of these poems is availÂ�able onÂ�line at the

PerÂ�seus ProÂ�ject, as well as a Â�word-Â�by-Â�word renÂ�diÂ�tion into
EnÂ�glish. Such litÂ�eral transÂ�laÂ�tions as this and the verÂ�sion by Niall
Rudd in the Loeb ClasÂ�siÂ�cal LiÂ�brary are of use, I think, to those
who are readÂ�ing the poems in Latin and using these EngÂ�lishÂ�
ings as trots. To look just at the EnÂ�glish verÂ�sions is to get the
sense of what HorÂ�ace said but to omit enÂ�tirely the Â�poetry. A
poem, after all, means in a difÂ�ferÂ�ent way than any prose verÂ�sion.
And it is as Â�poetry that readÂ�ers Â�should exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ence these elÂ�eÂ�gant
Â�pieces.
My inÂ�tenÂ�tion in these notes is to make some genÂ�eral comÂ�
ment about the strucÂ�ture of the poems and, more parÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�larly,
to point out the Â�changes, omisÂ�sions, and someÂ�times adÂ�diÂ�tions I
have made. It is my hope that this will be of some help to those
readÂ�ers who wish to get some underÂ�standÂ�ing of the probÂ�lems
and soÂ�luÂ�tions of transÂ�laÂ�tors, whose purÂ�pose must be to reÂ�inÂ�vent
from the Â�source lanÂ�guage and, as best they can, to apÂ�proxÂ�iÂ�mate
in the tarÂ�get lanÂ�guage the exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ence of the poem that one
readÂ�ing it in Latin might have. Each of us has his or her own
4 Book I
“readÂ�ing” of poems in our naÂ�tive lanÂ�guage. There will be posÂ�
sible arÂ�guÂ�ments, thereÂ�fore, with every deÂ�ciÂ�sion I have made.
They might not be the Â�choices that any inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�ual Â�reader might
have preÂ�ferred. But after exÂ�amÂ�inÂ�ing the brushÂ�work of a paintÂ�ing,
it is necÂ�esÂ�sary to step back again and look at the whole thing, in
openÂ�ness and simÂ�plicÂ�ity. It is at that disÂ�tance that one deÂ�cides
Â�whether and how much to like what he sees.
This ode is in AsÂ�clepÂ�iÂ�ads, which is Â�pretty much meanÂ�ingÂ�less
to those unÂ�faÂ�milÂ�iar with Latin. The two Â�things that are useÂ�ful
to know is that in this ode there are lines of five metÂ�riÂ�cal feet;
but Latin meÂ�ters are quanÂ�tiÂ�taÂ�tive, while EnÂ�glish ones are based
on Â�stresses, so that, as a pracÂ�tiÂ�cal matÂ�ter, the subÂ�stiÂ�tuÂ�tion of the
Â�stressed line is the only reaÂ�sonÂ�able way to show that there is a
soÂ�phisÂ�tiÂ�cated rhythÂ�mic patÂ�tern in HorÂ�ace and inÂ�vent someÂ�thing
reÂ�semÂ�bling it.
This first ode is adÂ�dressed to MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas, the Â�poet’s paÂ�tron.
Those that folÂ�low are Â�praises of AuÂ�gusÂ�tus (the emÂ�peror) and
VirÂ�gil, the preÂ�emÂ�iÂ�nent poet of the age. The tone is inÂ�forÂ�mal,
alÂ�most faÂ�milÂ�iar, as he catÂ�aÂ�logs varÂ�iÂ�ous kinds of achieveÂ�ment
and then, in a Â�half-Â�joking way, deÂ�fends his choÂ�sen way of life,
which makes it a kind of manÂ�iÂ�festo poem.
In my verÂ�sion, there has been some reÂ�castÂ�ing of the order
of phrases
Â� in order to conÂ�form to the penÂ�tamÂ�eÂ�ter patÂ�tern of
EnÂ�glish. These adÂ�justÂ�ments Â�hardly need to be deÂ�fended. What
I am doing is reÂ�spondÂ�ing to metÂ�riÂ�cal conÂ�straints, exÂ�actly as
HorÂ�ace did—but with EnÂ�glish words in an EnÂ�glish patÂ�tern.
The first “libÂ�erty” I take is in line 7, where I have the axles
“kissÂ�ing” the turnÂ�ing posts. That isn’t in the Latin, which says
simÂ�ply “the turnÂ�ing post just Â�cleared by the hot Â�wheels.” No
kissÂ�ing.
Still, we must agree that in any transÂ�laÂ�tion or imÂ�iÂ�taÂ�tion there
are some deÂ�tails that get lost—they are, perÂ�haps, too obÂ�scure to
reÂ�proÂ�duce Â�clearly. My inÂ�tenÂ�tion, here as elseÂ�where, is to mainÂ�
tain the denÂ�sity of the linÂ�guisÂ�tic event; or, to put in in a homeÂ�lier
Book I 5
way, to keep the same chewiÂ�ness. Here, I mean “kiss” in the
sense that bilÂ�liard Â�players use the word; and it proÂ�vides a litÂ�tle
enÂ�ergy, which is what I alÂ�ways feel I owe the work, which I
want to be enÂ�gagÂ�ing and Â�lively. In any case, it is not a viÂ�oÂ�laÂ�tion
of the sense of the Latin. The axle is still very close to the post
and the skill and risk are still being acÂ�knowlÂ�edged.
In line 13 there is a refÂ�erÂ�ence to AtÂ�talus, which was the name
of sevÂ�eral kings of PerÂ�gamon. They were rich but Â�didn’t acÂ�tuÂ�ally
do much, and the name was shortÂ�hand for inÂ�doÂ�lent luxÂ�ury.
The Â�choice I had to make was Â�whether to make all this clear in
the poem (the Roman readÂ�ers would have underÂ�stood it all
inÂ�stantly) or just leave him with his “vast Â�wealth.” The inÂ�forÂ�
maÂ�tion is only a Â�couple of Â�clicks away these days. And the Â�poetic
efÂ�fect, I think, is Â�mostly that of the Â�proper noun—Auden calls
these the treasÂ�ures of the lanÂ�guage. It is not necÂ�esÂ�sary to look
up each of the names in book 2 of the Iliad, the faÂ�mous catÂ�aÂ�log
of the ships. It is more than Â�enough to let the names tumÂ�ble off
the Â�tongue with their wonÂ�derÂ�ful specÂ�iÂ�ficÂ�ity.
MasÂ�sic wine (line 19) is CamÂ�paÂ�nian wine, but if I were to
call it that, how would the line be any Â�clearer? The Â�best-Â�known
wine from CamÂ�paÂ�nia is LacÂ�rima Â�Cristi, which is not a name
that HorÂ�ace would have known or used. There is a FaÂ�lerno del
MasÂ�sico, which I Â�thought was a nice soÂ�luÂ�tion to the probÂ�lem
and a warÂ�rant for me to leave it at MasÂ�sic.
In line 27 I deÂ�cided the other way, and omitÂ�ted Â�Horace’s
specÂ�ifiÂ�caÂ�tion of the boar as “MarÂ�sian,” inÂ�cluÂ�sion of which
would be awkÂ�ward, and it is unÂ�necÂ�esÂ�sary to exÂ�plain (it is a
mounÂ�tainÂ�ous reÂ�gion east of Rome faÂ�mous for its solÂ�diers). All
wild boars are forÂ�midÂ�able, and I canÂ�not imÂ�aÂ�gine the luÂ�naÂ�tic who
would ask a stuÂ�dent where the boar in the first ode was from.
In line 33, I leave EuÂ�terpe and PolyÂ�hymÂ�nia unÂ�glossed. That
these are Muses is Â�pretty clear from the conÂ�text, and Â�shouldn’t
need idenÂ�tifiÂ�caÂ�tion. Part of the gesÂ�ture in this kind of Â�poetry is
to asÂ�sume that readÂ�ers know what you are talkÂ�ing about. If they
do, they are Â�slightly flatÂ�tered. If they don’t, they can look it up
6 Book I
and then Â�they’ll be imÂ�proved. But if there is an exÂ�planÂ�aÂ�tory
note about a name they alÂ�ready know, they are Â�slightly inÂ�sulted
at the conÂ�desÂ�cenÂ�sion.
The last line has a small emÂ�belÂ�lishÂ�ment. There is no “tinÂ�gle”
in HorÂ�ace. I’ve added that beÂ�cause I Â�couldn’t find any satisÂ�facÂ�
tory way to get the necÂ�esÂ�sary life from the Â�poet’s soarÂ�ing aloft
to “Â�strike the stars with [his] head.” I think I know what he
meant, and it cerÂ�tainly Â�wasn’t any slapÂ�stick bump. So I conÂ�trived
someÂ�thing simÂ�iÂ�lar.
2
Â�
Enough of the snow and stingÂ�ing hail the Â�Father
hurls down with his right hand to smite
the seven saÂ�cred hillÂ�tops and terÂ�rify
the city dwellÂ�ers,
who wonÂ�der Â�whether the dreadÂ�ful age of PyrÂ�rha

and the uniÂ�verÂ�sal flood is comÂ�ing again
when ProÂ�teus will drive his seals to exÂ�plore
the mounÂ�tain tops
and fish may roost in the lofty Â�branches of elms

inÂ�stead of the usual Â�flocks of turÂ�tleÂ�doves
and terÂ�rified deer might have to swim for their lives
on the Â�flooded plain.
We saw how the muddy Tiber in its fury

rose above its banks to reach the Â�shrine
of Vesta after Mars seÂ�duced Ilia,
Â�Tiber’s wife,
and Â�spread beÂ�yond to inÂ�unÂ�date the city

withÂ�out havÂ�ing Â�thought of seekÂ�ing perÂ�misÂ�sion
Book I 7
from Jove, but actÂ�ing Â�solely on his own,
an uxÂ�oÂ�riÂ�ous husÂ�band.
Our chilÂ�dren shall hear the sorry story of war

in which the Â�swords of RoÂ�mans Â�fought each other
inÂ�stead of the PerÂ�sians, whom we could have Â�killed
to far betÂ�ter purÂ�pose.
Upon which of the gods shall peoÂ�ple call

as the emÂ�pire deÂ�clines? Whom shall the VesÂ�tals
imÂ�porÂ�tune? Whom shall JuÂ�piÂ�ter Â�choose
to atone for our guilt?
ProÂ�phetic Â�Apollo, we pray you to come some night,

your raÂ�diÂ�ance Â�veiled in a cloud, or else may Venus
about whom Mirth and DeÂ�sire hover toÂ�gether,
come to our aid.
Or you, AuÂ�gusÂ�tus, of Venus and Mars’ race

must interÂ�vene to end the Â�drawn-Â�out strugÂ�gle
for, surÂ�feited with blood as you must be,
you are Â�Caesar’s Â�avenger
and must play the grim game with its batÂ�tle cries
and dazÂ�zle of helÂ�mets of foot solÂ�diers, reÂ�lentÂ�less
and stern as they face an arÂ�bitÂ�raÂ�ment of blood
in unÂ�civil war.
Or will the son of Maia apÂ�pear on earth,

Mars in the guise of a man to take on the duty
of jusÂ�tice for CaeÂ�sar? Are you, perÂ�haps, the one
to acÂ�comÂ�plish this feat
and then reÂ�turn to the skies to dwell among

your felÂ�low gods? But may you reÂ�main here
8 Book I
as a Â�Father would, keepÂ�ing us safe, O CaeÂ�sar,
enÂ�joyÂ�ing your triÂ�umphs.
First of the RoÂ�mans, you will not perÂ�mit

inÂ�jusÂ�tices to conÂ�tinue long unÂ�punÂ�ished
while you preÂ�side as our Â�leader and proÂ�tect us
from menÂ�acÂ�ing Medes.
T his is an ode in Â�praise of AuÂ�gusÂ�tus in SapÂ�phics with a lilt

that is easy to sugÂ�gest in EnÂ�glish with stanÂ�zas of three
teÂ�tramÂ�eÂ�ter lines and then a Â�shorter dimÂ�eÂ�ter line. The strucÂ�ture
is straightÂ�forÂ�ward, with the first part of the ode disÂ�cussÂ�ing the
many warnÂ�ings the RoÂ�mans have had, and then, in the secÂ�ond,
anÂ�swers to the quesÂ�tion of what god can now help us. Â�Apollo,
Venus, and Mars are each conÂ�sidÂ�ered, and then the deÂ�ciÂ�sion is
for MerÂ�cury—whose avÂ�aÂ�tar is AuÂ�gusÂ�tus.
It was Â�thought to be a parÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�larly bad omen for lightÂ�ning
to Â�strike a god’s own Â�shrines, but the noÂ�tion of lightÂ�ning genÂ�erÂ�
ally as a sigÂ�nal of the gods’ disÂ�pleasÂ�ure is comÂ�mon Â�enough (LuÂ�
creÂ�tius makes fun of the idea that gods would deÂ�stroy their own
temÂ�ples).
In the secÂ�ond Â�stanza, I make it clear that the refÂ�erÂ�ence to
the age of PyrÂ�rha inÂ�diÂ�cates the uniÂ�verÂ�sal flood. The myth is
easÂ�ily availÂ�able to those who are cuÂ�riÂ�ous.
The myth of TiÂ�berÂ�iÂ�nus, the god of the Tiber, and his anger
at Mars about his unÂ�wanted atÂ�tenÂ�tions to his wife is clear
Â�enough, I think, in the Â�fourth Â�stanza. The Roman readÂ�ers may
have seen in this a nod in the diÂ�recÂ�tion of Mark AnÂ�tony, but
I’m not sure that this helps the poem.
The capÂ�iÂ�talÂ�izaÂ�tion of “Â�Father” in the peÂ�nulÂ�tiÂ�mate Â�stanza is
apÂ�proÂ�priÂ�ate beÂ�cause the title of Pater PoÂ�puli was Â�awarded to
AuÂ�gusÂ�tus in 28 BCE. Those who reÂ�alÂ�ize this will feel good
about it. Those who don’t will not be trouÂ�bled.
The Medes in the last line are ParÂ�thians. HorÂ�ace reÂ�fers to
them, with litÂ�tle hisÂ�torÂ�iÂ�cal jusÂ�tifiÂ�caÂ�tion, as PerÂ�sae or Medes in
Book I 9
order to sugÂ�gest the anÂ�cient strugÂ�gles of the Â�Greeks with those
peoÂ�ples.
3
May Venus guide you, and Helen,
and her brothÂ�ers, CasÂ�tor and PolÂ�lux, who superÂ�vise
ships at sea; may AeÂ�oÂ�lus
reÂ�strain all the winds exÂ�ceptÂ�ing Iapyx
to speed you as you go,

carÂ�ryÂ�ing VirÂ�gil who now is in your care.
Bring him Â�safely Â�ashore
in Â�Greece, for he is half of my own soul.
That man who first set forth

on a frail bark to chalÂ�lenge the wide exÂ�panse
of the sea must have had a heart
Â�stronger than any oak or Â�triple Â�bronze
to brave the Â�fierce winds

that howl from the southÂ�west or the cold north
or the seven stars of Â�Taurus,
omens of heavy rains that come from the south.
How could he not have Â�flinched

at the Â�thought of Â�death’s apÂ�proach in so many forms—
from the unÂ�reÂ�lentÂ�ing waves
or the dreadÂ�ful monÂ�sters swimÂ�ming below their surÂ�face?
I won’t even menÂ�tion

the HeadÂ�lands of Death of AcrocÂ�eÂ�rauÂ�nia,
but I ask why it was that the gods
sepÂ�arÂ�ated Â�pieces of land from each other
10 Book I
by exÂ�panses of blue water
so that only the very brave or the imÂ�piÂ�ous venÂ�tured
to subÂ�vert their purÂ�pose.
WhatÂ�ever is forÂ�bidÂ�den Â�tempts us all.
ProÂ�meÂ�theus Â�brought fire

to the Â�tribes of men and eaÂ�gerly we ascended
from the state of naÂ�ture
to civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion with all of its imÂ�perÂ�fecÂ�tions
inÂ�cludÂ�ing sickÂ�ness and death.

DaeÂ�dalus fashÂ�ioned wings deÂ�nied to men;
HerÂ�cules Â�crossed the river
AcheÂ�ron and manÂ�aged someÂ�how to reÂ�turn.
It’s how we beÂ�have: we asÂ�pire

to Â�heaven’s Â�heights in our arÂ�roÂ�gance and folly,
but beÂ�cause of our many sins
Jove canÂ�not put aside his bolts of wrath.
T his is a poem of hope that Â�Virgil’s voyÂ�age to Â�Greece goes

well. Such Â�pieces are comÂ�mon Â�enough to have a name—
proÂ�pempÂ�tika—and they often have a note of warnÂ�ing or reÂ�gret,
as in “take care.” HorÂ�ace adÂ�dresses the ship and tells it to beÂ�have
itÂ�self.
I wonÂ�dered in the Â�fourth line Â�whether to drop the name of
the northÂ�eastÂ�ern wind, Iapyx, but it Â�seemed obÂ�viÂ�ous that HorÂ�ace
is askÂ�ing for a faÂ�vorÂ�able, folÂ�lowÂ�ing wind. And the supÂ�presÂ�sion
of its name would be a loss. We don’t have names for the winds
of varÂ�iÂ�ous diÂ�recÂ�tions, but that, too, is reÂ�gretÂ�table. If noÂ�body but
meteorÂ�olÂ�oÂ�gists and sailÂ�ors cares about the winds, we have lost
touch with naÂ�ture, and that is alÂ�ways a sad thing.
The conÂ�demÂ�naÂ�tion of navÂ�iÂ�gaÂ�tion is a traÂ�diÂ�tional theme
that other poets have Â�sounded. It Â�stands to reaÂ�son that if no
one went to sea, there would be no shipÂ�wrecks. HorÂ�ace
Book I 11
exÂ�pands this to a genÂ�eral disÂ�parÂ�ageÂ�ment of all progÂ�ress, which
he sugÂ�gests is a reÂ�jecÂ�tion of the limÂ�its the gods have deÂ�creed
for us.
In the sixth Â�stanza, I supÂ�pose I could exÂ�plain that the AcrocÂ�eÂ�
rauÂ�nia is a range of mounÂ�tains that runs up the coast of Â�Epirus,
but I’m not sure how useÂ�ful that would be. HorÂ�ace does not
name them, setÂ�tling for “Â�Thunder Peaks,” but my inÂ�cliÂ�naÂ�tion
is alÂ�ways for Â�proper nouns.
4
WinÂ�ter loosÂ�ens its icy grip and the westÂ�ern winds
anÂ�nounce the Â�spring: sailÂ�ors drag their vesÂ�sels
down to the water; the Â�flocks are freed from their pens;
the plowÂ�man Â�leaves his Â�hearth to turn the earth
no Â�longer clad in mornÂ�ing hoarÂ�frost; and Venus calls
her dancÂ�ers into the moonÂ�light. The Â�Graces come
to join with the Â�nymphs in their inÂ�triÂ�cate steps. VulÂ�can Â�rouses
and Â�stokes his Â�forge’s fires deep in his cave.
We pay our reÂ�spects to the seaÂ�son, beÂ�deckÂ�ing our heads with
garÂ�lands
of green myrÂ�tle or whatÂ�ever flowÂ�ers we find
from the Â�barely Â�thawed earth. Now is the time to give Â�thanks
with sacÂ�riÂ�fice to FauÂ�nus of lamb or kid.
Death with his imÂ�parÂ�tial foot Â�knocks at the door
of the Â�pauper’s hovel or Â�prince’s imÂ�posÂ�ing gate.
SesÂ�tus, my dear Â�friend, the span of our lives is brief
and whatÂ�ever the time of day, the night comes on
to crush our spirÂ�its in Â�Pluto’s inÂ�subÂ�stanÂ�tial halls
where no one can drink wine or play at dice
or ogle LyÂ�ciÂ�das for whom the boys now burn
as the girls will too as he Â�sparks their tenÂ�der tinÂ�der.
12 Book I
T his poem is about the comÂ�ing of Â�spring, and the alÂ�terÂ�na-
Â�tion Â�between Â�longer and Â�shorter lines is perÂ�fectly norÂ�mal.
This is the way eleÂ�giac Â�poetry proÂ�ceeds. FanÂ�ciÂ�ful scholÂ�ars have
sugÂ�gested that the moveÂ�ment Â�between the two patÂ�terns is sugÂ�
gesÂ�tive of the equivÂ�ocal naÂ�ture of Â�spring and Â�Horace’s reÂ�acÂ�tion
to it. Some readÂ�ers will deÂ�light in that kind of gloss; othÂ�ers will
disÂ�miss it as balÂ�derÂ�dash of the purÂ�est ray seÂ�rene. I menÂ�tion it as
a way of demÂ�onÂ�stratÂ�ing what goes on in clasÂ�sics buildÂ�ings.
The enÂ�trance of Death in line 16 is not so surÂ�prisÂ�ing as it
might seem. April is the cruelÂ�est month beÂ�cause, with all this
burÂ�geonÂ�ing and efÂ�floÂ�resÂ�cence, their opÂ�poÂ�site is not that far
away. It has been sugÂ�gested that kickÂ�ing the door is a parÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�
larly imÂ�perÂ�iÂ�ous way of deÂ�mandÂ�ing enÂ�trance, and I’m happy to
think so. It cerÂ�tainly is unÂ�cerÂ�eÂ�moÂ�niÂ�ous.
My only deÂ�parÂ�ture from the Latin text worth any speÂ�cial
comÂ�ment is in the last line. The Latin has LyÂ�ciÂ�das makÂ�ing all the
young men burn with pasÂ�sion and kinÂ�dling the deÂ�sires of the
girls. I took my cue from “kinÂ�dle” and Â�pushed it a litÂ�tle to get
“Â�sparks their tenÂ�der tinÂ�der,” which I liked as an endÂ�ing. It does
miniÂ�mal viÂ�oÂ�lence to HorÂ�ace and I like to think he’d apÂ�prove. A
transÂ�laÂ�tor of prose is more or less a clerk; a transÂ�laÂ�tor of Â�poetry
must be, Â�whether he or she acÂ�knowlÂ�edges it, a partÂ�ner.
5
Ah, the poor slip of a youth supÂ�poses
that bed of fraÂ�grant rose petÂ�als is real
in the Â�grotto where he lies
for the moÂ�ment with Â�pretty PyrÂ�rha
with her godÂ�like nimÂ�bus of hair of molÂ�ten gold.

But he will learn that she and the gods are Â�fickle
Book I 13
and, in bad Â�weather, try
to beÂ�lieve this hapÂ�pened to him.
He is Â�blinded by dazÂ�zle now: let him enjoy it.

If he is wise he will not beÂ�come emÂ�bitÂ�tered
when Â�breezes will blow away
the fraÂ�grance of those roses.
I have hung all my seaÂ�goÂ�ing gear

and Â�soaked garÂ�ments high on the wall of the temÂ�ple
in Â�thanks that I have surÂ�vived
all those terÂ�rible Â�storms.
T his is the first love poem and it is charÂ�acÂ�terÂ�isÂ�tiÂ�cally HoÂ�ra-

Â�tian: the poet is an older, Â�worldly felÂ�low watchÂ�ing the
Â�antics of a pair of lovÂ�ers—a young, inÂ�exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�enced male and
an older and more soÂ�phisÂ�tiÂ�cated feÂ�male—and from his vanÂ�
tage point he can imÂ�aÂ�gine both their pleasÂ�ures and their
prosÂ�pects.
I have taken only a few libÂ�erÂ�ties, exÂ�pandÂ�ing the “Â�flaxen
hair” of the Latin to a “godÂ�like nimÂ�bus of hair of molÂ�ten gold,”
Â�mostly beÂ�cause I Â�thought the poem could use more enÂ�ergy
there, to sugÂ�gest how smitÂ�ten the lover was. I have also couÂ�pled
the Â�breezes that HorÂ�ace menÂ�tioned with the fraÂ�grance of roses,
which is in the poem but not gramÂ�matÂ�iÂ�cally conÂ�nected to
them.
6
Let VarÂ�ius sing your Â�praises: HoÂ�meric Â�flights
about the exÂ�ploits of footÂ�men and Â�mounted solÂ�diers
and sailÂ�ors Â�aboard their vesÂ�sels deÂ�mand a Â�louder
and more resÂ�oÂ�nant voice than mine.
14 Book I
My adÂ�miÂ�raÂ�tion, Â�Agrippa, you know you have,
but all I have to do is inÂ�voke the name
of Â�Peleus’ son, Â�Achilles, and I feel the Â�strain
and even the Â�threat of deÂ�riÂ�sive laughÂ�ter.
Â�
Ulysses’ adÂ�venÂ�tures, the curse of Â�Atreus’ house .Â€.Â€.
These are quite beÂ�yond my repÂ�erÂ�tory,
for I have a Muse who conÂ�fines me to peaceÂ�ful purÂ�suits,
and the awkÂ�ward efÂ�forts I might make
would only diÂ�minÂ�ish your glory as well as Â�Caesar’s.

The very Â�thought of Mars in his gleamÂ�ing armor
Â�strikes me dumb, as if my body knew
its and my own limÂ�iÂ�taÂ�tions.
The pasÂ�sages of arms of which I sing

are those of flirÂ�taÂ�tious maidÂ�ens makÂ�ing adÂ�vances
to manÂ�iÂ�cured young men at the dinÂ�ner table,
in jests that someÂ�time turn into love.
T his is a graceÂ�ful Â�verse-Â�letter to Â�Agrippa, who was the com-

Â�mander of Â�Augustus’ fleet at the batÂ�tle of AcÂ�tium, exÂ�
plainÂ�ing that he is not an epic poet who can deal with such subÂ�
jects as Â�Agrippa’s great exÂ�ploits. InÂ�stead, he sugÂ�gests L. VarÂ�ius
RuÂ�fiÂ�nus, whose caÂ�paÂ�bilÂ�ities are difÂ�ferÂ�ent. VarÂ�ius was the leadÂ�ing
epic poet of the time, if only beÂ�cause VirÂ�gil had not yet comÂ�
pleted the AeÂ�neid.
HorÂ�ace menÂ�tions Mars in his armor, but he Â�throws in
refÂ�erÂ�ences to MerÂ�iÂ�ones (Â�Idomeneus’ chaÂ�riÂ�otÂ�eer) and DioÂ�medes.
There is scholÂ�arly puzÂ�zleÂ�ment about what such a minor figÂ�ure
as MerÂ�iÂ�ones is doing there (perÂ�haps showÂ�ing the range from
small to great). I deÂ�cided to omit them beÂ�cause the exÂ�plaÂ�naÂ�tion
was burÂ�denÂ�some and the menÂ�tion of these two warÂ�riÂ�ors is
simÂ�ply a disÂ�play of Â�Horace’s learnÂ�ing.
Book I 15
7
Let someÂ�body else sing the Â�praises of Â�Rhodes or LesÂ�bos,
the Â�beauty of Â�Ephesus’ buildÂ�ings or Â�Corinth’s walls
that look out Â�proudly over two difÂ�ferÂ�ent seas, or the Â�Thebes
that BacÂ�chus faÂ�vors, or Â�Apollo’s DelÂ�phi,
or Â�Thessaly’s vale of Tempe. Some poets sing of AthÂ�ens,

PalÂ�las Â�Athena’s city, hopÂ�ing to gain
a Â�wreath of ubiqÂ�uiÂ�tous olive to sport on their brows.
OthÂ�ers celÂ�eÂ�brate Â�Juno’s Â�horse-Â�breeding Argos
or rich MyceÂ�nae. For me, the tacÂ�iÂ�turn Â�charms of Â�Sparta

or Â�Thessaly’s ferÂ�tile plain Â�around LarÂ�isa
have litÂ�tle apÂ�peal comÂ�pared to Â�Tivoli’s many splenÂ�dors—
the saÂ�cred sulÂ�furÂ�ous Â�springs of the last Sybil,
the Â�Anio’s falls, the abunÂ�dant orÂ�chards that Â�thrive on the

banks.
Here the south winds disÂ�siÂ�pate the Â�clouds
to leave overÂ�head blue skies beÂ�neath which we sit toÂ�gether.
How pleasÂ�ant it is, dear PlanÂ�cus, sipÂ�ping wine
as one ought to do someÂ�times to fend off worÂ�riÂ�some Â�thoughts

eiÂ�ther of men in camp and ready for batÂ�tle
or here at home in the shade of your faÂ�milÂ�iar Â�groves.
Sorry Â�Teucer, exÂ�iled by his Â�father
from SaÂ�laÂ�mis, is said to have Â�decked his foreÂ�head with Â�boughs

of popÂ�lar and to have drunk a bowl of wine
beÂ�fore he told his Â�friends that they Â�should not lose heart:
“ForÂ�tune may yet be Â�kinder than my Â�father.
16 Book I
Let us trust in her, reÂ�memÂ�berÂ�ing how Â�Apollo
foreÂ�told anÂ�other SaÂ�laÂ�mis someÂ�where.
We have sufÂ�fered much and toÂ�morÂ�row will venÂ�ture forth,
but let us this eveÂ�ning banÂ�ish care with wine.”
T he PlanÂ�cus to whom the poem is adÂ�dressed is MuÂ�naÂ�tius

PlanÂ�cus, an elder statesÂ�man who had proÂ�posed “AuÂ�
gusÂ�tus” as a title for CaeÂ�sar. The strucÂ�ture of the poem is
straightÂ�forÂ�ward, a disÂ�misÂ�sal of the Â�travel snobs and culÂ�ture
vulÂ�tures who would celÂ�eÂ�brate the Greek citÂ�ies he menÂ�tions.
The “ubiqÂ�uiÂ�tous olive” sugÂ�gests that beÂ�cause olive trees grow
everyÂ�where in AtÂ�tica, that kind of Â�poetry has beÂ�come Â�merely
conÂ�venÂ�tional.
My only medÂ�dling is a Â�slight transÂ�poÂ�siÂ�tion in the last two
lines, where HorÂ�ace says, baÂ�siÂ�cally, let’s drink and relax beÂ�cause
toÂ�morÂ�row we shall venÂ�ture forth again. It Â�seemed to me that
the enÂ�tire Â�thrust of the poem is to get to the sugÂ�gesÂ�tion about
reÂ�laxÂ�ing, so I put it at the end where it has that Â�greater emÂ�phaÂ�sis
I think the poem deÂ�mands. Latin Â�thought is Â�slightly difÂ�ferÂ�ent
from EnÂ�glish beÂ�cause the lanÂ�guage is inÂ�flected, and the atÂ�tenÂ�tion
Â�floats over the senÂ�tence that clarÂ�ifies itÂ�self with signs for case,
genÂ�der, numÂ�ber, tense, mood, and so on. EnÂ�glish is all poÂ�siÂ�
tional. Such a Â�change Â�seemed, thereÂ�fore, not altoÂ�gether a viÂ�oÂ�laÂ�
tion of the Â�poem’s inÂ�tegÂ�rity.
8
ExÂ�plain to me, Lydia dear,
in the name of all the gods, what do you think you are
doing
to SyÂ�barus, whom you love?
He used to enjoy exÂ�erÂ�tions on the hot sun of the camÂ�pus;
Book I 17
he used to deÂ�light in ridÂ�ing
his spirÂ�ited GalÂ�lic Â�horses along with his felÂ�low caÂ�dets;
he used to swim in the Tiber;
he Â�avoids the Â�wrestler’s oil as if it were Â�viper’s blood.
He once Â�showed off with pride

the Â�bruises on both his arms from sesÂ�sions of weapÂ�onry
pracÂ�tice;
he Â�achieved an imÂ�presÂ�sive disÂ�tance
in hurlÂ�ing the heavy disÂ�cus and throwÂ�ing the javÂ�eÂ�lin high.
Now, like Â�Thetis’ son,

he cowÂ�ers in Â�women’s clothÂ�ing, apÂ�preÂ�henÂ�sive lest
the Â�proper garb of a man
Â�should hurry him off to Troy where an early death Â�awaits him.
T here is in the Latin a seÂ�ries of inÂ�diÂ�rect quesÂ�tions (cur proÂ�peres

cur Â�oderit, and cur neque equiÂ�tet nec temÂ�peÂ�ret), folÂ�lowed by
three diÂ�rect quesÂ�tions (cur timet, cur vitat neque gesÂ�cat, and quid
latet), but this elabÂ�orate rheÂ�torÂ�iÂ�cal disÂ�play Â�wouldn’t/Â�couldn’t
come graceÂ�fully into EnÂ�glish withÂ�out soundÂ�ing like a transÂ�laÂ�
tion. My Â�method, thereÂ�fore, was to take the poem as a map and
try to folÂ�low the genÂ�eral meanÂ�ing, which is simÂ�ple Â�enough. HorÂ�
ace deÂ�scribes the disÂ�imÂ�proveÂ�ments in SyÂ�barus—whose name
canÂ�not be acÂ�ciÂ�denÂ�tal—and then asÂ�cends to myÂ�tholÂ�ogy, inÂ�vokÂ�ing
Â�Achilles, who hid among the women, reÂ�lucÂ�tant to go to war. It
is not a very long poem and my hope was that this shift in
regÂ�isÂ�ter would be sufÂ�fiÂ�cient to enÂ�gage the Â�reader.
9
Look up and see the dazÂ�zling peak of SoÂ�racte
where trees are bent with the Â�weight of the deep snow
18 Book I
and the Â�iced-Â�over rivÂ�ers glint silÂ�ver.
Warm down here, we adÂ�mire the view
putÂ�ting anÂ�other log onto the fire

and pourÂ�ing out more of that fine wine,
unÂ�mixed, aged, and ready to drink.
Help yourÂ�self from that SaÂ�bine deÂ�canter,
ThalÂ�iÂ�arÂ�chus. Put your trust in the gods

who will, when they Â�choose, bring an end to the storm,
still the heavÂ�ing sea and quiet the winds
that have Â�howled all day. The cyÂ�press trees
and the ash will surÂ�vive unÂ�hurt. Do not fret,

wonÂ�derÂ�ing what trouÂ�bles toÂ�morÂ�row will bring.
Enjoy your youth and your days of dalÂ�liance.
Old age? It’s still far off.
Games in the dayÂ�time and whisÂ�perÂ�ing girls after dark,

those Â�should be your Â�proper busiÂ�ness now.
The mufÂ�fled laughÂ�ter from some corÂ�ner
where she hides gives her away.
Find her and seize from her slenÂ�der wrist some token
of love, a braceÂ�let, or from her unÂ�reÂ�sistÂ�ing
finÂ�ger, a ring that you will reÂ�turn,
as she well knows, Â�promptly Â�enough.
A Â�
lovely, alÂ�most transÂ�parÂ�ent poem in which an older man
Â�speaks to his Â�younger comÂ�panÂ�ion, its maÂ�chinÂ�ery is subÂ�tle
but sure. The Â�storms may be real Â�enough, but they also sugÂ�gest
the Â�storms of youth, and the calm of “old age,” which is still
“far off.” I Â�didn’t add anyÂ�thing or leave out anyÂ�thing. My obÂ�ject
was to try to conÂ�vey the genÂ�tle amuseÂ�ment and viÂ�carÂ�iÂ�ous deÂ�light
Book I 19
the Â�speaker finds in the Â�younger man’s sitÂ�uÂ�aÂ�tion as he ofÂ�fers his
enÂ�courÂ�ageÂ�ment and benÂ�eÂ�dicÂ�tion.
10
ElÂ�oÂ�quent MerÂ�cury, grandÂ�son of Atlas,
you gave manÂ�kind the power of Â�speech
that Â�brought with it civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion,
I sing your Â�praise.
MesÂ�senÂ�ger of Jove and the gods,

inÂ�venÂ�tor of the curvÂ�ing lyre,
and Â�clever, even someÂ�times Â�tricky,
you are the paÂ�tron of Â�thieves.
When Â�Apollo, whose catÂ�tle you had stoÂ�len,

Â�reached back for an arrow, he Â�laughed,
for, while he had been scoldÂ�ing you,
you’d taken his Â�quiver.
You Â�guarded the agèd Priam, laden

with treasÂ�ure to ranÂ�som Â�Hector’s body
as he made his way among ArÂ�give tents
that had menÂ�aced Troy.
You welÂ�come souls of the dead to the bliss

of the afterÂ�life, diÂ�rectÂ�ing the Â�crowded
shadÂ�ows to make way, make way,
with your Â�golden wand.
T his is an elÂ�eÂ�gant hymn to MerÂ�cury that HorÂ�ace Â�writes not

so much out of piety as from a deÂ�sire to show off as a proÂ�
sodic and rheÂ�torÂ�iÂ�cal techÂ�niÂ�cian. The poem is full of conÂ�venÂ�tional
20 Book I
Â�
praise with evÂ�iÂ�dence in the first three stanÂ�zas of the usual
kind. The story of Â�Mercury’s theft of Â�Apollo’s catÂ�tle comes from
AlÂ�caeus and HeÂ�siod, and while PhoeÂ�bus is talkÂ�ing, the prankÂ�ster
god manÂ�ages to steal the quiver
Â� from which Apollo
Â� might pull
an arrow, at least to Â�threaten him.
The poem Â�changes in timÂ�bre in the Â�fourth Â�stanza, a brief
reÂ�tellÂ�ing of the story of Priam comÂ�ing to barÂ�gain for Â�Hector’s
manÂ�gled Â�corpse, with MerÂ�cury proÂ�tectÂ�ing him as he makes his
way Â�through the ArÂ�give camp. Then, in the last Â�stanza, HorÂ�ace
deÂ�scribes MerÂ�cury as the usher of the dead, which underÂ�scores
the seÂ�riÂ�ousÂ�ness of some of the god’s duÂ�ties. I don’t think I
introÂ�duce much new exÂ�cept for the douÂ�bling of “make way,
make way,” beÂ�cause the wand sugÂ�gested an ofÂ�fiÂ�cial in Â�charge of
the crowd of shadÂ�ows.
11
Don’t try to figÂ�ure out the plans the gods
may have for you. Don’t pry into their seÂ�crets
with BabÂ�yÂ�loÂ�nian astrolÂ�ogy Â�charts. No,
LeuÂ�coÂ�noe, I tell you, just enÂ�dure.
This winÂ�ter weakÂ�enÂ�ing now on the seaÂ�shore rocks
could be your last. Or not. But eiÂ�ther way,
seize the day; live its fleetÂ�ing moÂ�ments;
and think of the fuÂ�ture no more than it Â�thinks of you.
T his is a relÂ�aÂ�tively straightÂ�forÂ�ward fragÂ�ment of a disÂ�cusÂ�sion

about knowÂ�ing the fuÂ�ture, about which HorÂ�ace takes an
EpiÂ�curÂ�ean poÂ�siÂ�tion and tells LeuÂ�coÂ�noe not to worry about it,
but Â�rather live in the Â�present. What makes it memÂ�orÂ�able is its
grace and also the fact that carpe diem has beÂ�come a part of the
small Â�change of culÂ�ture. Even peoÂ�ple withÂ�out any knowlÂ�edge
of Latin (beÂ�yond et cetÂ�era and vice versa) know those words.
Book I 21
The renÂ�diÂ�tion of “seize” is conÂ�venÂ�tional and anyÂ�thing else
Â�sounds weird, but the sense of the Latin word is an acÂ�tion
more like a quick pluckÂ�ing than a musÂ�cuÂ�lar gripÂ�ping. “Pluck
the day” is nevÂ�erÂ�theÂ�less an inÂ�viÂ�taÂ�tion to gufÂ�faws. My only
minor fidÂ�dle was to Â�change Â�Horace’s puÂ�micÂ�iÂ�bus (pumÂ�ice) to
unÂ�specÂ�ified “rocks,” which I did beÂ�cause my first Â�thought about
pumÂ�ice is that one uses it for reÂ�movÂ�ing dead skin from the
botÂ�tom of calÂ�lused feet and for stone washÂ�ing blue jeans, both
of which acÂ�tivÂ�iÂ�ties are disÂ�tracÂ�tions from the poem.
12
Clio, tell me, to what man or hero
or god will you deÂ�vote your lyre or flute?
Whose name will reÂ�sound on the leafy Â�slopes
of Â�Helicon’s Â�heights
or Â�Pindus’ peak or the Â�ridges of Â�Haemus’ range

from which the trees are said to have Â�swayed in Â�rhythm
to Â�Orpheus’ songs and the Â�streams in their beds Â�stopped
to lisÂ�ten enÂ�tranced?
Let me celÂ�eÂ�brate the alÂ�mighty Â�father

who rules the fates of men and the Â�lesser gods,
as he govÂ�erns the land and sea and the sky’s Â�changes
as the seaÂ�sons progÂ�ress.
From him is beÂ�gotÂ�ten nothÂ�ing Â�greater than he,

for who in the world is his equal? What can Â�thrive
withÂ�out his blessÂ�ing or even preÂ�sume to stand
anyÂ�where near him?
ClosÂ�est in glory to Jove is PalÂ�las, brave

in batÂ�tle. But BacÂ�chus is also great, and Diana,
22 Book I
inÂ�trepid huntÂ�ress, and PhoeÂ�bus Â�Apollo whose arÂ�rows
Â�strike from afar.
HerÂ�cules, too, deÂ�serves our panÂ�eÂ�gyric

and CasÂ�tor and PolÂ�lux, one an exÂ�pert with Â�horses
and the other a splenÂ�did puÂ�giÂ�list: their stars
are aides to sailÂ�ors
when the Â�storm-Â�tossed waÂ�ters roar Â�against the Â�cliffs

until the winds subÂ�side and the bilÂ�lows genÂ�tle
at their kind interÂ�cesÂ�sion and the trouÂ�bled sea
rests in its bed.
From these I could turn to RomÂ�uÂ�lus, our Â�founder,

or Â�Numa’s peaceÂ�ful reign, or Â�Tarquin’s pride,
or Â�Cato’s noble death. I could drop names
of RegÂ�uÂ�lus
or the Â�Scauri and such paÂ�triÂ�cian Â�houses,

all of whom have Â�served the naÂ�tion well.
FabÂ�riÂ�cius comes to mind, and CuÂ�rius too
of the long hair,
and CaÂ�milÂ�lus, that plainÂ�spoken man, and MarÂ�celÂ�lus

whose glory only inÂ�creases over time.
InÂ�deed, the enÂ�tire JuÂ�lian gens Â�shines Â�bright
in the Â�starry sky.
But you, Jove, our guarÂ�dian and our Â�father,

are surÂ�rounded by other Â�lesser gods and heÂ�roes.
The fate of our naÂ�tion is in your hands,
lord of the world,
and you have Â�vested your powÂ�ers in Â�mighty CaeÂ�sar,

triÂ�umÂ�phant havÂ�ing humÂ�bled the ParÂ�thian horde.
Book I 23
SecÂ�ond only to you does he rule the earth
from west to east.
Over you is only Jove on OlymÂ�pus,

rulÂ�ing manÂ�kind with jusÂ�tice and Â�strength.
His is the charÂ�iot from which, when anÂ�gered,
he hurls his bolts.
H orace’s auÂ�diÂ�ence would have Â�thought of PinÂ�dar (Olym-

Â�pian Ode 2) from that openÂ�ing triad of man/hero/god
that we see here in reÂ�verse order, and they would have been all
the more Â�pleased to have been Â�nudged in the right diÂ�recÂ�tion,
for it is a very PinÂ�daric piece. The Â�triple apÂ�pearÂ�ance of “you” in
the last six lines is also conÂ�venÂ�tional in hymns. I Â�haven’t Â�changed
much. InÂ�deed, I left “ParÂ�thian” as it is in Latin, alÂ�though HorÂ�ace
means the term to inÂ�clude all Â�Asians, and is not urgÂ�ing AuÂ�
gusÂ�tus to underÂ�take an AlexÂ�anÂ�drian world conÂ�quest. Its only
equivÂ�aÂ�lent would be “AsiatÂ�ics,” with the peÂ�jorÂ�aÂ�tive underÂ�tone,
which EdÂ�ward Said Â�rightly Â�pointed out and to which, less
Â�rightly, he obÂ�jected.
13
Lydia, dear, you canÂ�not help
speakÂ�ing of Â�Telephus’ Â�pretty, rosy neck
and his Â�smooth, alÂ�most waxÂ�like arms,
but I feel the pourÂ�ing forth of my black bile;
my Â�cheeks flush and the sweat trickÂ�les
down as if I were meltÂ�ing in sudÂ�den heat.
I think of your white shoulÂ�ders
black and blue from Â�bruises of Â�lovers’ quarÂ�rels.
Drunk? Or did your pasÂ�sionÂ�ate moÂ�ments
24 Book I
leave those marks and the ones on your Â�pretty lips?
Take my adÂ�vice and do not trust
any boor with such a savÂ�age mouth,
even with Â�Venus’ quinÂ�tesÂ�senÂ�tial
necÂ�tar. Â�Thrice blest is a modÂ�erÂ�ate love
the bonds of which are never Â�strained
by moÂ�ments of pasÂ�sion and pasÂ�sionÂ�ate quarÂ�rels,
for they are the only ones who can hope
to reÂ�main toÂ�gether until the end of their days.
T his may or may not be the same Lydia as in other odes

with a woman of that name. AsÂ�sumÂ�ing that they are the
same, and inÂ�ventÂ�ing a kind of plot, we can see that HorÂ�ace is still
the older obÂ�server, posÂ�sibly a forÂ�mer lover of Â�Lydia’s in whom
she conÂ�fides, which is both inÂ�triÂ�guing and frusÂ�tratÂ�ing beÂ�cause
he can reÂ�call the deÂ�sire he felt for her, and still feels.
The list of sympÂ�toms in line 4 and those that folÂ�low is like
those we find in SapÂ�pho and CaÂ�tulÂ�lus, to whom HorÂ�ace may
be alÂ�ludÂ�ing. Venus, he sugÂ�gests, has Â�anointed the Â�lover’s lips
with a speÂ�cial subÂ�stance that makes his mouth savÂ�age. QuinÂ�tesÂ�
sence is a comÂ�biÂ�naÂ�tion of earth, air, fire, water, and the mysÂ�terÂ�iÂ�
ous fifth eleÂ�ment.
The idea of this pasÂ�sion makes HorÂ�ace unÂ�comÂ�fortÂ�able, and
his warnÂ�ing to Lydia that so arÂ�dent a felÂ�low is unÂ�likely to be
faithÂ�ful may be a wish in disÂ�guise.
14
O ship! You are venÂ�turÂ�ing forth upon new waves.
What are you doing? It’s not too late to turn back
while you still have time. Look!
Your oars are gone
Book I 25
and your mast is split by the viÂ�cious southÂ�west wind.
Your mainsail frays under the awful Â�strain;
your hull is in parÂ�lous shape;
and your sails are tatÂ�ters.
The god’s image on your stern is gone and of no

help while you are beset on all sides with danÂ�gers.
You are made of PonÂ�tic pine,
the best there is,
but what good are linÂ�eÂ�age now and Â�painted transÂ�oms,

which don’t imÂ�press the terÂ�rified sailÂ�ors on board?
Do you want to beÂ�come the toy
of the whimÂ�siÂ�cal winds?
Â�
You’ve Â�caused me worry Â�enough and some reÂ�sentÂ�ment,
but I have grown fond of you and wish you well.
Take care of yourÂ�self and avoid
the Â�Cyclades’ waÂ�ters.
T here is some acÂ�aÂ�demic disÂ�pute about the meanÂ�ing of this

poem, or, to be more preÂ�cise, the tenor of the metaÂ�phor.
The veÂ�hiÂ�cle is clear—a ship is putÂ�ting to sea and there are danÂ�
gers ahead. Is it a ship of state, as some clasÂ�siÂ�cists inÂ�sist? Or is it
about a love afÂ�fair on which the Â�speaker is emÂ�barkÂ�ing, knowÂ�ing
the perÂ�ils of such reÂ�laÂ�tionÂ�ships, as has been sugÂ�gested by Â�equally
emÂ�iÂ�nent LatÂ�iÂ�nists, lookÂ�ing at the last Â�stanza? My view is that it
Â�doesn’t much matÂ�ter. Â�Frost’s “The Road Not Taken” is about
a Â�choice, but it Â�doesn’t very much afÂ�fect the text what kind of
Â�choice the Â�reader has in mind. It is an Â�open-Â�ended figÂ�ure, and we
can take from it any meanÂ�ing we preÂ�fer. I have been as faithÂ�ful
to the origÂ�iÂ�nal as I could, sugÂ�gestÂ�ing (alÂ�though not duÂ�pliÂ�catÂ�ing)
Â�Horace’s meter that gives it an edge.
26 Book I
15
When the Â�ex-Â�shepherd was dragÂ�ging Helen away
Â�across the sea on ships of Â�Idaean lumÂ�ber,
NerÂ�eus Â�calmed the winds so that he could be heard
with his dire prophÂ�ecy:
“The omens are bad as you take this woman home,

for the Â�Greeks will come to reÂ�claim her with Â�men-Â�at-Â�arms
who have sworn oaths to wreck not only your union
but anÂ�cient Â�Priam’s kingÂ�dom.
“Oh, what bitÂ�ter sweat is in store for you

and your fine Â�horses, as you bring countÂ�less Â�deaths
to the Â�shores of Troy that Â�Athena has in mind.
She is ready with helÂ�met and Â�shield,
“as fury Â�builds in her heart. You will try in vain

to act the hero under Â�Venus’ proÂ�tecÂ�tion,
combÂ�ing your hair, and strumÂ�ming your Â�lyre’s Â�strings
while you skulk in a bouÂ�doir.
“Not for you are the Â�deadly, Â�pointed Â�spears

or the arÂ�rowÂ�heads of the CreÂ�tan archÂ�ers, the roar
of batÂ�tle, the heavy tread of Â�Ajax’s purÂ�suit.
On your poÂ�maded hair
“there will be dust at last. Just look Â�around,

there is bold UlysÂ�ses bringÂ�ing your ruin,
there is NesÂ�tor, and there beÂ�hind them are more
warÂ�riÂ�ors, grim and determined.
Book I 27
“Â�Teucer, Â�Ajax’s Â�brother, and SthenÂ�eÂ�lus, too,
that burly, Â�hand-Â�to-Â�hand Â�fighter and chaÂ�riÂ�otÂ�eer,
and MerÂ�iÂ�ones, also a masÂ�ter of Â�horses—
you will see them all.
“DioÂ�medes will come to track you down,

a wolf after a helpÂ�less deer that runs
not quite fast Â�enough as it knows all along.
Was this what you ofÂ�fered the woman?
“Like the deer, you will know you are done for, and only
Â�Achilles’ anger at AgÂ�aÂ�memÂ�non will spare you,
but that will abate and then, after ten winÂ�ters,
the Â�Achaians will raze your city.”
I ts HoÂ�meric tone is a way for HorÂ�ace to demÂ�onÂ�strate the

range of his voice. He Â�shrinks the Iliad into a few stanÂ�zas,
but he isn’t a bard reÂ�citÂ�ing an epic. Â�Rather, he is a poet in a
drawÂ�ing room, preÂ�tendÂ�ing to be a bard. I take that enÂ�gagÂ�ing
sitÂ�uÂ�aÂ�tion as my warÂ�rant for a few small adÂ�justÂ�ments. There is
no “poÂ�maded hair” in the origÂ�iÂ�nal. HorÂ�ace has “adulÂ�terÂ�ous
hair,” but I can’t tell adulÂ�terÂ�ers from other men and women by
glancÂ�ing at their coifÂ�fure. I put in the poÂ�made as a sugÂ�gesÂ�tion
of a Â�slightly efÂ�femÂ�iÂ�nate Â�ladies’ man and beÂ�cause poÂ�made would
hold the dust betÂ�ter, and that besmirchÂ�ing is the crux of the
figÂ�ure.
I have Â�changed the Latin patÂ�roÂ�nymÂ�ics to the acÂ�tual names
of the charÂ�acÂ�ters. I think the efÂ�fect in Â�Horace’s time must have
been one in which the figÂ�ures Â�loomed even Â�larger with their
names omitÂ�ted. EveryÂ�one knew that “Â�Laertes’ son” was OdysÂ�
seus, or, in Latin, UlysÂ�ses. But today, that would need an anÂ�noyÂ�
ing footÂ�note. SimÂ�iÂ�larly, Â�Tydeus’ son is DioÂ�medes, which is
resÂ�oÂ�nant Â�enough.
FiÂ�nally, in the last Â�stanza, I made a Â�slight alÂ�terÂ�aÂ�tion in givÂ�ing
28 Book I
the deer an awareÂ�ness that its Â�flight is fuÂ�tile. HorÂ�ace Â�doesn’t
have this, but it helps the gloomiÂ�ness of the prophÂ�ecy—which
gives Paris that foreÂ�knowlÂ�edge. So why not? Any EngÂ�lishÂ�ing of
the Latin loses a lot, and any resÂ�toÂ�raÂ�tion of the linÂ�guisÂ�tic acÂ�tivÂ�ity
of the origÂ�iÂ�nal is thereÂ�fore a reaÂ�sonÂ�able and even deÂ�sirÂ�able thing
to do.
16
O Â�lovely daughÂ�ter of a loveÂ�lier Â�mother,
forÂ�give my scaÂ�brous Â�verses, even burn them
and then scatÂ�ter their deÂ�plorÂ�able ashes
into the AdriÂ�atic.
NeiÂ�ther CyÂ�bele nor Â�Delphi’s seer

would upset you so. I think not even BacÂ�chus,
the god of wild parÂ�ties, and ChorÂ�yÂ�bantes
could rouse you to such a state
with their Â�racket of drums and crashÂ�ing cymÂ�bals.

You would bear up at the ringÂ�ing of steel Â�swords
or the fury of Jove when, Â�roused, he Â�raises a temÂ�pest
to show us his black mood.
They say ProÂ�meÂ�theus mixed into our clay

Â�pieces of all the Â�beasts. If this is so
there is lion in our Â�hearts, wild and viÂ�oÂ�lent,
and we never comÂ�pletely tame it.
We see how anger drove Â�Thyestes to such

dire and Â�bloody deeds. Anger Â�brings ruin
to forÂ�tified citÂ�ies the vengeÂ�ful solÂ�diers plow
back into empty wasteÂ�land.
Book I 29
One must try hard to conÂ�trol his emoÂ�tions.
In my youth, I admit that I had a hot temÂ�per
that Â�prompted me to exÂ�travÂ�aÂ�gant inÂ�vecÂ�tive
I Â�trusted my wit might reÂ�deem,
but I feel difÂ�ferÂ�ent now. GenÂ�tler, wiser,

I take it back, withÂ�draw my imÂ�perÂ�tiÂ�nence
in the hope that you will again beÂ�come my Â�friend
and give me back your heart.
T his is a palÂ�iÂ�node, and we may infer that there was an

earÂ�lier poem that Â�started in an opÂ�poÂ�site way—perÂ�haps
“O ugly daughÂ�ter of an ugÂ�lier Â�mother .Â€.Â€.”—that had not been
well reÂ�ceived. I think the only omisÂ�sion I made was that in
the Latin in the third Â�stanza HorÂ�ace specÂ�ifies that they are
“Noric” Â�swords. NorÂ�iÂ�cum in the Alps was known for its exÂ�celÂ�
lent weapÂ�ons, but to interÂ�rupt the flow of the poem to exÂ�plain
this would be to value erÂ�uÂ�diÂ�tion over the apÂ�preÂ�ciÂ�aÂ�tion of Â�poetry.
SimÂ�iÂ�larly, I Â�changed the godÂ�dess of DinÂ�dyÂ�mus (Mount DinÂ�dyÂ�
mus in PhryÂ�gia) to CyÂ�bele, who is the one he’s talkÂ�ing about in
the secÂ�ond stanza.
Â�
17
FauÂ�nus often comes from AcaÂ�dian Â�heights
to visit me here on my farm where he keeps watch
over my flock of goats
proÂ�tectÂ�ing them from Â�summer’s heat, from rain,
and from winÂ�ter winds. The Â�smelly billy Â�goats’ wives,

the genÂ�tle nanÂ�nies, wanÂ�der unÂ�moÂ�lested
among the arÂ�buÂ�tus and thyme,
and their kids have no fear of Â�wolves or Â�snakes
30 Book I
when the UsÂ�tiÂ�can rocks echo the sound of the pipes
anÂ�nouncÂ�ing his arÂ�riÂ�val. Thus do the gods
watch over me here on the farm,
apÂ�provÂ�ing my dedÂ�iÂ�caÂ�tion to them and the Muse.
Here in your honor, TynÂ�daris, to mark your visit,

the horn of Â�Plenty will pour out the rich gifts
the counÂ�tryÂ�side can offer
not only in opÂ�uÂ�lence but even granÂ�deur.
Here you will esÂ�cape the dog days

of July while you take up Â�Anacreon’s lyre
to sing Â�Penelope’s Â�praises
or deÂ�scribe Â�Circe’s fasÂ�ciÂ�natÂ�ing glitÂ�ter—
for both of these were in love with the same man.

Here we shall drink the sweet wine Â�brought from LesÂ�bos
in civÂ�ilÂ�ized deÂ�coÂ�rum
unÂ�like those parÂ�ties BacÂ�chus and Mars ruin.
No Cyrus, drunk, rowdy, and lustful,

will raise his hand to you here in a jealÂ�ous fit
to rip your garÂ�land off
or tear your Â�lovely and perÂ�fectly Â�proper dress.
T he first part of the poem is a conÂ�venÂ�tional deÂ�scripÂ�tion of

the joys of counÂ�try life, but that deÂ�scends from the ideal
to the pracÂ�tiÂ�cal. The Â�speaker is inÂ�vitÂ�ing TynÂ�daris, a young lady,
to come from Rome for a visit. “TynÂ�daris” would be a daughÂ�ter
of TynÂ�darÂ�eus, so HorÂ�ace is in efÂ�fect callÂ�ing her “Helen” in an
Â�oblique but exÂ�travÂ�aÂ�gant comÂ�pliÂ�ment. The conÂ�juncÂ�tion of PeÂ�
neÂ�lÂ�ope and Circe sugÂ�gests the posÂ�sibilÂ�ity of an acÂ�tual triÂ�anÂ�gle—
TynÂ�daris, the Â�speaker, and the loutÂ�ish Cyrus.
UsÂ�tiÂ�can rocks? From Mount UsÂ�tica, but noÂ�body is sure
Book I 31
where that might be. I left it in beÂ�cause Â�proper nouns are chewy
and this one is fun. I had omitÂ�ted Mars as the owner of the
Â�wolves and Â�didn’t want to prune the poem too much. SimÂ�iÂ�larly,
the “heat of the Dog,” or Canis Major, is a sumÂ�mer conÂ�stelÂ�
laÂ�tion; and the Â�phrase means July, which Â�doesn’t reÂ�quire any
exÂ�plaÂ�naÂ�tion.
18
No tree could be more imÂ�porÂ�tant, AlÂ�caeus says someÂ�where,
than the Â�god-Â�given vine that grows so well in the rich soil
that is Â�Tivoli’s boast. The gods have been kind, Varus, to those
who abÂ�stain from wine, but how else disÂ�pel heartache?
After a glass of wine, who comÂ�plains about war
or povÂ�erty? Our Â�thoughts turn to gods of pleasÂ�ure,
BacÂ�chus, of Â�course, and Â�lovely Venus, his comÂ�panÂ�ion.
But avoid any exÂ�cess: the Â�drunken brawl of the LaÂ�piths
and CenÂ�taurs warns us all of the danÂ�gers of too much wine,
and think of the sozÂ�zled SiÂ�thoÂ�nians and what BacÂ�chus
did to punÂ�ish them. One’s judgÂ�ment beÂ�gins to blur
and the pasÂ�sions rule. I promÂ�ise not to ofÂ�fend BacÂ�chus.
I will not exÂ�pose to outÂ�sidÂ�ers his saÂ�cred cult obÂ�jects.
Quiet the tamÂ�bouÂ�rines and the Â�shrill BerÂ�eÂ�cynÂ�thian pipes
for they are often promptÂ�ings to pride and folly
so that seÂ�crets drip from flacÂ�cid lips like Â�glassy spitÂ�tle.
T he poem is clear Â�enough, I think. The first quesÂ�tion I had

to face was how to conÂ�vey the derÂ�iÂ�vaÂ�tion of the first line.
In the notes? Or in the poem itÂ�self ? Â�Alcaeus’ name is not menÂ�
tioned beÂ�cause readÂ�ers would have recÂ�ogÂ�nized the quoÂ�taÂ�tion,
and I thereÂ�fore deÂ�cided it was a part of the poem itÂ�self. No
one is sure who “Varus” is—QuinÂ�tilÂ�lius Varus, probÂ�ably, but
maybe AlÂ�feÂ�nus Varus. But the poem is Â�really adÂ�dressed to a
32 Book I
Â�friend whom HorÂ�ace is comÂ�pliÂ�mentÂ�ing by givÂ�ing him a big
Â�
shot’s name.
The fight of the LaÂ�piths and CenÂ�taurs that Ovid deÂ�scribes
in the MetaÂ�morÂ�phoses is well known. The SiÂ�thoÂ�nians, much less
so. I Â�haven’t been able to find anyÂ�thing perÂ�suaÂ�sive. It is clear,
nevÂ�erÂ�theÂ�less, that the SiÂ�thoÂ�nians (or ThraÂ�cians) drank to exÂ�cess
and were punÂ�ished by the god BacÂ�chus, who made them rowdy
and quarÂ�relÂ�some when they were in their cups.
The only other comÂ�ment I Â�should make is on the last line.
HorÂ�ace has the Â�teller of seÂ�crets “as transÂ�parÂ�ent as glass.” I was
tryÂ�ing to get someÂ�where near there, but on the way I Â�thought
of the slack mouth of a Â�drunken perÂ�son that lets the seÂ�crets fall
from his lips, and the idea of their droolÂ�ing out was too good to
supÂ�press.
19
The cruel Â�mother of amÂ�oÂ�retti,
sly BacÂ�chus, and unÂ�tramÂ�meled DeÂ�sire
have given my old heart again
to a love I had supÂ�posed was long over.
Â�Glycera’s loveÂ�liÂ�ness sears me,
far more blindÂ�ing than any ParÂ�ian marÂ�ble.
Her Â�come-Â�on smile overÂ�whelms
and I am deÂ�fenseÂ�less. Venus has Â�traveled from CyÂ�prus
reÂ�lentÂ�less in her Â�mighty whims.
I would sing of the ScythÂ�ian Â�hordes and how
the ParÂ�thian cavÂ�alry Â�whipped them,
but who can think of such Â�things. Boys, we need
Â�fresh-Â�cut turf and some flowÂ�ers,
inÂ�cense, and unÂ�mixed Â�two-Â�year-Â�old wine for the godÂ�dess.
A supÂ�pliÂ�ant yet again
I beg for the mercy she someÂ�times Â�deigns to give.
Book I 33
I Â�haven’t imÂ�posed any emÂ�belÂ�lishÂ�ments. PerÂ�haps I have Â�scanted
how the ParÂ�thian cavÂ�alry would feign a reÂ�treat and then,
on a sigÂ�nal, turn and atÂ�tack; but even Â�though that may be inÂ�
terÂ�estÂ�ing, it isn’t diÂ�rectly relÂ�eÂ�vant and would have taken more
words. It is not alÂ�ways posÂ�sible, but I preÂ�fer to have my verÂ�sion
the same Â�length as Â�Horace’s poem.
20
SaÂ�bine plonk is what Â�you’ll be drinkÂ�ing, MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas,
in cheap cups from Greek amÂ�phoÂ�rae I Â�sealed
with my own hands on the day of your grand sucÂ�cess
in Â�Pompey’s theÂ�aÂ�ter.
ApÂ�plause rang out and the VatÂ�iÂ�can hill Â�echoed

the agreeÂ�able sound. At home, I know you samÂ�ple
rich cuÂ�vées of the finÂ�est CaeÂ�cuÂ�ban Â�grapes,
or from Â�Cales’ vineÂ�yards.
These are far beÂ�yond my means, great Â�knight,

as you know, but my local vin orÂ�diÂ�naire
isn’t all that bad, crude but sinÂ�cere
as my Â�toasts to you will be.
I ’ve introÂ�duced words that Â�aren’t in the Latin, but they had
no Â�lovely exÂ�presÂ�sion like “plonk” for cheap wine. And the
disÂ�tincÂ�tion Â�between vin orÂ�diÂ�naire and “cuÂ�vêes” is availÂ�able to
us, so I used it. CallÂ�ing MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas a “great Â�knight” was a parÂ�ticÂ�
uÂ�lar comÂ�pliÂ�ment beÂ�cause MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas was himÂ�self conÂ�tent to reÂ�
main an eques. If you know that, fine; if not, it Â�doesn’t much
deÂ�tract from the litÂ�tle poem.
34 Book I
21
Sing now boys and girls in the choir,
celÂ�eÂ�brate CynÂ�thia and her Â�brother
Â�Apollo, whom LaÂ�tona
bore to Jove who loved her.
Sweet girls, sing of the godÂ�dess who loves

the rivÂ�ers and Â�groves of cold AlÂ�gidus
in the Alban hills or dark
ErÂ�yÂ�manÂ�thus or GraÂ�gus.
And lads, you sing of the Vale of Tempe

on Delos where Â�Apollo was born,
upon whose shoulÂ�der hung
his Â�quiver and Mars’ lyre.
Moved by your hymn he will fend off

woeÂ�ful warÂ�fare, faÂ�mine, and Â�plague,
and aid Â�Caesar’s strugÂ�gle
Â�against the PerÂ�sians and BritÂ�ons.
T his is so conÂ�venÂ�tionÂ�ally exÂ�pressed that it diÂ�verts our atÂ�tenÂ�tion

from what the poem is sayÂ�ing and inÂ�vites scruÂ�tiny at its rheÂ�
torÂ�iÂ�cal grace. Think of it as a set of comÂ�pulÂ�sory figÂ�ures that Â�ice-Â�
skaters have to perÂ�form beÂ�fore they do their inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�ual rouÂ�tines.
I could have loÂ�cated the mounÂ�tains, I supÂ�pose, but knowÂ�ing
the geogÂ�raÂ�phy Â�doesn’t help the poem any. I did menÂ�tion that
Tempe is a valÂ�ley, which the RoÂ�mans would have known. I
Â�didn’t exÂ�plain that Mars was Â�Apollo’s Â�brother and the inÂ�venÂ�tor
of the lyre beÂ�cause that would have been a disÂ�tracÂ�tion.
Book I 35
22
FusÂ�cus, dear Â�friend, the harsh world can be genÂ�tle
to a virÂ�tuÂ�ous man and show him amazÂ�ing kindÂ�ness
so that he has no need of spear or bow
and poiÂ�soned arÂ�rows.
Let him venÂ�ture into the swelÂ�terÂ�ing Â�desert,

the Â�Caucasus’ crags, or as far away as the PunÂ�jab,
and he will Â�travel in perÂ�fect Â�safety, proof
Â�against all harm.
I was comÂ�posÂ�ing a song for my beÂ�loved

LalÂ�age, and there in the SaÂ�bine wood
I enÂ�counÂ�tered a wolf that Â�turned and fled
as if in fear.
I had no Â�weapon, but this enorÂ�mous beast,

as Â�fierce as any in Â�Daunia’s vast forÂ�est,
beÂ�cause I was enÂ�gaged in such good work
Â�turned tail and ran.
Put me on some disÂ�mal, treeÂ�less plain

in dense fog under grim, gray skies,
or someÂ�where in the sun’s reÂ�lentÂ�less heat
where the charÂ�iot flies
too close to the earth, or in some lawÂ�less city

in the worst part of town, and I shall love my girl,
Â�praise her laughÂ�ter and Â�never-Â�failing wit,
and I shall be safe.
36 Book I
M y obÂ�ject here was not to weigh the poem down with too
much bagÂ�gage. It’s a Â�breezy jeu Â�d’esprit and Â�doesn’t
want a lot of inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion. For that reaÂ�son, I left Â�Daunia’s forÂ�est
in but omitÂ�ted Â�Juba’s land (MauÂ�reÂ�taÂ�nia). I might have tried to
get in the claim that this wolf was more threatÂ�enÂ�ing than the
lions that live there, but it was comÂ�pliÂ�cated and reÂ�petÂ�iÂ�tive. It’s
a big, bad wolf.
OthÂ�erÂ�wise, I left the poem as it was, exÂ�cept that I reÂ�arÂ�ranged
it a litÂ�tle so that “I shall be safe” is the endÂ�ing. This is imÂ�plied
in the Latin, but I think it works betÂ�ter if it is made exÂ�plicit.
23
You flee, Chloe, like some fawn in the woods,
tryÂ�ing to find its Â�mother and terÂ�rified
by every passÂ�ing Â�breeze
that rusÂ�tles the Â�leaves overÂ�head.
In a bramÂ�ble a green lizÂ�ard Â�flicks it Â�tongue

and your heart stops and your knees begin to tremÂ�ble,
but I am no Â�fierce tiger
or predÂ�aÂ�tory lion
eager to Â�crunch your bones. Do not be Â�afraid

and stop trackÂ�ing your Â�mother. Â�You’re old Â�enough
to get along on your own now.
What you need is a mate.
T his is one of the great love poems of any age or any lan-
Â�guage; I conÂ�fess, nevÂ�erÂ�theÂ�less, to makÂ�ing a Â�change from
vir (man) to “mate” in the last line. The Â�speaker has been
Book I 37
adÂ�dressÂ�ing Chloe as if she were a fawn, and “mate” not only
mainÂ�tains the metaÂ�phor but sugÂ�gests someÂ�thing about the naÂ�
ture of her need. My only other alÂ�terÂ�aÂ�tion was the omisÂ�sion of
“GaeÂ�tuÂ�lian,” which modÂ�ifies “lion.” The GaeÂ�tuli were a warÂ�
like BerÂ�ber tribe in Libya, and the Â�phrase “GaeÂ�tuÂ�lian lion” was
a freÂ�quent loÂ�cuÂ�tion for Â�fierce—like a “New York minÂ�ute”—
that no one uses anyÂ�more.
24
Who can put limÂ�its on the grief we feel
at the loss of such a Â�friend? Teach me a song
of deep mournÂ�ing, MelÂ�poÂ�mene, whom Jove
gave a sweet voice and a lyre,
for Â�Quintillian’s eyes are Â�closed in endÂ�less sleep.

Where will Faith, ModÂ�esty, JusÂ�tice, and Truth
ever find his like? Many good men
weep for him, but none more
than you, VirÂ�gil, who Â�prayed that the gods would raise him
from his sickÂ�bed: this was not what you Â�wanted.
Your piety was in vain, and not even you
can pluck the Â�strings of Â�Orpheus’ lyre
the trees once bent to hear. The blood will never

flow again in that Â�wraith MerÂ�cury Â�herded
into the land of the dead. We must someÂ�how enÂ�dure
what none of us can ever put right.
I n a poem of mournÂ�ing, HorÂ�ace did not think it apÂ�proÂ�priÂ�ate

to show off. These are conÂ�venÂ�tional Â�thoughts and imÂ�ages
exÂ�pressed in a forÂ�mal manÂ�ner. I let it alone as much as I could.
38 Book I
I did not inÂ�clude the inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion that Jove was Â�Melpomene’s
Â�father (and her Â�mother was MneÂ�mosÂ�yne). If you know that,
fine. But it isn’t esÂ�senÂ�tial here.
There has been scholÂ�arly disÂ�cusÂ�sion about Â�whether Â�Virgil’s
Â�prayer for QuinÂ�tilÂ�lian was for a safe sea voyÂ�age or reÂ�covÂ�ery from
an illÂ�ness, but I can’t see how it makes any difÂ�ferÂ�ence.
The Latin has MerÂ�cury drivÂ�ing the soul of QuinÂ�tilÂ�lian
Â�through the gates of the Land of the Dead with his Â�dreaded
staff to join the herd of Â�shades, and I Â�crunched all that down to
the verb “Â�herded,” in order to keep the EnÂ�glish verÂ�sion the
same Â�length as the origÂ�iÂ�nal.
25
Less often, these days, do pebÂ�bles ratÂ�tle your shutÂ�ters
that eager young men used to throw. Your Â�door’s Â�hinges
that Â�creaked in deÂ�light have falÂ�len siÂ�lent now.
“Lydia, are you sleepÂ�ing?”
It used to be a Â�chorus; then there were solos

arisÂ�ing from the alley. Those plainÂ�tive calls
trouÂ�ble your rest no Â�longer. The sad truth
is that you are growÂ�ing old
and you brood on that unÂ�broken siÂ�lence, weepÂ�ing

for those proud lechÂ�ers who Â�bother you no more
while the ThraÂ�cian wind moans Â�through moonÂ�less Â�nights
and deÂ�sire still burns in you,
as Â�strong as in mares in heat, and also rage

that those boisÂ�terÂ�ous lads look elseÂ�where for pleasÂ�ure
as goats preÂ�fer green ivy to dry Â�leaves
stirÂ�ring in winÂ�ter wind.
Book I 39
I have Â�pretty much kept to the Latin with this one, tiÂ�dyÂ�ing
up only Â�slightly. In the origÂ�iÂ�nal, the braÂ�vos in the alley
were callÂ�ing, “Are you sleepÂ�ing while I am wastÂ�ing away Â�through
the long night, your slave?” I Â�thought that less was more, and
that the one short line was Â�punchier. That the wind in the third
Â�stanza is ThraÂ�cian could be an alÂ�luÂ�sion to the bacÂ�chaÂ�nals in
Â�Thrace of the worÂ�shipÂ�pers of DioÂ�nyÂ�sus; but the poem Â�doesn’t
inÂ�sist on that, so I Â�didn’t eiÂ�ther. My other libÂ�erty was by putÂ�ting
goats in the last Â�stanza. HorÂ�ace Â�speaks of young men preÂ�ferÂ�ring
green ivy for Â�wreaths. But he Â�doesn’t specÂ�ify “Â�wreaths,” and I
Â�couldn’t reÂ�sist the metaÂ�phor of goats that would Â�rather have
green leaves
Â� to eat.
26
When the Muses are graÂ�cious to me, I can shrug off
gloom and apÂ�preÂ�henÂ�sion. Let the winds take them
into the CreÂ�tan sea. I am inÂ�difÂ�ferÂ�ent
to Â�threats and ruÂ�mors of war
from ParÂ�thian prinÂ�celÂ�ings. I am well proÂ�tected

while the lady from the PierÂ�ian Â�Spring helps me
weave a garÂ�land of flowÂ�ers for Â�Lamia’s head.
WithÂ�out her aid
my tribÂ�utes are useÂ�less. She proÂ�vides new Â�strings

and a new plecÂ�trum from LesÂ�bos where AlÂ�caeus
Â�taught us all, and inÂ�spiÂ�raÂ�tion must come
from her and her sweet sisÂ�ters.
P arÂ�thian prinÂ�celÂ�ings do not apÂ�pear in the Latin, but the

poet does menÂ�tion TirÂ�iÂ�dates, who was such a figÂ�ure. For
clarÂ�ity, even for inÂ�telÂ�liÂ�gibilÂ�ity, I have alÂ�tered Â�Horace’s lady of
Pipla, which is a biÂ�zarre Â�spelling of “PimÂ�plea,” to the “lady
40 Book I
from the PierÂ�ian Â�Spring,” which is a name peoÂ�ple have heard of
for the Â�Muse’s home. PimÂ�plea is a place in Â�Pieria, and Â�Horace’s
efÂ�fort to be arÂ�cane is no Â�longer necÂ�esÂ�sary. Lamia, the subÂ�ject of
the poem, is AeÂ�lius Lamia. The garÂ�land for his head is a seÂ�ries
of stanÂ�zas, or of poems, in AlÂ�caÂ�ics, which is a form AlÂ�caeus
inÂ�vented that the poet is using here.
This is all useÂ�ful inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion, but my hope alÂ�ways is that
the poem be relÂ�aÂ�tively clear even withÂ�out the exÂ�planÂ�aÂ�tory
notes.
27
FlingÂ�ing flagÂ�ons? Â�That’s what they do in Â�Thrace.
Here we are betÂ�ter beÂ�haved. BacÂ�chus, a god,
deÂ�serves reÂ�spect and good manÂ�ners
Â�rather than Â�bloody Â�brawls.
Where wine sparÂ�kles in lampÂ�light there must be

not even a Â�thought of orienÂ�tal dagÂ�gers.
Quiet, my Â�friends. Lean back
and reÂ�cline on your fine pilÂ�lows.
Allow me to sip my FaÂ�lerÂ�nian wine in peace.

Â�
Megylla’s Â�brother is here. Let him tell us
of Â�Cupid’s Â�arrow’s morÂ�tal wound
that Â�caused him such blissÂ�ful pain.
You dare to argue with me? Those are my terms.

We’ll speak of Â�beauty and how it proÂ�vokes our ardor.
You preÂ�fer women of class?
Or their Â�earthier sisÂ�ters? Tell me,
whisÂ�perÂ�ing in my ear. I can keep seÂ�crets.

I quite underÂ�stand. A sad busiÂ�ness, poor man.
Book I 41
A monÂ�ster as bad as ChaÂ�rybÂ�dis
has Â�caught you in her Â�clutches
and you are on fire. You Â�should have a betÂ�ter flame.

What witch with her poÂ�tions, what drugs can help you?
A Â�triple ChiÂ�mera has Â�seized you
and PegÂ�aÂ�sus canÂ�not loose you.
A scyÂ�phus is a wine cup, but so is a Â�flagon, and the alÂ�litÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tion

was a bracÂ�ing way to begin. MeÂ�gylla is apÂ�parÂ�ently one of
the women at the party, and her Â�brother is in atÂ�tenÂ�dance. HorÂ�
ace turns the conÂ�verÂ�saÂ�tion to his sitÂ�uÂ�aÂ�tion, gosÂ�sip being a less
disÂ�orÂ�derly way of passÂ�ing the time.
HorÂ�ace specÂ�ifies that the witch and the wizÂ�ard are from
ThesÂ�saly, but all such pracÂ�tiÂ�tionÂ�ers were said to come from there,
where the plant life was a verÂ�iÂ�taÂ�ble pharÂ�maÂ�coÂ�peia. I Â�didn’t have
room for the place name. OrÂ�diÂ�narÂ�ily, when I am tryÂ�ing to avoid
notes, I’d have made it clear that the ChiÂ�maera was part lion,
part snake, and part goat, and was Â�killed by BelÂ�lerÂ�oÂ�phon, ridÂ�ing
PegÂ�aÂ�sus. I might have done it just this way, relyÂ�ing on GooÂ�gle.
But if one has notes, the tempÂ�taÂ�tion is to use them to conÂ�vey
just such inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion. On a secÂ�ond readÂ�ing, the poem is betÂ�ter
this way with just the alÂ�luÂ�sion.
28
Once you Â�crossed wide seas and Â�desert Â�wastes but now
you are reÂ�duced to a palÂ�try handÂ�ful of dust
on the shore not far from TaÂ�rentum. And how does this
dimÂ�iÂ�nuÂ�tion
acÂ�cord, ArÂ�chyÂ�tas, with your philÂ�oÂ�sophÂ�iÂ�cal venÂ�tures
Â�across the welÂ�kin of Â�heaven—for you must have underÂ�stood
that like everyÂ�one else you were Â�doomed to die?
42 Book I
Death took even TanÂ�talus, dinÂ�ner guest of the gods;
TithÂ�oÂ�nus Â�eluded its Â�clutches but age
Â�seized him nevÂ�erÂ�theÂ�less; PyÂ�thagÂ�oÂ�ras, your old masÂ�ter,
Â�proved that he had lived in the time of Troy,
when he took down the Â�shield that hung on Â�Hera’s wall,
inÂ�scribed exÂ�actly as he had said it would be.
But the secÂ�ond time he had to yield his sinew and bone
as your views of the natÂ�uÂ�ral world would have preÂ�dicted.
The same long vigil Â�awaits us all: the road we Â�travel
deÂ�scends, going only in one diÂ�recÂ�tion.
Some, the FuÂ�ries hand over to Mars for his diÂ�verÂ�sion;
sailÂ�ors, the hunÂ�gry sea swalÂ�lows down.
Young and old toÂ�gether josÂ�tle one anÂ�other
in death. MerÂ�ciÂ�less ProsÂ�perÂ�pina takes
a lock of hair from each head, never missÂ�ing a one.
As for me, a sudÂ�den storm at sea
with savÂ�age NoÂ�vemÂ�ber winds, the henchÂ�men of Orion,
did me in and Â�floated my Â�bloated body
Â�ashore. I beg you, seaÂ�farer, grant me
a litÂ�tle sand for my naked skull and bones.
In reÂ�turn, my Â�prayers shall be that your Â�wooden hulls hold
to arÂ�rive safe in port. May your profÂ�its swell
from the Â�sources of all real good—Jove and NepÂ�tune
who proÂ�tect dear TaÂ�rentum, your home port.
Do you not fear to comÂ�mit a crime that will bring one day
harm to your guiltÂ�less chilÂ�dren and their chilÂ�dren?
Or you may yourÂ�self have to pay the debt you owe
JusÂ�tice in repÂ�arÂ�aÂ�tion for your act
of imÂ�piety. If I am abanÂ�doned here, my Â�curses
will not go unÂ�fulÂ�filled. There will be no act
of atoneÂ�ment you can perÂ�form that will diÂ�minÂ�ish your guilt.
I asÂ�sume you are Â�pressed for time. Even so,
To cast three cerÂ�eÂ�moÂ�nial handÂ�fuls of dust on my Â�corpse
will not reÂ�quire much efÂ�fort or take long.
Book I 43
F ew draÂ�matic monoÂ�logues shift, as this one does, from one
adÂ�dressee to anÂ�other. Here, the Â�spirit of the Â�drowned man
first Â�speaks to ArÂ�chyÂ�tas, the PyÂ�thagÂ�oÂ�rean phiÂ�losÂ�oÂ�pher, and then,
as if reÂ�spondÂ�ing to the pasÂ�sage of a Â�stranger along the shore
where his body has Â�washed up, the Â�drowned man Â�speaks to him,
begÂ�ging at least a miniÂ�mal rite of buÂ�rial. I made only the most
minor Â�changes in order to fit the senÂ�tences graceÂ�fully into the
apÂ�proxÂ�iÂ�maÂ�tion I have deÂ�vised of the ArchiÂ�loÂ�chian meter of the
Latin.
HorÂ�ace does menÂ�tion that the wood of which the hulls were
made is from VeÂ�nuÂ�sia, which hapÂ�pens to have been Â�Horace’s
birthÂ�place, but even to refer to that would have given it too
much promÂ�iÂ�nence and would have Â�thrown the whole ode out
of kilÂ�ter.
29
IcÂ�cius, what are you thinkÂ�ing? AraÂ�bian treasÂ�ure?
You set your Â�sights on unÂ�conÂ�quered Â�Sheba’s Â�wealth
and imÂ�aÂ�gine you can subÂ�due the Medes,
makÂ�ing yourÂ�self their masÂ�ter?
You supÂ�pose you will bring back a conÂ�cuÂ�bine

whose lover you shall have Â�killed, or maybe a Â�cup-Â�boy,
Â�smooth-Â�cheeked, with perÂ�fumed hair,
and eager to serve your whims,
the same felÂ�low who, with his Â�father’s bow,

shot ChiÂ�nese arÂ�rows? Why on earth not,
if rivÂ�ers reÂ�verse their curÂ�rent to run
upÂ�hill and into the mounÂ�tains?
A Â�scholar who colÂ�lected books of the Â�Stoics

and all the great SoÂ�cratÂ�ics, you put on fancy
44 Book I
SpanÂ�ish armor? We Â�thought you were wise.
You conÂ�found us yet again!
T he only adÂ�justÂ�ment I’ve made in this is a minor tinÂ�kerÂ�ing

with the last Â�couple of lines. HorÂ�ace says, simÂ�ply, “We
exÂ�pected betÂ�ter of you,” but that Â�doesn’t have the snap in
EnÂ�glish that I imÂ�aÂ�gine was in the Latin. The quesÂ�tion, at such
moÂ�ments, is Â�whether to try to transÂ�late the words or the snap.
I genÂ�erÂ�ally go for the latÂ�ter, and, in this case, I made it a litÂ�tle
more epiÂ�gramÂ�matic by playÂ�ing with Â�Iccius’ interÂ�est in phiÂ�loÂ�sÂ�
oÂ�phy. PhiÂ�losÂ�oÂ�phers are supÂ�posed to be wise; HorÂ�ace Â�thinks
this underÂ�takÂ�ing is unÂ�wise; the play is in “conÂ�found,” which is
someÂ�thing phiÂ�losÂ�oÂ�phers do. Too much? PerÂ�haps so, but havÂ�ing
Â�thought of it I was unÂ�able to let it go and try for someÂ�thing
Â�duller.
30
O Venus, you Â�should reÂ�loÂ�cate from CyÂ�prus
to setÂ�tle here at Â�Glycera’s Â�shrine where again
she sumÂ�mons you with Â�clouds of sweet inÂ�cense,
and bring your boy,
and your retÂ�iÂ�nue of Â�Graces and Â�pretty Â�nymphs

with their girÂ�dles all unÂ�done. And YouthÂ�fulÂ�ness,
who, withÂ�out you, is useÂ�less. And MerÂ�cury, too,
the masÂ�ter of sweet talk.
I have disÂ�torted the origÂ�iÂ�nal Â�slightly to bring out the imÂ�pu-

Â�dent sugÂ�gesÂ�tion that, as long as GlyÂ�cera is inÂ�vokÂ�ing Venus
so freÂ�quently, the godÂ�dess ought to conÂ�sider movÂ�ing from her
naÂ�tive CyÂ�prus. I have also omitÂ�ted a Â�couple of Â�Venus’ tiÂ�tles that
HorÂ�ace gives her, “queen of Â�Cnidus and PaÂ�phos.” There were
Â�shrines to her at both Â�places, but their purÂ�pose in the poem is
Book I 45
honÂ�orific, in the way that was cusÂ�toÂ�mary in a hymn. I laÂ�beled
the phrase
Â� as “not Â�needed on voyÂ�age” and left it in the notes.
31
In Â�Apollo’s temÂ�ple AuÂ�gusÂ�tus has just Â�opened
on the PalÂ�aÂ�tine Hill, for what gifts shall I pray?
And the MeÂ�ditÂ�raÂ�nalia folÂ�lows
when I shall pour a liÂ�baÂ�tion:
What Â�should I ask for then? SarÂ�dinÂ�ian cornÂ�fields?

CaÂ�laÂ�brian herds? A porÂ�tion of Â�India’s Â�wealth
of ivory knickÂ�knacks and gold?
Do I need some large esÂ�tate
with vineÂ�yards on the quiet banks of the Liris

where they prune the vines with Â�curved CaÂ�laÂ�brian Â�knives?
Let the rich merÂ�chant gulp
from Â�golden SyrÂ�ian gobÂ�lets,
as he deÂ�serves to do, havÂ�ing voyÂ�aged often

to the farÂ�away AtÂ�lanÂ�tic and come back alive.
I am conÂ�tent with some Â�olives
and a simÂ�ple enÂ�dive salad.
Grant, son of LaÂ�tona, that I may enjoy what I have

in good Â�health. Keep my mind sharp
and give me an old age
of reÂ�spect—and a litÂ�tle music.
I have Â�hardly had to touch a thing, exÂ�cept at the beÂ�ginÂ�ning

where I exÂ�pand a litÂ�tle on Â�Horace’s refÂ�erÂ�ence that everyÂ�
one would have underÂ�stood about the loÂ�caÂ�tion of the new
46 Book I
temÂ�ple and the fact that AuÂ�gusÂ�tus had conÂ�seÂ�crated it. Such
facts are useÂ�ful and not “unÂ�poetic,” so I put them in. I could
have Â�glossed the MeÂ�ditÂ�riÂ�nalia, but I Â�thought it was clear from
the conÂ�text that it was some kind of fesÂ�tiÂ�val, which is all readÂ�ers
need to know.
I Â�changed CalÂ�enÂ�ian Â�knives to CaÂ�laÂ�brian, beÂ�cause Cales is
not a place name that many would recÂ�ogÂ�nize, and it is in CaÂ�laÂ�
bria. I also cut the malÂ�lows out of the salad. (Who knows about
edÂ�ible malÂ�lows?) I Â�couldn’t find a way to do the final liÂ�totes
(“not beÂ�reft of music”) other than addÂ�ing a dash, inÂ�diÂ�catÂ�ing an
emÂ�phaÂ�sis that is alÂ�most equivÂ�aÂ�lent.
32
I inÂ�voke you, honÂ�ored lyre: if I have ever
Â�played with you in a shady, idle hour
a song I hoped would be pleasÂ�ing not just now
but in years to come,
help me perÂ�form in Latin as you once

aided the bards in your naÂ�tive Â�Greece. In LesÂ�bos
AlÂ�caeus first Â�brought your Â�strings into tune,
Â�between atÂ�tacks,
for he was a great warÂ�rior and also a Â�sailor.

When hulls were Â�hauled up on the sand he would sing
of BacÂ�chus, the Muses, Venus, and Â�naughty Cupid.
and of beauÂ�tiÂ�ful Lycus
with the dark eyes and the black hair. Â�Apollo’s

glory, you were welÂ�come at Â�Jove’s Â�feasts,
the balm of toil and sadÂ�ness. AcÂ�cept my homÂ�age
and grant me your grace.
Book I 47
T he only inÂ�truÂ�sion here is the name of AlÂ�caeus, to whom
HorÂ�ace Â�clearly alÂ�ludes alÂ�though he does not name him.
If AlÂ�caeus had a poem about someÂ�one named Lycus, it is lost
and this menÂ�tion is its only echo. I Â�rather like the mysÂ�tery of
that and am Â�pleased that we are left not only to imÂ�aÂ�gine the
gorÂ�geous youth but the poem he ocÂ�caÂ�sioned.
I have also introÂ�duced an emÂ�belÂ�lishÂ�ment at the end that I
hope is conÂ�soÂ�nant with Â�Horace’s poem. “AcÂ�cept my greetÂ�ing as
I call upon you” is what he says, but what he is callÂ�ing for is
help and favor. “Grant me your grace” was apÂ�pealÂ�ing beÂ�cause
of the alÂ�litÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tion and the way it sugÂ�gests, in Â�not-Â�too-Â�Christian
a way, what kind of favor he is seekÂ�ing.
33
It is not, AlÂ�bius dear, the end of the world.
EndÂ�less eleÂ�gies about GlyÂ�cera,
comÂ�plainÂ�ing that she has Â�broken her promÂ�ises, canÂ�not
Â�change or imÂ�prove the sitÂ�uÂ�aÂ�tion.
She preÂ�fers a Â�younger felÂ�low? Think of LyÂ�coris

who Â�yearns for Cyrus, who preÂ�fers the anÂ�noyÂ�ing PhoÂ�loe,
who would Â�rather mate with a wolf from the woods
than take such an ugly lover to bed.
Venus deÂ�crees it so, to demÂ�onÂ�strate her power,

putÂ�ting unÂ�likely pairs in the braÂ�zen yoke.
I reÂ�memÂ�ber a woman of great disÂ�tincÂ�tion
who gave me more than the eye,
but I was quite mad at the time for MyrÂ�tale,

a vulÂ�gar terÂ�maÂ�gant Â�stormier than the breakÂ�ers
of the AdriÂ�atic that gnaw the CaÂ�laÂ�brian shore
they reÂ�shape by their will into bays.
48 Book I
T he only omisÂ�sion I’ve alÂ�lowed myÂ�self, as I fit the senÂ�tences
into EnÂ�glish meter, was to omit Â�Horace’s menÂ�tion of
the fact that the wolf with whom PhoÂ�loe would Â�rather mate
was ApuÂ�lian, and leave it as being “from the woods.” GenÂ�erÂ�ally,
I try to keep Â�proper nouns, but the repÂ�eÂ�tiÂ�tion of the “w” was
seÂ�ducÂ�tive.
34
I beÂ�grudged beÂ�lief and Â�prayed to the gods
selÂ�dom if ever, agreeÂ�ing with LuÂ�creÂ�tius
that lightÂ�ning Â�doesn’t come from Jove
to Â�strike the earth from a cloudÂ�less sky.
But I take it back, havÂ�ing seen the fire

flash as the god’s Â�horses Â�thundered Â�across
the blue Â�heaven LuÂ�creÂ�tius says
canÂ�not hapÂ�pen—alÂ�though it does.
And the earth Â�shakes and the rivÂ�ers Â�quiver, even

the Styx, and the gate in Â�Greece to the underÂ�world tremÂ�bles
along with the farÂ�away Atlas mounÂ�tains,
if the whimÂ�siÂ�cal gods will it to hapÂ�pen.
They have the power to do and undo, to exÂ�change

the highÂ�est and lowÂ�est, to dim the brightÂ�est and shine
light on the least, as Â�fickle forÂ�tune
Â�snatches a crown to Â�bestow it elseÂ�where.
M y adÂ�diÂ�tion is Â�Lucretius’ name, which any Roman would

have Â�thought of (or perÂ�haps that of EpiÂ�curus); my
subÂ�tracÂ�tion was that of TaenÂ�arus, the cave in the PelÂ�oÂ�ponÂ�nese
that was Â�thought to be one of the enÂ�trances to the underÂ�world.
OthÂ�erÂ�wise, it is alÂ�most word for word.
Book I 49
35
ForÂ�tune, your diÂ�vinÂ�ity rules manÂ�kind,
raisÂ�ing the lowÂ�est to unÂ�imagÂ�ined Â�heights
and turnÂ�ing a Â�triumph’s pomp to the slow,
mufÂ�fled drum of a fuÂ�neral march.
The tenÂ�ant Â�farmer prays for your favor; the Â�sailor,

temptÂ�ing the sea with the bait of his BithÂ�nyian boat,
inÂ�vokes you; the brave solÂ�dier, purÂ�suÂ�ing
treachÂ�erÂ�ous ScythÂ�ians calls upon you.
MothÂ�ers of Â�foreign prinÂ�celÂ�ings ask your blessÂ�ing,

and tyÂ�rants in purÂ�ple robes fear your disÂ�pleasÂ�ure,
for by a swift kick you can topÂ�ple
even the loftiÂ�est pilÂ�lar: the peoÂ�ple
will grasp such a moÂ�ment and call one anÂ�other to arms,

deÂ�mandÂ�ing more than jusÂ�tice. PreÂ�cedÂ�ing you
with the beams and Â�spikes of your inÂ�sigÂ�nia,
NeÂ�cesÂ�sity Â�marches forÂ�ward
along with Hope and Faith, who Â�rarely apÂ�pears

here on earth, her hands in the white Â�gloves
of Â�priestly reÂ�galia. And when you Â�change
your mood, they reÂ�main in your serÂ�vice.
Â�Should you abanÂ�don a powÂ�erÂ�ful courÂ�tier they

disÂ�perse his Â�fickle Â�friends who enjoy his fall,
drink the last of the wine, wash
their hands of him, and run away.
Watch over CaeÂ�sar as he sets off to BritÂ�ain

at the end of the world, and keep the solÂ�diers safe
50 Book I
who fight far to the East. ForÂ�give
the bloodÂ�shed of our civil wars.
From what Â�crimes did our genÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tion Â�shrink

when Â�brother Â�killed Â�brother and desÂ�eÂ�crated
the Â�shrines of the gods? ForÂ�give
those evils done in byÂ�gone days,
and let these young men proÂ�ceed to do batÂ�tle,

forgÂ�ing anew the Â�swords we Â�blunted
to deÂ�stroy the ScythÂ�ian Â�hordes and the Arab
Â�tribes on the burnÂ�ing Â�desert sands.
H ere, I alÂ�lowed myÂ�self a litÂ�tle disÂ�tance from the text, which

is Â�knotty and puzÂ�zling even to scholÂ�ars. I took it upon
myÂ�self to deÂ�cide what HorÂ�ace might have meant and then to
have the poem say that. The most plauÂ�sible readÂ�ing of the last
three stanÂ�zas is what I have here: a reÂ�gret about the Â�crimes of
the civil wars and the hope that ForÂ�tune will not punÂ�ish the
Â�present genÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tion of solÂ�diers for the Â�crimes of their Â�fathers and
unÂ�cles of Â�Horace’s time. (ReÂ�gret about the Â�crimes of those wars
is a reÂ�curÂ�rent theme in these odes.)
I have Â�changed the MasÂ�sagÂ�eÂ�tae, a ScythÂ�ian tribe, to simÂ�ple
ScythÂ�ians, hopÂ�ing to avoid obÂ�scurÂ�ity.
36
I give Â�praise and my Â�thanks to the gods
who kept NuÂ�mida safe all this time in Spain
and I promÂ�ise them inÂ�cense, songs,
and the blood of a calf beÂ�cause he has come home Â�safely
to greet his old comÂ�panÂ�ions
with Â�kisses to each but Lamia more than any,
for they were childÂ�hood Â�friends
Book I 51
and it was at the same time that they asÂ�sumed the toga.
Let this event not go
unÂ�marked by the white chalk of fesÂ�tive days. Bring out
the best wine jars, and dance
withÂ�out pause in the strenÂ�uÂ�ous SalÂ�ian style. DamÂ�alis
with her faÂ�mous Â�thirst must not
be alÂ�lowed to exÂ�ceed the conÂ�sumpÂ�tion by BasÂ�sus
of numÂ�berÂ�less ThraÂ�cian vesÂ�sels.
Deck the hall with roses, let there be garÂ�lands of lilÂ�ies
as all of us celÂ�eÂ�brate.
We’ll all stare at DamÂ�alis, whose gaze will be on NuÂ�mida:
if she takes him as a lover,
her arms will enÂ�fold him like ivy and hold him fast.
N uÂ�mida is back from Spain, alÂ�most cerÂ�tainly from the

CanÂ�taÂ�brian camÂ�paign. Lamia, his old Â�friend, is probÂ�ably
the son of L. AeÂ�lius Lamia who was Â�Augustus’ legÂ�ate in Spain
from 24 to 22 BCE. I have kept very close to the Latin with one
exÂ�cepÂ�tion: HorÂ�ace wants garÂ�lands of lilÂ�ies and celÂ�ery, which
may have been the cusÂ�tom then but now seems riÂ�dicÂ�uÂ�lous. So
I took the libÂ�erty of leavÂ�ing the celÂ�ery out.
37
Now drink, now dance with frenÂ�zied feet that stomp
the Â�ground in reÂ�joicÂ�ing. Now is the time to offer
up to the gods gifts by the cartÂ�load
and to feast like the lavÂ�ish Â�priests of Mars.
Until now, who could drink the fabÂ�uÂ�lous wines

their Â�fathers had laid down for great ocÂ�caÂ�sions?
That queen and her horde of perÂ�verts
threatÂ�ened the CaÂ�pitÂ�oÂ�line,
52 Book I
the Â�empire’s ruin, and more Â�deaths than a Â�plague,
drunk as she was with the sweet wine of sucÂ�cess.
She had to sober up Â�quickly
when her many ships were burnt
and sank, as her heart must have done in her terÂ�ror

while CaeÂ�sar purÂ�sued her, a hawk after a dove,
or a hound after a hare
on Â�Thessaly’s bare plain
to capÂ�ture that monÂ�ster and put her Â�safely in Â�chains.

She had more noble ideas and disÂ�played no fear of the sword
that most women might feel.
She did not atÂ�tempt to flee
to some Â�foreign shore to find refÂ�uge,

but Â�stayed where she was to gaze on the Â�ruined
palÂ�ace and city, and Â�calmly
took up the Â�sharp-Â�toothed serÂ�pents
to welÂ�come their black venom into her body

to cheat the Roman galÂ�leys: she reÂ�fused to be Â�stripped
of her royal crown or face
the jeers of the vulÂ�gar mob.
I made only a few small, cosÂ�metic Â�changes. The Â�feasts in

the first Â�stanza are “fit for the Salii,” but they were
Â�priests of Mars, and I Â�thought it would be Â�clearer if I just
said so. SimÂ�iÂ�larly, Â�Horace’s “CaeÂ�cuÂ�ban [wines] from our
Â�fathers’ celÂ�lars” Â�seemed more Â�off-Â�putting than useÂ�ful. FiÂ�nally,
in the last Â�stanza, HorÂ�ace has CleÂ�oÂ�paÂ�tra tryÂ�ing to “cheat the
cruel LiÂ�burÂ�nians,” but those are the small galÂ�leys that outÂ�maÂ�
neuÂ�vered the EgypÂ�tian fleet at AcÂ�tium, and again I opted for
clarÂ�ity.
Book I 53
38
None of that PerÂ�sian frouÂ�frou! I hate those fancy
garÂ�lands tied with linÂ�den fiber. ForÂ�get
the last rose that linÂ�gers. I am conÂ�tent
with plain myrÂ�tle.
Yes, myrÂ�tle will do—for you as a serÂ�vant

and for me, too, on a pleasÂ�ant afterÂ�noon
as I sit drinkÂ�ing wine under the Â�leaves
of the trelÂ�lis vines.
F rouÂ�frou” is not an exact transÂ�laÂ�tion of “apÂ�paÂ�raÂ�tus,” but I

do beÂ�lieve that is what HorÂ�ace means—and if we have a
word with the right spin on it, why not use it?
I added “pleasÂ�ant afterÂ�noon” beÂ�cause I Â�thought of Â�L’Après
midi d’un faun, and if the Â�speaker is sitÂ�ting in the shade the
sun must be out, in which case afterÂ�noon is more Â�likely than
mornÂ�ing.
54 Book I
Book II
1
With boldÂ�ness you adÂ�dress a difÂ�fiÂ�cult subÂ�ject—
the TriÂ�umÂ�viÂ�rate of CaeÂ�sar, CrasÂ�sus, and PomÂ�pey
and the many Â�blunders that Â�brought upon us
war, which is Â�Fortune’s game
with friendÂ�ships Â�soured, Â�blades Â�smeared with blood

not yet exÂ�piÂ�ated. .Â€.Â€. DelÂ�iÂ�cate subÂ�jects,
and you walk over coals that still glow
beÂ�neath deÂ�cepÂ�tive ash.
Soon, PolÂ�lio, you will put beÂ�hind you

afÂ�fairs of state and reÂ�turn to your méÂ�tier,
takÂ�ing your Â�prompts from the Â�tragic Muse
in works you write for the stage.
Never mind that you deÂ�fend the acÂ�cused,

that you are part of the Â�Senate’s deÂ�libÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tions,
and that you have triÂ�umphed in arms
in DalÂ�maÂ�tia, earnÂ�ing your lauÂ�rels.
You bring to our minds those days of brayÂ�ing horns,

and blarÂ�ing buÂ�gles, the Â�horses’ terÂ�rified whinÂ�nies,
the flash of steel catchÂ�ing the sunÂ�light
and the grim faces of solÂ�diers.
57
I see the genÂ�erÂ�als, dirty with Â�glory’s dust,
and all our foes put down savÂ�ing Cato
whose deÂ�fiÂ�ant soul reÂ�fused to perÂ�ish
exÂ�cept by his own hand.
I supÂ�pose we can think of our Â�losses of many men

as sacÂ�riÂ�fices to imÂ�plaÂ�cable Juno
who had to abanÂ�don Â�Egypt’s citÂ�ies
and Â�Jugurtha’s Â�wretched death.
What plain has not been Â�drenched by Roman blood

and Â�marked by Â�graves from imÂ�piÂ�ous batÂ�tles waged
in terÂ�rible civil wars? The Medes
deÂ�light in our misÂ�forÂ�tunes.
What sea or river has not been grieÂ�vously Â�roiled

with DauÂ�nian carnÂ�age? What shoreÂ�line has not
been sadly Â�stained inÂ�carÂ�naÂ�dine
by torÂ�rents of Roman gore?
But calm yourÂ�self, my Muse. Do not be Â�alarmed.

We shall reÂ�turn to graceÂ�ful friÂ�volÂ�ity
inÂ�stead of Â�Simonides’ Â�dirges and set
our quill to Â�lighter tasks.
T his is the kind of poem for which the inÂ�cluÂ�sion of notes

makes the Â�translator’s job much Â�easier. It would have
been all but imÂ�posÂ�sible to get the necÂ�esÂ�sary inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion into
the poem about Â�Juno’s enÂ�mity toÂ�ward Rome as reÂ�ported in the
AeÂ�neid. It would have been awkÂ�ward to exÂ�plain more fully that
the gods were beÂ�lieved to abanÂ�don citÂ�ies that were about to
fall—like AlexÂ�anÂ�dria. JuÂ�gurÂ�tha, King of NuÂ�midia, was capÂ�tured
and Â�starved to death in a Roman Â�prison. DauÂ�nus was a legÂ�enÂ�dary
king of ApuÂ�lia, and HorÂ�ace, who came from there, uses the
adÂ�jecÂ�tive to mean ItalÂ�ians in genÂ�eral.
58 Book II
SimÂ�oÂ�nides, from Ceos, HorÂ�ace calls simÂ�ply “the Cean,”
but his name is not Â�likely to leap to any but the most rarÂ�eÂ�fied
mind. PolÂ�lio, to whom the poem is adÂ�dressed, had pubÂ�lished a
hisÂ�tory of the civil wars, and this piece is Â�Horace’s reÂ�sponse to
that.
I am hapÂ�pier when I can avoid notes altoÂ�gether and rely on
the Â�reader’s knowlÂ�edge, or at least a willÂ�ingÂ�ness to GooÂ�gle. But
there are so many refÂ�erÂ�ences and alÂ�luÂ�sions here that, in this case
anyÂ�way, the note is a help to both of us. My hope is that, havÂ�ing
this inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion, the Â�reader will reÂ�turn to the ode and, knowÂ�ing
what the RoÂ�mans knew, read it again, not as a text but as a
poem, which it was and, I hope, still can be.
2
SilÂ�ver, hidÂ�den away in the bowÂ�els of the earth,
has no color or shine, SalÂ�lusÂ�tius CrisÂ�pus,
as you well know, preÂ�ferÂ�ring the glow it gets
from cirÂ�cuÂ�laÂ�tion.
ProÂ�cuÂ�lus will live past the usual span,

for his Fame will bear him up on unÂ�failÂ�ing wings
beÂ�cause he Â�helped his brothÂ�ers the civil wars
had all but wiped out.
And you will fare betÂ�ter if you learn to conÂ�trol

your greed: your kingÂ�dom will be as large as if
you had Â�joined Libya to Cadiz,
reÂ�storÂ�ing CarÂ�thage.
ExÂ�cesÂ�sive inÂ�dulÂ�gence only makes Â�dropsy worse

and there can be no cure unÂ�less the cause
of the Â�thirst that torÂ�ments the flesh can be found and Â�treated
by Â�self-Â�restraint.
Book II 59
Â�
Phraates IV reÂ�covÂ�ered the Â�throne of Cyrus,
but Right ThinkÂ�ing pays no mind to the crowd
and Â�strikes his name from the rolls of happy men,
trainÂ�ing us all
to use lanÂ�guage corÂ�rectly and say what we mean.

A crown is only seÂ�cure on the head of one
who can see a heap of gold and turn away
withÂ�out lookÂ�ing back.
T his Â�strikes me as alÂ�most ConÂ�fuÂ�cian in its recÂ�omÂ�menÂ�da-

Â�tion to SalÂ�lusÂ�tius CrisÂ�pus (who sucÂ�ceeded MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas as
Â�Augustus’ chief adÂ�visor) to avoid exÂ�cess and to use lanÂ�guage corÂ�
rectly. The first line of the poem is an exÂ�presÂ�sion of the EpiÂ�cuÂ�
rÂ�ean noÂ�tion that subÂ�stances are colÂ�orÂ�less in the dark, which is
only Â�slightly difÂ�ferÂ�ent from sayÂ�ing that they have no color if no
one can see them.
ProÂ�cuÂ�lus, HorÂ�ace says, will live on at least in memÂ�ory for
havÂ�ing been genÂ�erÂ�ous Â�enough to help his brothÂ�ers who had
been imÂ�povÂ�erÂ�ished by the wars. Â�Phraates IV was exÂ�pelled from
the ParÂ�thian kingÂ�dom but then reÂ�covÂ�ered it in 26 BCE. The
deÂ�tails don’t much matÂ�ter, but I hoped that the inÂ�cluÂ�sion of his
Roman nuÂ�meral and the refÂ�erÂ�ence to Cyrus would inÂ�diÂ�cate
that this was an acÂ�tual perÂ�son.
3
The path may rise up Â�steeply or deÂ�scend,
but you must learn to keep your Â�spirit level
whatÂ�ever terÂ�rain you find, DelÂ�lius,
and whatÂ�ever may be your mood of the moÂ�ment.
60 Book II
Lead a life of perÂ�petÂ�ual gloom or lie
in some seÂ�cluded Â�meadow sipÂ�ping your fine
FaÂ�lerÂ�ian cuvé: it makes no difÂ�ferÂ�ence,
for each of us is fated to die.
Why else do the pines and popÂ�lars join to form

a parÂ�aÂ�sol with their Â�branches? Why else do Â�brooks
babÂ�ble in their windÂ�ing Â�courses?
Put them to their Â�proper use,
call for more wine, and sprinÂ�kle the attar

of roses, the bloom of which is all too brief,
while you still have the time the Fates
allot to you for your deÂ�light,
for one day you will leave these bosky dells,

and your townÂ�house by the Tiber; your heir
will take them and the Â�wealth you have Â�worked
so hard to amass. But rich or poor,
Orcus will show no pity, herdÂ�ing

us into the same pen. Your lot
will be drawn one day for pasÂ�sage
Â�aboard Â�Charon’s siÂ�lent skiff.
H orÂ�ace tells his Â�friend that he must keep his menÂ�tem

level, which means more or less “frame of mind”; I
have taken the small libÂ�erty of using “Â�spirit,” which is apÂ�
pealÂ�ing beÂ�cause there is such a thing as a Â�spirit level. I like to
think that HorÂ�ace would have used it, had the term been
availÂ�able to him. DelÂ�lius was a conÂ�temÂ�poÂ�rary who had Â�fought
on both sides in the civil wars and then reÂ�tired to write a
Book II 61
hisÂ�tory and live a quiet life. Orcus, of Â�course, is the god of
the underÂ�world and the punÂ�isher of those who have Â�broken
oaths.
4
Not to worry, XanÂ�thius, it is no
disÂ�grace to love a slave girl. PrecÂ�eÂ�dents
Â�abound: think of how the great Â�Achilles
could not reÂ�sist BriÂ�seis
of the Â�snow-Â�white skin; reÂ�memÂ�ber how TecÂ�messa

Â�aroused the Â�mighty TelÂ�aÂ�moÂ�nian Ajax
alÂ�though he was her masÂ�ter; AgÂ�aÂ�memÂ�non
in the hour of vicÂ�tory fell,
even as Â�Achilles was sackÂ�ing Troy,

for the prisÂ�oner, CasÂ�sanÂ�dra. The Â�battle-Â�weary
Â�Greeks had capÂ�tured the citÂ�aÂ�del, but he
surÂ�renÂ�dered himÂ�self to her.
And what do you know about her, Â�really? PhylÂ�lis

could have had rich parÂ�ents or even royal,
and they would have been proud of their Â�son-Â�in-Â�law.
The homeÂ�land for which she weeps
is far away. The gods may have Â�turned Â�against her.

Â�Surely she was not born from a line of vilÂ�lains and Â�thieves
but is loyal, reÂ�fined, not Â�greedy, not a spendÂ�thrift,
and must come from reÂ�spectÂ�able peoÂ�ple.
Look at her: Â�flaxen hair, an elÂ�eÂ�gant face,

a Â�lovely figÂ�ure, and gorÂ�geous legs. At my age
62 Book II
I reÂ�gret to admit I can comÂ�ment on feaÂ�tures
of which you are well aware and proud.
M y failÂ�ure here was to make the amusÂ�ingly dry endÂ�ing of

the poem funny Â�enough in EnÂ�glish to use. HorÂ�ace forÂ�
gets PhylÂ�lis and XanÂ�thias and does a riff on the arithÂ�meÂ�tic of
his age—he says he is in his Â�eighth quinÂ�quenÂ�nium, which, after
all, is only forty. Â�There’s a twinÂ�kle in that, but I Â�couldn’t manÂ�age
to make it hapÂ�pen. The falÂ�sity of his protÂ�esÂ�taÂ�tion of seÂ�necÂ�tiÂ�
tude comes Â�through well Â�enough, I hope, in his catÂ�aÂ�log of Â�Phyllis’
feaÂ�tures.
I omitÂ�ted the fact that XanÂ�thias is a PhoÂ�cian beÂ�cause it was
awkÂ�ward metÂ�riÂ�cally and not abÂ�soÂ�lutely gerÂ�mane.
5
Be reaÂ�sonÂ�able, my Â�friend, she is not yet grown
to where her neck can bear the Â�weight of the yoke
for plowÂ�ing or her back the bull
mad with lust to mate with her.
Your Â�heifer gamÂ�bols over the green Â�fields,

venÂ�tures into the river to cool herÂ�self
when the sun’s heat is opÂ�presÂ�sive,
and plays with the young Â�calves
in the shade of the wilÂ�low trees. The tenÂ�der Â�grapes,

grudgÂ�ing now, come fall will be sweet and juicy.
Only be paÂ�tient and your deÂ�light
will be all the more keen with hers
when she, imÂ�porÂ�tuÂ�nate, comes to nudge her mate.

Then with your LalÂ�age you will find a Â�greater
Book II 63
joy than you ever knew with shy
PhoÂ�loe, or Â�Chloris with shoulÂ�ders pale
as moonÂ�light gleamÂ�ing on a silÂ�ver sea,

or Gyges, who could join the dancÂ�ing girls
and was, with his flowÂ�ing hair
as Â�lovely as any of them.
I have alÂ�lowed myÂ�self only minor interÂ�poÂ�laÂ�tions and omis-

Â�sions. HorÂ�ace has a figÂ�ure about how the young wife will
come into the years that the husÂ�band has lost while waitÂ�ing,
but I can’t underÂ�stand it. (KenÂ�neth Quinn, one of the comÂ�menÂ�
taÂ�tors I have Â�relied on, adÂ�mits that “the logic of this is not to be
Â�pushed.”) HorÂ�ace has a night sea (nocÂ�turno), which I took as a
liÂ�cense for “silÂ�ver,” that being the Â�likely color. Oh, and I put in
“plowÂ�ing” beÂ�cause that would be the reaÂ�son for the yoke, and
its sexÂ�ual refÂ�erÂ�ence I Â�thought might not be irÂ�relÂ�eÂ�vant.
The sitÂ�uÂ�aÂ�tion might need a clarÂ�ifiÂ�caÂ�tion. HorÂ�ace is alÂ�most
cerÂ�tainly adÂ�dressÂ�ing a Â�friend who has had an arÂ�ranged marÂ�riage
with a very young girl. His adÂ�vice is that his Â�friend Â�should be
paÂ�tient and not try to conÂ�sumÂ�mate the union too soon, not
just for huÂ�mane reaÂ�sons but as a senÂ�suÂ�alÂ�ist.
6
SepÂ�tiÂ�mus, old Â�friend, I know you would go,
if I were to ask you, even to reÂ�mote
Cadiz and CanÂ�taÂ�bria, even to wild Â�Syrtes
where the MoorÂ�ish surf
Â�seethes. But no fear: I Â�should much preÂ�fer

to spend the time I have left in a quiet life
in TiÂ�voli. I am tired of Â�marches and Â�fights
and sick of the sea.
64 Book II
If the Fates deny me this, the only other
place I’d Â�choose for my last days would be your
villa in TaÂ�rentum, that town in the south
where the world Â�smiles
inÂ�vitÂ�ingly. Down there the honey is sweet,

the Â�olives large and abunÂ�dant, and the vines
Â�thrive and proÂ�duce fine wines. Jove sends
mild winÂ�ters there.
A basÂ�tion of conÂ�tentÂ�ment and repose,

it beckÂ�ons us both—to be toÂ�gether awhile,
and then, after I’m gone, you can shed a tear
on your Â�friend’s ashes.
T here are difÂ�ferÂ�ent interÂ�preÂ�taÂ�tions among scholÂ�ars about

what this poem means, and I had to Â�choose someÂ�thing
that Â�seemed plauÂ�sible. My deÂ�ciÂ�sion was all the Â�easier beÂ�cause
the Â�poem’s genÂ�eral drift is clear Â�enough, reÂ�gardÂ�less of the deÂ�
tails. The menÂ�tion of Cadiz and CanÂ�taÂ�bria, Â�whether SepÂ�tiÂ�mus
is inÂ�vitÂ�ing HorÂ�ace or the other way Â�around, is a Â�contrast for
the easy, comÂ�fortÂ�able life HorÂ�ace now has at home in TiÂ�voli,
where he’d preÂ�fer to stay for the rest of his life. If for any reaÂ�
son that Â�should not be posÂ�sible, his secÂ�ond Â�choice is Â�Septi-
mus’ place down in TaÂ�rentum, where it is pleasÂ�ant also and
where he’d have Â�Septimus’ comÂ�pany. In order to conÂ�vey this
Â�clearly and simÂ�ply, I had to omit a numÂ�ber of knickÂ�knacks.
The fact that TaÂ�rentum, in the arch of Â�Italy’s boot, was Â�founded
by SparÂ�tans is interÂ�estÂ�ing, as is the inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion that TiÂ�burÂ�nus,
an ArÂ�give, was the Â�founder of TiÂ�voli; but this Â�contrast, if it is a
Â�contrast, is Â�hardly esÂ�senÂ�tial. SimÂ�iÂ�larly, the menÂ�tion of Â�Taren-
tum’s river, GaÂ�laeÂ�sus, is unÂ�likely to mean much to AnÂ�gloÂ�phone
readÂ�ers.
Â�What’s left is more than Â�enough: a pleasÂ�ing decÂ�larÂ�aÂ�tion of
friendÂ�ship, Â�mostly Â�oblique and exÂ�pressed in terms of geogÂ�raÂ�phy,
Book II 65
and only beÂ�comÂ�ing diÂ�rect in the last Â�couple of lines. That vital
shift of focus was what I Â�needed to keep.
7
My Â�friend, you are back to your Â�father’s gods
and sky, a citÂ�iÂ�zen once again. We Â�served
toÂ�gether, takÂ�ing orÂ�ders from BruÂ�tus.
But the genÂ�eral parÂ�don covÂ�ers that.
I Â�marked your visÂ�its with unÂ�mixed wine

and Â�daubed my hair with Â�Syria’s sweet
perÂ�fumes, PomÂ�peius. At PhilÂ�lipi
side by side we ran in that rout.
I left my litÂ�tle Â�shield beÂ�hind,

deÂ�spite all the Greek epiÂ�grams,
for the line was Â�broken and brave solÂ�diers
were eatÂ�ing the dust that was eatÂ�ing them.
Luck, or the aid of MerÂ�cury, maybe,

saved me as if in a thick cloud,
while you were Â�pulled back to the fray
by the waves of men in the tide of batÂ�tle.
Give Jove the Â�thanks that he deÂ�serves

and rest after the long camÂ�paign
in the shade of my bay tree. We’ll drink
from jars I have set aside for you
the wine that dulls Â�memory’s pains.

We’ll sprinÂ�kle perÂ�fume and I shall conÂ�trive
Â�wreaths of myrÂ�tle for us. We’ll romp
like ThraÂ�cians, being toÂ�gether again.
66 Book II
S cholÂ�ars let each other off the hook by adÂ�mitÂ�ting that they
have no idea who PomÂ�peius was. My guess is that he was
a guy HorÂ�ace knew and with whom he Â�fought at PhilÂ�lipi. What
else matÂ�ters? The parÂ�don HorÂ�ace menÂ�tions was isÂ�sued by OcÂ�taÂ�
vius in 30 BCE.
In the secÂ�ond Â�stanza, I refer to the many Greek epiÂ�grams
about comÂ�ing back from the batÂ�tle with your Â�shield or on it.
There is no exÂ�plicit alÂ�luÂ�sion in the ode, but inÂ�evÂ�iÂ�taÂ�bly his
readÂ�ers would have Â�thought of the Greek poems. MerÂ�cury was
the paÂ�tron of poets, and the black cloud was a deÂ�vice gods and
godÂ�desses used at Troy to get faÂ�vorÂ�ites Â�through the lines of
enemy Â�troops. The only Â�changes I have made are the reÂ�placeÂ�
ment of a seÂ�ries of rheÂ�torÂ�iÂ�cal quesÂ�tions (Who will make the
garÂ�lands? Who will be toastÂ�masÂ�ter?). They Â�didn’t have much
snap, anyÂ�way. BetÂ�ter, then, to rely on simÂ�ple deÂ�clarÂ�aÂ�tive senÂ�
tences that are more sugÂ�gesÂ�tive of sinÂ�cere feelÂ�ing.
8
BaÂ�rine, you are able to break vows and go
unÂ�punÂ�ished. Where is your blackÂ�ened tooth? Your Â�blotched
nail? You reÂ�main not only unÂ�marked
but perÂ�fectly Â�lovely
or, no, even more beauÂ�tiÂ�ful than ever,

every young man’s idea of the perÂ�fect woman.
By the ashes of your poor Â�mother, the stars,
by all the gods,
you swear and are forÂ�sworn, and Venus Â�laughs,

as do her Â�nymphs and Â�wicked Cupid who hones
his arrow Â�points to an ever finer edge
on his Â�bloody whetÂ�stone.
Book II 67
A whole new genÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tion is springÂ�ing up
of Â�youths who will be your Â�slaves. Their mothÂ�ers dread you
and Â�fathers shudÂ�der to think of their sons’ debts
they will have to pay.
Even the loveÂ�liÂ�est virÂ�gin Â�brides are fretÂ�ful

and sniff their Â�husbands’ launÂ�dry for your scent,
proof they have not been satisÂ�fied at home
and have Â�strayed alÂ�ready.
A t the endÂ�ing I have taken Â�Horace’s menÂ�tion of Â�Barine’s

scent as a warÂ�rant for the sniffÂ�ing of the launÂ�dry. He has
it simÂ�ply that her scent will atÂ�tract them to dalÂ�liance, but the
young Â�wives’ fears are too interÂ�estÂ�ing as drama not to use them
as a gesÂ�ture of cloÂ�sure. OthÂ�erÂ�wise, I am reaÂ�sonÂ�ably close to the
Latin text.
9
It rains, but Â�sooner or later the rain stops
pourÂ�ing down on the muddy Â�fields. The winds
that whip up the CasÂ�pian sea
evenÂ�tuÂ�ally subÂ�side.
The ice along Â�Armenia’s bleak coast

does not last all year but melts in the Â�spring,
and the gales that shake the limbs
of Â�Garganus’ oaks
reÂ�lent, as the naked ash trees put forth new Â�leaves.

But you, ValÂ�gius, weep and write sad Â�verses
68 Book II
about the loss of that boy, Â�Mystes,
all day and all night.
Get hold of yourÂ�self. Old NesÂ�tor did not spend

all those years grievÂ�ing for his dead
son, AntiÂ�loÂ�chus, did he?
And Â�Troilus’ poor parÂ�ents
Â�
mourned bitÂ�terly, but got on with their lives.
Put an end to this unÂ�manly weepÂ�ing
and, if Â�you’re going to write Â�verses,
write of CaeÂ�sar Â�Augustus’
vicÂ�toÂ�ries off in the east—the River EuÂ�phraÂ�tes

rolls along a litÂ�tle less Â�proudly now,
and the Â�fields where GeÂ�loÂ�nian Â�horses galÂ�lop
are much diÂ�minÂ�ished.
I am of two minds about these exÂ�plaÂ�naÂ�tions. GarÂ�gaÂ�nus, for

inÂ�stance, is a mounÂ�tain in ApuÂ�lia where, obÂ�viÂ�ously, oaks
grow. But is it helpÂ�ful to know that? The name, by itÂ�self, is a
deÂ�lightÂ�ful morÂ�sel. The inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion that was useÂ�ful I manÂ�aged
to get into the poem, so that we know that Â�Mystes was a boy,
more Â�likely than not a slave.
And I Â�thought it would be reaÂ�sonÂ�able to idenÂ�tify ArchiÂ�loÂ�
chus as Â�Nestor’s son, which is someÂ�thing Â�Horace’s Â�reader’s
would have known. But do we need inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion about the
GeÂ�loÂ�nians, other than that they were out there someÂ�where and
had Â�horses? They were ScythÂ�ian noÂ�mads, but knowÂ�ing that
Â�doesn’t do our readÂ�ing of the poem any good. I omitÂ�ted
Â�Horace’s menÂ�tion of “Â�ice-Â�bound NiÂ�phates” beÂ�cause he Â�thought
it was a river and, acÂ�tuÂ�ally, it’s a mounÂ�tain. AmusÂ�ing, perÂ�haps,
Book II 69
but it’s a disÂ�tracÂ�tion from the Â�poem’s point, which was eiÂ�ther
that ValÂ�gius Â�should pull up his socks or perÂ�haps that the whole
traÂ�diÂ�tion of the elegy for a lost love has begun to be borÂ�ing.
10
You will order your life betÂ�ter, dear LuÂ�cinÂ�ius,
if you do not venÂ�ture too far out to sea
but neiÂ�ther Â�should you be too cauÂ�tious
and hug the shore,
where there are danÂ�gerÂ�ous Â�shoals and hidÂ�den rocks.

It’s the Â�golden mean, still a good rule for life:
you don’t want to live in a shack in Â�squalor,
or a splenÂ�did manÂ�sion.
The tallÂ�est pine is Â�shaken most by the wind;

the ruin is worst when the highÂ�est towÂ�ers fall.
LightÂ�ning most often Â�strikes the proud peaks
of the largÂ�est mounÂ�tains.
In difÂ�fiÂ�cult times, the wise man knows to preÂ�pare

for the risks of prosÂ�perÂ�ity. If JuÂ�piÂ�ter Â�brings us
hidÂ�eÂ�ous winÂ�ters, he also Â�brings us Â�springs
as Â�though we’d deÂ�served them.
Even if life is terÂ�rible now, it could Â�change.

Â�Apollo someÂ�times unÂ�strings his bow to sing
soft songs to wake the slumÂ�berÂ�ing Muse,
strumÂ�ming his lyre.
No matÂ�ter how bad Â�things are, brace up,

show your Â�spirit, be brave. And contraÂ�riÂ�wise,
70 Book II
when the winds are blowÂ�ing too Â�strong at your back,
Â�shorten your sail.
I did this Â�pretty much as it comes, alÂ�though I’m not sure

how seÂ�riÂ�ously HorÂ�ace meant it. These obÂ�serÂ�vaÂ�tions of such
a conÂ�venÂ�tional naÂ�ture might very well be ofÂ�fered Â�tongue in cheek.
But if they were meant to be funny, as I beÂ�lieve, the best thing
I could do was deÂ�liver the lines deadÂ�pan.
ScholÂ�ars, seeÂ�ing that the poem can be read eiÂ�ther way, try to
get more inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion by figÂ�urÂ�ing out who LuÂ�cinÂ�ius was, or
which LuÂ�cinÂ�ius HorÂ�ace might have had in mind, as if the charÂ�
acÂ�ter of the adÂ�dressee would exÂ�plain what the poet meant. It
would be a praiseÂ�worthy underÂ�takÂ�ing if it were not irÂ�relÂ�eÂ�vant.
The text tells us Â�enough. I think it is more helpÂ�ful to reÂ�call
Â�Buttercup’s song in PinÂ�aÂ�fore:
Things are selÂ�dom what they seem,

Skim milk masÂ�queÂ�rades as cream;
HighÂ�lows pass as patÂ�ent leathÂ�ers;
JackÂ�daws strut in Â�peacock’s feathÂ�ers.
11
QuincÂ�tius, dear felÂ�low, there is no point
in worÂ�ryÂ�ing about the Â�threats in Spain
or the ScythÂ�ian menÂ�ace: these
are far away from us,
and quit your fretÂ�ting about how brief life is.

What else, what more do you want? Â�Beauty and youth
fade Â�quickly Â�enough,
and the hair on our heads turns grey,
Book II 71
so that we sleep betÂ�ter. Wild love afÂ�fairs
trouÂ�ble us no Â�longer. The fresh Â�spring flowÂ�ers
fade, and the full moon dims.
EterÂ�nity isn’t your probÂ�lem,
even if you could comprehend the idea.

Relax. Let us sit down beÂ�neath a tree,
a plane tree, maybe, or pine,
while we still have time,
and drink toÂ�gether. You want to put roseÂ�waÂ�ter

on your grizÂ�zled locks? Go right ahead.
BacÂ�chus can Â�soothe your Â�spirit.
Let the Â�slaves fetch water
to thin the FaÂ�lerÂ�nian wine. PerÂ�haps we’ll send

someÂ�one to inÂ�vite Lyde, her hair
bound in the SparÂ�tan style, and a lyre
in her Â�lovely, Â�naughty hands.
M y touch on this one has been as light as I could manÂ�age.

It’s a pleasÂ�ant poem and I alÂ�tered only a few deÂ�tails.
HorÂ�ace reÂ�fers to BacÂ�chus as “EuÂ�hius,” which is the Latin for
Eu[ioı, a name of DioÂ�nyÂ�sus that comes from the cry “Eujai[!
Eujoi[!,” the BacÂ�chic howl. This is all interÂ�estÂ�ing but it disÂ�tracts
more than it adds. There is some quesÂ�tion about who Lyde is. A
prosÂ�tiÂ�tute? Â�Somebody’s wife who has reÂ�sponded to such inÂ�viÂ�taÂ�
tions beÂ�fore? I left it inÂ�deÂ�terÂ�miÂ�nate, which is Â�rather more fun,
and Â�relied on the “Â�naughty” to imply what HorÂ�ace may have in
mind.
12
The long war in Spain Â�against the Â�fierce
NuÂ�manÂ�tians, or the batÂ�tles with HanÂ�niÂ�bal,
72 Book II
or enÂ�gageÂ�ments off Â�Sicily’s coast where Punic
blood Â�stained the water,
and simÂ�iÂ�lar subÂ�jects do not comÂ�port with the genÂ�tle

music of the lyre, the mood of which
is wrong for belÂ�liÂ�cose LaÂ�piths and Â�drunken CenÂ�taurs
brawlÂ�ing with one anÂ�other.
The anÂ�cient reÂ�belÂ�lion of Â�Giants Â�against Jove

deÂ�mands an altoÂ�gether difÂ�ferÂ�ent tone,
as you, MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas, know havÂ�ing set down
acÂ�counts in earÂ�nest prose
of the batÂ�tles of CaeÂ�sar and proÂ�cesÂ�sions Â�through the Â�streets

of Rome of deÂ�feated kings whose menÂ�ace no Â�longer
conÂ�cerns us who look on and cheer as they pass,
harmÂ�less now and Â�ashamed.
My Muse inÂ�structs me Â�rather to celÂ�eÂ�brate

the sweet, pure voice of my Â�bright-Â�eyed lady
LiÂ�cymÂ�nia, warmÂ�hearted, loyal, and graceÂ�ful
whenÂ�ever she feels like dancÂ�ing.
She is witty, too; not only underÂ�standÂ�ing

jokes she hears, but makÂ�ing up her own,
the pretÂ�tiÂ�est woman of the crowd at Â�Diana’s
temÂ�ple on fesÂ�tiÂ�val day.
Who would not be happy to swap in an inÂ�stant

Â�
Persia’s Â�wealth, Â�Phrygia’s ferÂ�tile Â�fields,
or the Â�Arabs’ fanÂ�ciÂ�ful palÂ�aces enÂ�crusted
with countÂ�less preÂ�cious jewÂ�els
for a lock of Â�Licymnia’s hair when she bends her neck

to reÂ�ceive pasÂ�sionÂ�ate Â�kisses or to reÂ�fuse
Book II 73
what you have asked her for, playÂ�ful and teasÂ�ing,
forcÂ�ing you to steal.
T here is some disÂ�pute about the idenÂ�tity of LiÂ�cymÂ�nia,

which seems silly to me. There are conÂ�venÂ�tional names
for women, parÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�larly if they deÂ�scribe charÂ�acÂ�terÂ�isÂ�tics: ligu;s
is Â�clear-Â�voiced and Ôu;mnos is song. This is quite satisÂ�facÂ�tory to
me, and I have no interÂ�est in Â�whether the name might stand
for TeÂ�renÂ�tia, who was Â�Maecenas’ wife—which, in any case, I
think is most unÂ�likely. My only Â�changes in the text were from
HyÂ�laeus, who was a CenÂ�taur fightÂ�ing the LaÂ�piths, to straightÂ�
forÂ�ward “CenÂ�taurs.”
13
The day on which you were Â�planted must have been
an evil day, and the Â�planter was a Â�wicked,
unÂ�holy man. All this time
you have Â�waited to do your worst
to his heirs and bring disÂ�grace to the whole disÂ�trict.

What could he have done? StranÂ�gled his Â�father?
SpatÂ�tered the blood of an inÂ�noÂ�cent guest
all over the Â�shrine of the houseÂ�hold gods?
Or did he dabÂ�ble in poiÂ�son elixÂ�irs Medea

used to concoct back in savÂ�age ColÂ�chis?
What enorÂ�mity could it have been
that Â�marked his Â�spirit and your soul
so that you let one of your Â�branches fall

on your Â�master’s head and your Â�owner’s? On my head!
74 Book II
But Â�that’s how the world is. A man
worÂ�ries about known danÂ�gers.
The Punic Â�sailor alÂ�ways takes preÂ�cauÂ�tions

at the BosÂ�porus, which he knows. BeÂ�yond that,
his imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion won’t go.
The solÂ�dier has heard the grim tales
of how the ParÂ�thians seem to flee and then turn

to fight more Â�fiercely. And ParÂ�thians, in turn,
fear the Â�chains and dunÂ�geons of Rome
on the CaÂ�pitÂ�oÂ�line Hill. Even so,
it is the unÂ�exÂ�pected Â�threat we must

exÂ�pect, some acÂ�ciÂ�dent that carÂ�ries us
off into the dark kingÂ�dom
where ProÂ�serÂ�pine rules and AeaÂ�cus Â�judges.
There the rightÂ�eous are set apart to dwell

in relÂ�aÂ�tive comÂ�fort. SapÂ�pho Â�strums her lyre,
comÂ�plainÂ�ing about the shy girls
of LesÂ�bos with whom she spent her life.
AlÂ�caeus sings of the harshÂ�ness of life at sea

and the pains of the batÂ�tleÂ�field. Â�Around them, the Â�shades
marÂ�vel at their unÂ�earthly grace
and mainÂ�tain a revÂ�erÂ�ent siÂ�lence
as they hear tales of batÂ�tles of long ago

and the fall and banÂ�ishÂ�ment of Â�wicked tyÂ�rants.
CerÂ�berus of the hunÂ�dred heads
reÂ�laxes as the Â�coiled serÂ�pents
on the heads of the FuÂ�ries pause in their endÂ�less writhÂ�ing.

ProÂ�meÂ�theus and TanÂ�talus are beÂ�guiled
Book II 75
and Orion interÂ�rupts his purÂ�suit
of Â�mighty lions and timid Â�lynxes.
T his is alÂ�most word for word from the Latin, exÂ�cept for
TanÂ�talus, to whom HorÂ�ace reÂ�fers in the elÂ�eÂ�gant perÂ�iÂ�
phraÂ�sis: “Â�Pelops’ Â�father.” In the last line, the “Â�mighty” is my
small inÂ�truÂ�sion in order to make a neat teÂ�tramÂ�eÂ�ter and for
balÂ�ance Â�against the “timid” that folÂ�lows it.
14
The years slip away, PosÂ�tuÂ�mus, my Â�friend,
and no deÂ�gree of piety can delay
wrinÂ�kles, gray hair, old age,
or Â�death’s reÂ�lentÂ�less footÂ�falls,
not even the willÂ�ingÂ�ness to sacÂ�riÂ�fice

three hunÂ�dred fine oxen every day
to apÂ�pease imÂ�plaÂ�cable Pluto,
who never sheds any tears.
GerÂ�yon, he holds as his capÂ�tive, the monÂ�ster

with three bodÂ�ies; TitÂ�yos, too, he keeps,
on the farÂ�ther Â�shores of the river
each of us has to cross
who have eaten the Â�fruits of the earth—Â�princes or peasÂ�ants.

We may esÂ�cape the depÂ�reÂ�daÂ�tions of Mars
or cross the wild AdriÂ�atic
to arÂ�rive Â�safely in port,
and we may diet and exÂ�erÂ�cise to keep fit,

surÂ�vivÂ�ing maÂ�larÂ�ial auÂ�tumns and Â�frigid winÂ�ters,
76 Book II
but none of it will help us
and Â�Cocytus’ slugÂ�gish Â�stream
waits for us all to arÂ�rive at its dank bank.

Â�Danaus’ fifty daughÂ�ters and SisÂ�yÂ�phus labor there
in tasks that they reÂ�alÂ�ize
will never come to an end.
Our homes, our wives, our trees, the earth itÂ�self

we leave beÂ�hind. NothÂ�ing comes with us
exÂ�cept for the hateÂ�ful cyÂ�press,
beÂ�deckÂ�ing our fuÂ�neral pyres.
And will your heirs mourn, or will they revel,

breakÂ�ing out the wines you have Â�locked away
to guzÂ�zle and spill on the floor
at their daÂ�patÂ�iÂ�cal banÂ�quets?
T he first fidÂ�dle here is my deÂ�ciÂ�sion not to reÂ�peat Â�Postumus’

name as HorÂ�ace does. It just Â�doesn’t sound in EnÂ�glish
the way I think HorÂ�ace meant for it to do. AddÂ�ing “my Â�friend”
was Â�hardly an ideal soÂ�luÂ�tion but it was the only gesÂ�ture I could
think of to conÂ�vey the inÂ�forÂ�malÂ�ity of the senÂ�tence. The name
was often given to a child born after the death of his father. Â�
I idenÂ�tified GerÂ�yon in the text, which HorÂ�ace Â�didn’t
do, but I left TitÂ�yos unÂ�exÂ�plained beÂ�cause it is easy Â�enough to
look up. InÂ�conÂ�sisÂ�tent? Yes, of Â�course, but the genÂ�eral sense
that he was some monÂ�ster who did someÂ�thing bad is clear
Â�enough. AcÂ�tuÂ�ally, he was Â�killed by Â�Apollo and ArÂ�teÂ�mis beÂ�cause
he was atÂ�temptÂ�ing to rape their Â�mother, Leto—but that is a lot
of inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion to sneak in withÂ�out disÂ�turbÂ�ing the narÂ�raÂ�tive
flow.
I left out AusÂ�trum, the wind the poet menÂ�tions and, inÂ�stead,
named its seaÂ�son and gave the reaÂ�son for its being worÂ�riÂ�some.
Book II 77
My Â�phrase exÂ�plainÂ�ing why the cyÂ�press is hateÂ�ful is also an
adÂ�diÂ�tion, but not one that Â�strains the senÂ�tence.
FiÂ�nally, “daÂ�patÂ�iÂ�cal” is exÂ�actly the right word to conÂ�vey the
idea of “the Â�pontiff ’s banÂ�quets,” which was the way RoÂ�mans
reÂ�ferred to exÂ�travÂ�aÂ�gance. Auden uses the word in About the
House; it comes from the Greek daÂ�paien and means “to spend
lavÂ�ishly.” It was Â�Auden’s habit to use such Â�low-Â�frequency words
to get them into the OED as a Â�source—his idea of imÂ�morÂ�talÂ�ity.
WithÂ�out this note, I’m sure a numÂ�ber of readÂ�ers would have
had to look it up. My hope is that with the defÂ�iÂ�niÂ�tion here,
they will reÂ�memÂ�ber it. It’s a Â�lovely word.
15
This urban Â�sprawl with manÂ�sions cheek by jowl
will gobÂ�ble up the plowÂ�land. Rich men’s fishÂ�ponds
will join to make a new lake
even wider than the LuÂ�crine.
DecÂ�oÂ�raÂ�tive plane trees will crowd out

the Â�sturdy elms. Â�Olives will have to give way
to viÂ�oÂ�let beds and Â�pretty myrÂ�tles
in Â�gardens’ decÂ�oÂ�raÂ�tive noseÂ�gays.
The green bay trees with their folÂ�iÂ�age will block

the sun’s glare that interÂ�feres with alÂ�fresco
Â�lunches the forÂ�mer owner never
Â�dreamed of—or RomÂ�uÂ�lus eiÂ�ther, or Cato.
Men back in the day Â�thought priÂ�vate Â�wealth

ought to be modÂ�est, shunÂ�ning coÂ�lonÂ�nades
and such Â�self-Â�indulgent disÂ�plays.
Â�Rather towns and pubÂ�lic temÂ�ples
78 Book II
Â�should be the veÂ�nues reÂ�ceivÂ�ing the benÂ�eÂ�fit from
the Â�citizens’ zeal for archiÂ�tecÂ�tuÂ�ral show
in Â�fresh-Â�cut stone at the pubÂ�lic exÂ�pense
for Â�everybody’s enÂ�joyÂ�ment and pride.
T he main trope in this one that I just Â�couldn’t manÂ�age was

the comÂ�parÂ�iÂ�son of the “bachÂ�eÂ�lor” plane tree with the
elms that would be Â�crowded out. The idea is that the elm is a
good “famÂ�ily” tree beÂ�cause vines grow on it and the tree and
the vine are “marÂ�ried,” while plane trees do not manÂ�iÂ�fest this
doÂ�mesÂ�tic beÂ�havÂ�ior. It is both obÂ�scure and Â�far-Â�fetched, and I
Â�cheated with adÂ�jecÂ�tives.
I Â�thought Â�briefly about idenÂ�tifyÂ�ing the LuÂ�crine Lake, but
how would that help? That it’s a lake is what we need to know.
Since the erupÂ�tion of the volÂ�canic cone of Monte Nuovo in
1538, it is Â�smaller than it was in Â�Horace’s time; but that, too, is
neiÂ�ther here nor there.
The piece is Â�closer to Â�satire than ode, and a prefÂ�erÂ�ence for
the counÂ�tryÂ�side Â�rather than urban life was alÂ�ready a bit tireÂ�
some. I like to supÂ�pose, then, that HorÂ�ace was just doing the
riff on a reÂ�ceived idea in order to show off his rheÂ�torÂ�iÂ�cal grace.
SevÂ�eral scholÂ�ars have menÂ�tioned that the viÂ�oÂ�let beds HorÂ�ace
disÂ�apÂ�proves of, as Varro did beÂ�fore him, are menÂ�tioned in
Â�Virgil’s Â�fourth Â�Georgic as being good for apiÂ�culÂ�ture. It’s the
kind of amusÂ�ing disÂ�pute that Times LitÂ�erÂ�ary SupÂ�pleÂ�ment subÂ�
scribÂ�ers write letÂ�ters about.
16
Â�
You’re someÂ�where in the AeÂ�gean, far from shore,
and a dark cloud apÂ�pears and blots out the moon
and the stars, too, by which the sailÂ�ors steer:
so what do you pray for?
Book II 79
A quiet life, which is what the belÂ�liÂ�cose ThraÂ�cians
want and the mad Medes with their Â�painted quivÂ�ers.
What could be more preÂ�cious, GrosÂ�phus, than that?
And you can’t buy it.
No gold or jewÂ�els, not even a Â�consul’s licÂ�tor

can Â�soothe a disÂ�orÂ�dered, anxÂ�ious mind that Â�chases
shadÂ�ows that flit Â�across the ceilÂ�ing at night,
or Â�will-Â�o’-Â�the-Â�wisps.
The good life beÂ�longs to the modÂ�erÂ�ate man

whose Â�father’s simÂ�ple salt Â�dishes grace his table
and whose slumÂ�ber is unÂ�trouÂ�bled by fear and greed,
conÂ�tent with his lot.
Why do we knock ourÂ�selves out chasÂ�ing phanÂ�toms,

one thing after anÂ�other. Â�Whoever Â�leaves
his naÂ�tive land finds that his old self
has Â�tagged along with him.
Life is short and if you are happy now,

enjoy it. Don’t fret about fuÂ�ture trouÂ�bles
A setÂ�tled mind can enÂ�counÂ�ter bitÂ�ter Â�events
with a mild smile.
No life is perÂ�fect. Â�Achilles died early,

while TithÂ�oÂ�nus lived for a long but joyÂ�less time.
And avoid envy. You are Â�richer than I am,
at least for the moÂ�ment.
You have herds of lowÂ�ing SiÂ�cilÂ�ian catÂ�tle,

a Â�high-Â�spirited mare, perÂ�fect for racÂ�ing,
Â�woolen Â�clothes Â�twice-Â�dyed in Â�African crimÂ�son,
and I’m happy for you.
80 Book II
The fates have alÂ�lotÂ�ted me a modÂ�est farm
and modÂ�esty to go with it, but I also get
Â�prompts from the Â�Greco-Â�Roman Muse that allow me
to preen on ocÂ�caÂ�sion.
F irst of all, I conÂ�fess to leavÂ�ing out a Â�stanza. After the fifth

Â�stanza comes anÂ�other one that some scholÂ�ars think may
have been a reÂ�write of a pasÂ�sage in III, 1: 37–40. It Â�doesn’t Â�really
fit here. (It’s about sailÂ�ors and cavÂ�alÂ�ryÂ�men who go into batÂ�tle
with, not surÂ�prisÂ�ingly, a cerÂ�tain anxÂ�iety.)
I’ve also taken a libÂ�erty by doing the openÂ�ing in the secÂ�ond
perÂ�son, Â�partly beÂ�cause the poem is adÂ�dressed to Â�Horace’s rich
neighÂ�bor, GrosÂ�phus, and Â�partly beÂ�cause it is a litÂ�tle grabÂ�bier.
The poem Â�adopts the secÂ�ond perÂ�son at its conÂ�cluÂ�sion, so what
I’m doing is not Â�really a viÂ�oÂ�laÂ�tion.
I Â�didn’t Â�bother to exÂ�plain the Â�consul’s licÂ�tor, a symÂ�bol of
auÂ�thorÂ�ity, beÂ�cause I Â�thought it was Â�self-Â�evident.
A perÂ�haps more seÂ�riÂ�ous deÂ�parÂ�ture is at the end, where
HorÂ�ace Â�claims that the moÂ�ments of inÂ�spiÂ�raÂ�tion from the Muse
allow him “to scorn the reÂ�sentÂ�ful mob.” It Â�seemed jarÂ�ring in a
disÂ�quiÂ�siÂ�tion Â�against envy, and if I reÂ�versed it and just let the
poet “preen on ocÂ�caÂ�sion,” that was less Â�snarky. My only warÂ�rant
for this is that I adÂ�mire HorÂ�ace and want to put him in the best
light posÂ�sible.
17
Your Â�gloomy preÂ�dicÂ�tions are not necÂ�esÂ�sarÂ�ily true,
for all your conÂ�stant grumÂ�bles. NoÂ�where is it writÂ�ten
that you, MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas, shall die beÂ�fore
I do. You are my Â�life’s keyÂ�stone!
You are my greatÂ�est glory. Were you to be taken,

I Â�should be Â�robbed of the best part of myÂ�self
Book II 81
and Â�wouldn’t give much of a damn
for the litÂ�tle Â�that’s left beÂ�hind.
I swear that when you go, I’ll come along

havÂ�ing no reaÂ�son whatÂ�ever to linÂ�ger here.
We’ll still be comÂ�rades toÂ�gether; not even
the Â�Chimaera’s Â�breath will sepÂ�arÂ�ate us,
nor the Â�hundred-Â�handed Gyges, under his mounÂ�tain,

risÂ�ing up to do us misÂ�chief. On our side,
JusÂ�tice shall stand with us and the Fates.
My birth could have been Â�Libra’s conÂ�cern,
or posÂ�sibly sinÂ�isÂ�ter Â�Scorpio’s or maybe

Â�Capricorn’s, lord of the westÂ�ern ocean.
But Â�surely your stars and mine toÂ�gether
make a sinÂ�guÂ�lar harÂ�mony.
In your case, Â�Jove’s power dazÂ�zled maÂ�lign

SatÂ�urn, and he Â�fended off the Â�flight
of the Fates and you reÂ�covÂ�ered from illÂ�ness
to reÂ�turn to reÂ�ceive Â�Rome’s apÂ�plause.
In just the same way my life was Â�spared

when that Â�branch fell on my head, but FauÂ�nus,
proÂ�tectÂ�ing a poet, lightÂ�ened the blow.
You and I proÂ�tect each other.
Let us thereÂ�fore give our Â�thanks to the gods

and offer vicÂ�tims to them in sacÂ�riÂ�fice
at a voÂ�tive Â�shrine. I can’t match you
but I can at least kill a lamb.
82 Book II
T his is only Â�slightly less silly than it seems. (Not that silÂ�liÂ�ness
is fatal in Â�poetry: John Â�Donne’s “The Flea” is an agÂ�gresÂ�
sively silly but noneÂ�theÂ�less great poem.) The ocÂ�caÂ�sion, apÂ�parÂ�
ently, is Â�Maecenas’ reÂ�mark that he will die beÂ�fore HorÂ�ace does.
To this, HorÂ�ace makes a reply, emÂ�broiÂ�derÂ�ing the sugÂ�gesÂ�tion
that the two of them will die toÂ�gether and playÂ�ing Â�changes on
it. One of its odd imÂ�pliÂ�caÂ�tions is that each of them, alive, is a
proÂ�tecÂ�tion for the other.
I did not offer any exÂ�plaÂ�naÂ�tion of the astroÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�
tion, but the reÂ�ceived opinÂ�ion about that is that HorÂ�ace got it
wrong deÂ�libÂ�erÂ�ately, mixÂ�ing up planÂ�ets and zoÂ�diaÂ�cal conÂ�stelÂ�laÂ�
tions, to demÂ�onÂ�strate that he Â�didn’t beÂ�lieve in any of it—which
makes it more fun. I also Â�contracted a litÂ�tle Â�Horace’s acÂ�count of
how FauÂ�nus interÂ�vened to proÂ�tect him from the Â�branch. He
did so at Â�Mercury’s beÂ�hest, MerÂ�cury being a proÂ�tecÂ�tor of poets.
This Â�seemed needÂ�lessly comÂ�pliÂ�cated and I Â�thought the exÂ�plaÂ�naÂ�
tion for the acÂ�tion was sufÂ�fiÂ�cient.
18
The ceilÂ�ings in my house do not
feaÂ�ture panÂ�els of gold with ivory inÂ�lays;
I have no beams of marÂ�ble restÂ�ing
on colÂ�umns of stone from NuÂ�midÂ�ian quarÂ�ries. I am not
the Â�long-Â�lost heir of AtÂ�talus, king
of PerÂ�gaÂ�mum. I have no grand palÂ�ace
with Â�crowds of Â�clients’ wellÂ�born wives
sportÂ�ing robes dyed with SparÂ�tan purÂ�ple.
I can only claim to have
a litÂ�tle talÂ�ent as well as a good repÂ�uÂ�taÂ�tion
so that rich men seek my friendÂ�ship.
Book II 83
I do not trouÂ�ble the gods, askÂ�ing for more
or try to exÂ�tort exÂ�travÂ�aÂ�gant gifts
from any rich comÂ�panÂ�ions who can afÂ�ford them.
I am happy and well conÂ�tented
with the simÂ�ple life here on my SaÂ�bine farm.
The day gives way to anÂ�other day
and the new moon waxes, fills, and then wanes,
but you in deÂ�nial, in Â�death’s Â�shadow,
conÂ�sult with your archiÂ�tect about new Â�houses
when you ought to have him deÂ�signÂ�ing a tomb.
Â�Greedy for even more land than you have,
you push back the shore of the sea,
fillÂ�ing in and reÂ�claimÂ�ing whatÂ�ever you can
down in Baia, where your neighÂ�bors
comÂ�pete in disÂ�plays of luxÂ�ury and fashÂ�ion,
for you reÂ�sent your Â�land’s limÂ�its.
It is said that you even tear down the bounÂ�dary walls
of tenÂ�ant farmÂ�ers and take their Â�fields
so you can inÂ�crease your alÂ�ready vast holdÂ�ings.
HusÂ�band and wife are Â�driven away
with all their beÂ�longÂ�ings and famÂ�ily gods in their arms
and their chilÂ�dren tagÂ�ging along beÂ�hind them.
But you know where you are Â�headed soon Â�enough—
to the grand hall where Orcus waits
for everyÂ�one with his Â�chilly welÂ�come. The earth
opens for each of us an equal
doorÂ�way, for peasÂ�ants as well as Â�princes, who canÂ�not
bribe Â�Charon, his Â�haughty atÂ�tenÂ�dant;
Not even wily ProÂ�meÂ�theus could conÂ�trive
to have his chafÂ�ing bonds loosÂ�ened,
nor could arÂ�roÂ�gant TanÂ�talus and his heirs
apÂ�peal their seÂ�vere conÂ�demÂ�naÂ�tions.
Death comes at the poor man’s pitÂ�iÂ�ful sumÂ�mons
to bring reÂ�lief from all his laÂ�bors—
but even withÂ�out that sumÂ�mons he comes.
84 Book II
I t was pleasÂ�ant to work in HipÂ�poÂ�nacÂ�teans (a limpÂ�ing iamÂ�bic
line that was used by HipÂ�poÂ�nax), which offer a cerÂ�tain
speed and breeziÂ�ness. The senÂ�tiÂ�ment is not unÂ�usual: too much
is never Â�enough, and one must learn conÂ�tentÂ�ment, preÂ�sumÂ�ably
from EpiÂ�curus. And then, at the end, the decÂ�larÂ�aÂ�tion that Â�proves
the preÂ�viÂ�ous arÂ�guÂ�ment: we’re all going to die and pass Â�through
a doorÂ�way (grave) of equal size.
TearÂ�ing down bounÂ�dary Â�stones or walls was a seÂ�riÂ�ous crime,
as was disÂ�posÂ�sessÂ�ing tenÂ�ant farmÂ�ers (Â�clientes). Some anÂ�noÂ�taÂ�tors
call our atÂ�tenÂ�tion to the simÂ�iÂ�larÂ�ity Â�between these figÂ�ures and
AeÂ�neas leavÂ�ing Troy, to which I don’t obÂ�ject, but neiÂ�ther do I
think it is necÂ�esÂ�sary or enÂ�lightÂ�enÂ�ing. I said nothÂ�ing about ProÂ�
meÂ�theus and TanÂ�talus, who have been menÂ�tioned beÂ�fore and
who are easy Â�enough to look up.
19
On a disÂ�tant crag, I saw, with my own eyes,
(beÂ�lieve it, you who read this), the god BacÂ�chus
inÂ�structÂ�ing the Â�nymphs and Â�goat-Â�footed saÂ�tyrs
who Â�pricked up their Â�pointy ears. HalÂ�leÂ�luÂ�jah!
My mind is in a state of ecÂ�static conÂ�fuÂ�sion

and my body tremÂ�bles with fear. My soul is posÂ�sessed!
I shout HalÂ�leÂ�luÂ�jah and beg of the god,
dread lord of the frightÂ�enÂ�ing thyrÂ�sus,
that he show me mercy and not drive me mad

but allow me to sing of the tireÂ�less BacÂ�chantes,
of founÂ�tains flowÂ�ing with fine wine,
of rivÂ�ers of milk, and holÂ�low tree Â�trunks
oozÂ�ing honey. Let me also sing

of your conÂ�sort, ArÂ�iÂ�adne, elÂ�eÂ�vated
Book II 85
to dwell in the Â�starry heavÂ�ens forÂ�ever.
and of PenÂ�theus, too, who disÂ�apÂ�proved
of your saÂ�cred rites and whose proud palÂ�ace was levÂ�eled.

Let me reÂ�mind the world of LyÂ�curÂ�gus, the scepÂ�tic,
the EdoÂ�nian king whom you drove into exile
and Zeus Â�struck blind to punÂ�ish him furÂ�ther.
RivÂ�ers you bend to your will and even the sea

you can roil or calm as you Â�choose.
On the Â�craggy mounÂ�tainÂ�tops of Â�Thrace
you give the women coifÂ�feurs of serÂ�pents
to crown them, writhÂ�ing but quite harmÂ�less.

When the Â�Giants asÂ�sailed your Â�father’s kingÂ�dom
you asÂ�sumed the shape of a terÂ�rifyÂ�ing
lion with huge claws and fangs
to drive them back. Men say you are betÂ�ter Â�suited

to song and dance, but when the ocÂ�caÂ�sion reÂ�quires
you are more than able to fight:
thus you excel in war and peace.
When CerÂ�berus saw you in all your reÂ�galia

he genÂ�tled at once, brushÂ�ing his tail
along your body and lickÂ�ing your feet
and anÂ�kles with all three of his Â�tongues.
T he most difÂ�fiÂ�cult of my probÂ�lems was the transÂ�laÂ�tion of

Euhoe! This is the Latin verÂ�sion of “Evohe,” which is the
DioÂ�nyÂ�sian cry of Â�praise and celÂ�eÂ�braÂ�tion for the god. NeiÂ�ther,
in EnÂ�glish, Â�sounds natÂ�uÂ�ral; but we do have “HalÂ�leÂ�luÂ�jah,” the
EnÂ�glish word (from the Latin, from the HeÂ�brew) meanÂ�ing
“Â�praise jah,” those being the first letÂ�ters of YahÂ�weh. This
86 Book II
resÂ�oÂ�nates in exÂ�actly the right way but it is Â�rather an ecÂ�uÂ�menÂ�iÂ�cal
reach.
My Â�phrase “beÂ�lieve it, you who read this” is a renÂ�diÂ�tion of
Â�Horace’s creÂ�dite posÂ�teri, which means the genÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tions to come.
After a Â�couple of milÂ�lenÂ�nia, all of us who read this are posÂ�teri.
I added a Â�couple of words of idenÂ�tifiÂ�caÂ�tion for ArÂ�iÂ�adne,
PenÂ�theus, and LyÂ�curÂ�gus, which HorÂ�ace Â�didn’t need beÂ�cause he
was writÂ�ing for a small group of very civÂ�ilÂ�ized, Â�highly edÂ�uÂ�cated
RoÂ�mans. FiÂ�nally, I simÂ�plified Â�Cerberus’ enÂ�counÂ�ter with BacÂ�chus.
In HorÂ�ace, the god is wearÂ�ing a Â�horned crown, which is eiÂ�ther
the symÂ�bol for or the reÂ�posÂ�iÂ�tory of his power. I conÂ�tented myÂ�
self with “all your reÂ�galia,” which would inÂ�clude the crown, of
Â�course. The point is to get to the reÂ�markÂ�able image of the Â�fierce
Â�three-Â�headed monÂ�ster dog rubÂ�bing his tail along the god’s body
and lickÂ�ing his feet with all his Â�tongues. Â�Horace’s reÂ�port of
Â�Cerberus’ doÂ�mesÂ�tiÂ�caÂ�tion is perÂ�haps unÂ�precÂ�eÂ�dented.
20
I shall take wing—Â�sturdy Â�enough to bear me
aloft to range like a miÂ�gratÂ�ing bird in the air.
BidÂ�ding fareÂ�well to the munÂ�dane world
and the citÂ�ies of men, I shall look down
in amuseÂ�ment at any envy I may atÂ�tract.

Even Â�though I came from humÂ�ble peoÂ�ple,
you send for me, MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas, to come
as your welÂ�come guest. I shall not die,
but shall glide where I Â�choose, even over the Styx.

I feel the skin of my legs that roughÂ�ens to Â�scales
and soon, from my finÂ�gerÂ�tips and up
to my elÂ�bows white feathÂ�ers will Â�sprout.
Book II 87
I shall sucÂ�ceed where faÂ�mous Â�Icarus fell
and I shall have Â�greater reÂ�nown. As a graceÂ�ful swan
I shall touch down on the Â�Bosporus’ shore
where the noisy surf Â�breaks; I shall swoop
over the Â�African coastÂ�line and far to the north

over the gelid HyperÂ�borÂ�ean reÂ�gions;
the peoÂ�ple of ColÂ�chis shall come to know me
and the DaÂ�cians, too, and GeÂ�loÂ�nian Â�brutes.
SpanÂ�iards will learn to read with my works in their hands,

as will those who live by the Rhone. Let there be
no grievÂ�ing at my wake, and I won’t
have any need for a marÂ�ble tomb.
T his Â�flight of fancy is brash fun. I deÂ�leted the menÂ�tion of

Â�Icarus’ Â�father. (What other Â�Icarus do you know?) I Â�changed
“the Â�shoals of the Â�Syrtes” to “the Â�African coastÂ�line,” which is
what his meÂ�tonÂ�ymy means. The idea that his work will progÂ�ress
beÂ�yond the emÂ�pire to its furÂ�thest Â�reaches is clear Â�enough, so I
Â�didn’t Â�bother to idenÂ�tify the DaÂ�cians and GeÂ�loÂ�nians. Â�They’re
foreignÂ�ers.
I also left out a few Â�phrases of the coda, beÂ�cause they were
imÂ�plicit and the pasÂ�sage works by its brevÂ�ity, which was what
was imÂ�porÂ�tant to match.
88 Book II
Book III
1
Â�
Dearly beÂ�loved, I hate all unÂ�beÂ�lievÂ�ers
in Â�poetry. Our gods are the saÂ�cred Muses
and I am one of the Â�priests
of our preÂ�cious conÂ�greÂ�gaÂ�tion.
I sing to Â�youths and maidÂ�ens songs that neiÂ�ther

they nor anyÂ�one else has heard beÂ�fore.
MonÂ�archs rule their subÂ�jects
but are ruled in turn by Jove.
In the glory of his triÂ�umph over the Â�Giants,

he comÂ�mands the enÂ�tire uniÂ�verse, which he
can move howÂ�ever he Â�pleases
with a mere nod of his head.
One man has great holdÂ�ings and Â�plants his orÂ�chards

with many trees. AnÂ�other man has less.
One canÂ�diÂ�date in the Campo
tryÂ�ing to get men’s votes
has a more noble pedÂ�iÂ�gree than the rest,

but anÂ�other has a betÂ�ter repÂ�uÂ�taÂ�tion.
This one has many Â�friends
and cliÂ�ents he can rely on.
91
But it’s alÂ�ways Fate that casts the deÂ�cidÂ�ing vote,
choosÂ�ing as if by lot the winÂ�ners and losÂ�ers
from a caÂ�paÂ�cious urn
in which all the names are mixed.
What SiÂ�cilÂ�ian feast could deÂ�light a man

like DamÂ�oÂ�cles with that sword over his head?
Would he even taste the food?
Can he hear the music of lyres?
The songs of birds? How can he fall Â�asleep

as the peasÂ�ants do so easÂ�ily in their huts
or in the shade of the trees
where the genÂ�tle winds croon.
The conÂ�tented man Â�doesn’t fret about Â�storms

at sea that Â�threaten merÂ�chant vesÂ�sels. InÂ�difÂ�ferÂ�ent
both to the heat of sumÂ�mer
and the cold Â�spells of winÂ�ter.
Do sudÂ�den hailÂ�storms ridÂ�dle the Â�grapes in his vineÂ�yards?

Do torÂ�renÂ�tial rains pelt his Â�orchard’s trees?
Does SirÂ�ius Â�scorch his Â�fields
that the harsh winÂ�ter froze?
Thus do farms break promÂ�ises Â�they’ve made.

The fish, meanÂ�while, are Â�alarmed that the water is shrinkÂ�ing
as workÂ�men Â�lengthen the piers
for Â�magnates’ pleasÂ�ure vesÂ�sels
while othÂ�ers pour rubÂ�ble into the water

to exÂ�tend the Â�grounds of their vilÂ�las into the sea
in a vainÂ�gloÂ�riÂ�ous efÂ�fort
to exÂ�pand Â�wherever they can.
92 Book III
He Â�strolls on his lawn that is Â�larger now, but Fear
and Worry dog his footÂ�steps noneÂ�theÂ�less.
They even board his yacht
with the handÂ�some Â�bronze prow.
When he Â�mounts his horse and rides, he hears beÂ�hind him

reÂ�lentÂ�less poundÂ�ing hoofÂ�beats as they folÂ�low
Â�wherever he may go
on his priÂ�vate briÂ�dle path.
His dolor is not reÂ�lieved by PhryÂ�gian marÂ�ble,

no matÂ�ter how exÂ�penÂ�sive. And gaudy togas
with their bands of Â�Sidon’s purÂ�ple
canÂ�not susÂ�tain his interÂ�est.
The best FaÂ�lerÂ�nian wines and the fraÂ�grant spikeÂ�nard

from Â�far-off PerÂ�sia also lose their charm.
I have seen this hapÂ�pen
over and over again.
Why would I ever think about big Â�houses

with imÂ�posÂ�ing doorÂ�ways imÂ�pressÂ�ing the pasÂ�sersby?
I have my SaÂ�bine farm
where I can be careÂ�free.
T he openÂ�ing preÂ�sented a probÂ�lem inÂ�asÂ�much as HorÂ�ace is

preÂ�tendÂ�ing that Â�poetry is a cult, and he beÂ�gins by sayÂ�ing
“I hate the unÂ�beÂ�lievÂ�ers,” meanÂ�ing those who don’t read poems.
(I agree with him here.) He does a reÂ�strained imÂ�iÂ�taÂ�tion of a
serÂ�monÂ�izÂ�ing Â�priest, which acÂ�counts for the “dearly beÂ�loved,”
with which clerÂ�gyÂ�men often begin wedÂ�dings.
I inÂ�truded a litÂ�tle with the peasÂ�ants fallÂ�ing Â�asleep in the
shade of the trees. HorÂ�ace menÂ�tions a valÂ�ley where zephÂ�yrs
blow. I Â�couldn’t reÂ�sist the tempÂ�taÂ�tion to make the winds croon,
Book III 93
an alÂ�luÂ�sion (that noÂ�body will get) to my transÂ�laÂ�tion of three
GreenÂ�lanÂ�dic poets Â�called The CroonÂ�ing Wind. It is like the
ReÂ�naisÂ�sance paintÂ�ers who put their own faces in a corÂ�ner in
crowd Â�scenes.
A Â�slight alÂ�terÂ�aÂ�tion is the postÂ�ponÂ�ing of the line about farms
breakÂ�ing their promÂ�ises until after the list of disÂ�asÂ�ters that make
all forms of agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture risky. It is a Â�clever idea, but it fits betÂ�ter
after the inÂ�stances of which it is an abÂ�stracÂ�tion.
A Â�lovely opÂ�porÂ�tuÂ�nity HorÂ�ace might have exÂ�ploited a litÂ�tle
more is in the line about Fear and Worry folÂ�lowÂ�ing the rich
man when he rides. There are two ways of doing the trope: one
is by brachÂ�yÂ�loÂ�gia (shortÂ�enÂ�ing) and the other is to make it Â�bigger,
which I have done by putÂ�ting in the hoofÂ�beats of their Â�horses
on the priÂ�vate briÂ�dle path. These are not in the Latin; but we
are, I think, inÂ�vited to imÂ�aÂ�gine them.
I have also inÂ�serted a Â�couple of short lines to fill out the
peÂ�nulÂ�tiÂ�mate Â�stanza, Â�mostly beÂ�cause someÂ�thing has to go there
but also to make it clear that HorÂ�ace is deÂ�clarÂ�ing that these
trouÂ�bles are uniÂ�verÂ�sal among the rich. I admit that it is padÂ�ding,
but the Â�choice was to pad here or in the last Â�stanza. BetÂ�ter here
than there.
2
To be any good, a young man ought to have
some toughÂ�enÂ�ing up. For this a Â�soldier’s life
with its hardÂ�ships of mind and body and bare
subÂ�sisÂ�tence livÂ�ing will work wonÂ�ders.
Let him harry the Â�mounted ParÂ�thian horde

simÂ�ply by branÂ�dishÂ�ing his Roman spear;
Let him learn to live with danÂ�ger
and Â�thrive under the open sky.
94 Book III
When the enemy looks down from their batÂ�tleÂ�ments,
let the wife of their chief and their grown daughÂ�ter
comÂ�pare him to her fiÂ�ancé
who has never been Â�battle-hardened.
In their eyes the Roman solÂ�dier is fearÂ�some

and, if he is proÂ�voked, will deÂ�mand blood,
ramÂ�pagÂ�ing Â�through the dead and dying
of their Â�troops Â�strewn on the field.
To die for one’s fatherÂ�land is right and Â�proper,

and Death can spot a cowÂ�ard and hunt him down.
Even one who tries to run
will be cut down at the knees.
How do we Â�reckon worth? Does a man camÂ�paign

for ofÂ�fice and lose? His glory is unÂ�diÂ�minÂ�ished
and does not wax or wane at the Â�public’s
Â�fickle and unÂ�preÂ�dictÂ�able whims.
For a man of honor a good death is waitÂ�ing

and the gates of Â�heaven will open wide.
Say he does not deÂ�serve to die—
he will walk on a speÂ�cial path
Â�
closed to the vulÂ�gar crowd who burÂ�den the earth.
He will inÂ�stead soar up into the skies.
BatÂ�tles are not the only measÂ�ure
of a man’s metÂ�tle. Other virÂ�tues
mean much and deÂ�serve to be reÂ�warded.

Is he loyal or does he Â�betray a Â�cult’s
seÂ�crets? Such a one I’d spurn
and never go out in a small boat
Book III 95
with him Â�aboard, for the god’s venÂ�geance
often lumps the good and the bad toÂ�gether.
RetÂ�riÂ�buÂ�tion may limp Â�slowly
but it is deÂ�terÂ�mined and Â�catches up.
T his ode is well known beÂ�cause of the WilÂ�fred Owen poem,

which is alÂ�most a palÂ�iÂ�node, takÂ�ing the gung ho senÂ�tiÂ�ment
of HorÂ�ace and reÂ�versÂ�ing it.
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come garÂ�gling from the Â�froth-corrupted lungs,
ObÂ�scene as canÂ�cer, bitÂ�ter as the cud
Of vile, inÂ�curÂ�able sores on inÂ�noÂ�cent Â�tongues,
My Â�friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To chilÂ�dren arÂ�dent for some desÂ�perÂ�ate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et DeÂ�coÂ�rum est
Pro paÂ�tria mori.
The tempÂ�taÂ�tion is to read the enÂ�tire ode in the light of

the Owen and figÂ�ure that HorÂ�ace Â�doesn’t mean a word of it.
My guess, Â�though, would be that he does. For a transÂ�laÂ�tor, the
Â�tricky quesÂ�tion is how to renÂ�der that dulce et deÂ�coÂ�rum. .Â€.Â€. One
could argue that the only word in the senÂ�tence that isn’t EnÂ�
glish is mori, dulce being close Â�enough to “dulÂ�cet” so that smart
readÂ�ers can figÂ�ure it out. And mori isn’t at all difÂ�fiÂ�cult. Â�Should I
leave it in Latin then? Or would that make it too close to the
Owen, which would be misÂ�leadÂ�ing? I used “fatherÂ�land” for
paÂ�tria beÂ�cause, litÂ�erÂ�ally, Â�that’s what it means, and the milÂ�iÂ�taÂ�risÂ�tic
sugÂ�gesÂ�tion is apÂ�proÂ�priÂ�ate. “Right and Â�proper” Â�doesn’t exÂ�actly
conÂ�vey the meanÂ�ing of the first three words, but they are close,
and Â�through freÂ�quent use they have beÂ�come a meme.
AnÂ�other puzÂ�zle was what I Â�should do about the Â�betrayal of
seÂ�crets in the peÂ�nulÂ�tiÂ�mate Â�stanza. HorÂ�ace menÂ�tions Ceres, and
96 Book III
there was a cult of DeÂ�meÂ�ter, but alÂ�most cerÂ�tainly that was a
metaÂ�phor for Â�Augustus’ civil serÂ�vice. Too much inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion
for this point at the conÂ�cluÂ�sion of the poem, I Â�thought, so I left
it all at “cult,” beÂ�cause the quesÂ�tion is Â�really about the abilÂ�ity to
mainÂ�tain seÂ�crecy in whatÂ�ever venue.
FiÂ�nally, I simÂ�plified a bit in the last Â�stanza. HorÂ�ace uses
“DiesÂ�piter,” which means the sky god, or Jove, the god with
the thunÂ�derÂ�bolts. Even to sugÂ�gest any of this would be to slow
down the pace of the poem, so I just left it as “god’s venÂ�geance.”
3
The upÂ�right man with a fixed purÂ�pose in mind
is never deÂ�terred by the Â�crowd’s erÂ�ratic urgÂ�ing
that he Â�should do someÂ�thing wrong;
the frown of a desÂ�pot canÂ�not disÂ�suade him;
not even a south wind that Â�churns the sea

can force any deÂ�viÂ�aÂ�tion from his Â�course;
he Â�defies the power of thunderÂ�ing Â�Jove’s
hand. ImÂ�aÂ�gine the whole world
comÂ�ing down upon him with huge fragÂ�ments

crashÂ�ing Â�around him, not even then will he waver
or show fear. PolÂ�lux disÂ�played
such perÂ�seÂ�verÂ�ance to the world
as did rovÂ�ing HerÂ�cules. Their reÂ�ward

was to rise up to the fiery Â�heights of Â�heaven
in their apothÂ�eÂ�oÂ�ses. AuÂ�gusÂ�tus
has also has been Â�marked with such favor,
Book III 97
as witÂ�ness his lips that touch the necÂ�tar cup,
as rosy and Â�smooth as those of a young man.
For his deÂ�terÂ�miÂ�naÂ�tion, BacÂ�chus
was carÂ�ried aloft by his team of tiÂ�gers,
his yoke on their wild and powÂ�erÂ�ful necks. QuiÂ�riÂ�nus,

after Juno had made her Â�speech to the gods
that Â�brought such joy to them, abÂ�solvÂ�ing
him from any guilt at Troy
was saved after all from AcheÂ�ron

by Mars’ team of exÂ�celÂ�lent chargÂ�ers.
“Ilium,” she said, “is levÂ�eled
to rubÂ�ble beÂ�cause of the judgÂ�ment of Paris
“and that Â�wicked woman Venus Â�awarded him.

Troy was thereÂ�fore given to me and MiÂ�nerva
to punÂ�ish—along with its peoÂ�ple and King
LaomeÂ�don, who Â�cheated the gods,
“reÂ�fusÂ�ing to pay them as he had Â�agreed to do.

InÂ�faÂ�mous Paris no Â�longer dazÂ�zles that SparÂ�tan
woman who Â�betrayed her husÂ�band.
His Â�father Priam no Â�longer reÂ�sists
“with Â�Hector’s help the Â�Achaian atÂ�tacks. We quarÂ�reled

among ourÂ�selves and proÂ�longed that terÂ�rible war,
but I have done with quarÂ�rels and rage
and I parÂ�don my grandÂ�son I have hated,
“QuiÂ�riÂ�nus, the son of Mars and the priestÂ�ess.

I shall conÂ�sent to his enÂ�terÂ�ing these preÂ�cincts,
drinkÂ�ing the necÂ�tar, and havÂ�ing his name
enÂ�rolled in the peaceÂ�ful ranks of gods.
98 Book III
“As long as the wide sea sepÂ�arÂ�ates Troy
and Rome, the exÂ�iles may Â�thrive, Â�prosper, and reign
Â�wherever they Â�choose to setÂ�tle themÂ�selves.
What I deÂ�mand is that catÂ�tle graze
“as they tramÂ�ple down the tombs of Priam and Paris

where wild Â�beasts conÂ�ceal themÂ�selves to give birth.
But may Â�Rome’s gleamÂ�ing CapÂ�iÂ�tol stand
and that warÂ�like city reÂ�tain its power
“to rule over the Medes they have alÂ�ready conÂ�quered.

May she be reÂ�spected and Â�feared by all naÂ�tions
from the Â�shores of the PilÂ�lars of HerÂ�cules
to the Â�mouths of the Nile that rises Â�yearly
“to turn the Â�desert sands to ferÂ�tile Â�fields.

But let her not deÂ�scend to a greed that Â�delves
into the earth for unÂ�disÂ�covÂ�ered
gold that may be hidÂ�den there
“snatchÂ�ing at anyÂ�thing holy to put it to use.

Â�Rather, she Â�should exÂ�plore the world and disÂ�cover
its disÂ�tant limÂ�its where fires burn
or mists and showÂ�ers never end.
“I only warn them that they Â�should never supÂ�pose

their power is, itÂ�self, a god, and thereÂ�fore
suppose they can defy my Â�wishes
and for whatÂ�ever reaÂ�son reÂ�store
“the Troy from which their anÂ�cesÂ�tors once came.

Â�
Should anyÂ�one think to underÂ�take such a thing,
the omens will all be bad and true,
and caÂ�tasÂ�trophe shall come again.
Book III 99
“I, myÂ�self, will lead the host that comes
to overÂ�whelm that city again and visit
upon it a new, utter deÂ�feat.
SupÂ�pose Â�Apollo Â�should venÂ�ture to build
“Ilium’s high wall again three times

in solid brass, yet will I deÂ�stroy it,
razÂ�ing it three times to the Â�ground
with my vicÂ�toÂ�riÂ�ous ArÂ�give Â�troops.
“Three times will the capÂ�tive wife weep

for her handÂ�some Â�husband’s manÂ�gled body
as well as those of her chilÂ�dren, Â�killed
in war or Â�hurled down from the wall.”
A nd? And? Â�There’s anÂ�other Â�stanza, but it makes no sense there

and it works well as the first Â�stanza of the folÂ�lowÂ�ing ode.
FigÂ�ure it to be a Â�copyist’s error. Those four lines are:
This Â�doesn’t suit a cheerÂ�ful lyre. Muse,

where are you going? Do not be so amÂ�biÂ�tious!
Never mind talk of the gods.
Let us reÂ�sume our modÂ�est busiÂ�ness.
UtÂ�terly deÂ�flaÂ�tionÂ�ary, isn’t it? I don’t supÂ�pose myÂ�self to be transÂ�

latÂ�ing words or even lines but the poem, and I have to take my
Â�prompts from its shape and its maÂ�chinÂ�ery.
There is a tanÂ�gle about QuiÂ�riÂ�nus that the texÂ�ture of the
poem Â�couldn’t acÂ�comÂ�moÂ�date. “QuiÂ�riÂ�nus” is anÂ�other name
for RomÂ�uÂ�lus, or a name for him after he is deÂ�ified. OrigÂ�iÂ�nally,
QuiÂ�riÂ�nus was a SaÂ�bine god whose name was cogÂ�nate with the
word for spear. I could have Â�avoided the probÂ�lem by callÂ�ing
him RomÂ�uÂ�lus, but that would have lost a toÂ�nalÂ�ity that I Â�thought
was too imÂ�porÂ�tant to igÂ�nore. The QuiÂ�riÂ�nal hill is a faÂ�milÂ�iar
Â�enough site, after all. RomÂ�uÂ�lus was the son of Mars and Ilea,
100 Book III

the priestÂ�ess, which makes him Â�Juno’s grandÂ�son—beÂ�cause she
was Mars’ Â�mother.
4
O great Queen CalÂ�liÂ�ope, come down
from Â�heaven to sing, Â�sweetly and long,
a song with your voice and perÂ�haps a lyre
as Â�Apollo does. Do you hear me, darÂ�ling?
Or have I been deÂ�ludÂ�ing myÂ�self for years?

As I have wanÂ�dered about in a saÂ�cred grove,
I was sure I heard your voice along with the purl
of pleasÂ�ant Â�brooks and the Â�breeze’s sough in the Â�leaves.
I have wanÂ�dered the footÂ�hills of VulÂ�ture MounÂ�tain

past the doorÂ�way of my old Â�nurse’s cotÂ�tage
where I used to run and play as a child,
and then, exÂ�hausted, sink down on the Â�ground
to sleep for a while. But even then I was Â�marked

for someÂ�thing speÂ�cial: the piÂ�geons covÂ�ered me up
with Â�leaves. The folk from AchÂ�eÂ�ronÂ�tia Â�higher
up on the mounÂ�tain marÂ�veled at what they saw,
as did Â�Forentum’s townsÂ�men and Â�Bantia’s, too,

that I could lie there deÂ�fenseÂ�less and yet safe
from prowlÂ�ing bears and danÂ�gerÂ�ous viÂ�pers, hidÂ�den
under those piles of saÂ�cred lauÂ�rel and myrÂ�tle,
no doubt beÂ�cause some god had interÂ�ceded

on my beÂ�half. And you are the one, dear Muse,
who has borne me aloft from my small SaÂ�bine farm
so that I could look down and see PraeÂ�neste,
Book III 101

TiÂ�voli, or even Baia from clear
air in which I Â�soared. BeÂ�cause I loved
your Â�springs on HelÂ�iÂ�con and ParÂ�nasÂ�sus, you
proÂ�tected me in the rout at PhilÂ�lipi
and kept me safe when that acÂ�cursed tree

Â�dropped a Â�branch on my head. And not much later
at the PaÂ�linÂ�urus promÂ�onÂ�tory, my ship
went down in SiÂ�cilÂ�ian waÂ�ters, but you saved me.
If you are with me, I have no fear of sailÂ�ing

even into the BosÂ�porus. With you
as guide, I could dare Â�Syria’s burnÂ�ing sands.
ImÂ�mune from danÂ�ger I could venÂ�ture north
to visit the hosÂ�tile BritÂ�ons or Â�travel to Spain

where savÂ�age ConÂ�caÂ�nians drink the blood of Â�horses,
or visit GeÂ�loÂ�nian archÂ�ers with Â�bright quivÂ�ers
marchÂ�ing along the banks of Â�Scythia’s rivÂ�ers.
You reÂ�fresh our triÂ�umÂ�phant CaeÂ�sar in that Â�grotto

where the PierÂ�ian Â�Spring bubÂ�bles up as he Â�reaches
the end of his laÂ�bors, setÂ�tling weary Â�troops
back from Egypt in farmÂ�ing towns. You give him
sage and genÂ�tle adÂ�vice his grace deÂ�serves.

You know what Â�rebels are like, havÂ�ing seen Jove,
who rules the earth, the sea, and the Â�shades below,
hurlÂ�ing his thunÂ�derÂ�bolts at the Â�wicked TiÂ�tans.
He rules alone, his auÂ�thorÂ�ity imÂ�parÂ�tial

and now unÂ�chalÂ�lenged, over all the gods
and the numÂ�berÂ�less Â�hordes of men on earth below,
havÂ�ing put down the upÂ�risÂ�ing of Â�Poseidon’s
102 Book III

sons, unÂ�ruly Otus and EphÂ�iÂ�altes
who Â�hoisted PeÂ�lion up to Â�Olympus’ crest
causÂ�ing enorÂ�mous terÂ�ror among the gods.
And what did the Â�Giants Â�achieve—TyÂ�phoeus, for
inÂ�stance,
and Â�mighty Mimas? What could PorÂ�phyrÂ�ion do,

or RhoeÂ�tus, or even reckÂ�less EnÂ�celÂ�aÂ�dus
with the Â�torn-up trees he used as javeÂ�lins, hurlÂ�ing
these misÂ�siles Â�against Â�Minerva’s Â�strong breastÂ�plate?
To her left stood VulÂ�can, ready for acÂ�tion, and Juno

held the Â�ground on her right side with the one
who never puts down his bow until the batÂ�tle
is done and he can bathe in Â�Castalia’s Â�stream.
I mean, of Â�course, Â�Apollo, the god of Delos

and PaÂ�tara and lord over Â�Lycia’s woods.
Power, unÂ�reÂ�strained by senÂ�sible Â�thought,
canÂ�not stand but soon comes crashÂ�ing down;
but power govÂ�erned by reaÂ�son, the gods adÂ�mire
and raise to Â�greater Â�heights—unÂ�less, of Â�course,

the reaÂ�son is wrong and its goal is to do evil.
ConÂ�sider the fate of Â�hundred-handed Gyges
powÂ�erÂ�ful and yet conÂ�demned to sufÂ�fer,
or think of Orion, who tried to rape Diana

who in her anger disÂ�patched him with an arrow.
Earth Â�grieves, the inÂ�struÂ�ment of torÂ�ture
for her monÂ�strous offÂ�spring, after they were sent
to Â�gloomy Orcus, from which the Â�flames had not

yet eaten Â�through Aetna that Â�crushes them.
Book III 103

And TitÂ�yus, with the bird peckÂ�ing his liver.
And PirÂ�iÂ�thous, held by three hunÂ�dred fetÂ�ters.
I agree at once that it is a weird poem, beÂ�ginÂ�ning as it does

with Â�Horace’s asÂ�serÂ�tion that he is a creaÂ�ture of speÂ�cial grace
beÂ�cause the Muse has him under her proÂ�tecÂ�tion. Then, as long
as the subÂ�ject has come up, he turns to CaeÂ�sar, who is also under
the proÂ�tecÂ�tion not just of a Muse but the enÂ�tire Â�pantheon. As
if he’d forÂ�gotÂ�ten the seÂ�ries of narÂ�row esÂ�capes of the openÂ�ing,
he turns his atÂ�tenÂ�tion to punÂ�ishÂ�ments that have been orÂ�dained
for inÂ�apÂ�proÂ�priÂ�ate uses of force by a numÂ�ber of such unÂ�forÂ�tuÂ�nate
figÂ�ures—TiÂ�tans, Â�Giants, TyÂ�phoeus, Mimas, and so on. (These
are all easy Â�enough to find.)
This may not make for an imÂ�presÂ�sive logÂ�iÂ�cal deÂ�velÂ�opÂ�ment
but it has the Â�quirky charm of free asÂ�soÂ�ciÂ�aÂ�tion. I imÂ�aÂ�gine HorÂ�
ace in a comÂ�fortÂ�able chair, thinkÂ�ing of yet anÂ�other exÂ�amÂ�ple,
and anÂ�other. This is what I was hopÂ�ing to conÂ�vey in the last
Â�couple of lines, which Â�aren’t even comÂ�plete senÂ�tences. The poet
does not setÂ�tle into such fragÂ�ments, but it Â�seemed to me a good
way of fashÂ�ionÂ�ing an endÂ�ing withÂ�out enÂ�tirely abanÂ�donÂ�ing the
text. He has drunk a lot, is maunderÂ�ing, and his eyes are closÂ�ing
a litÂ�tle. Why not? This is the longÂ�est and most amÂ�biÂ�tious of the
odes, and one wants to conÂ�trive at least a draÂ�matic posÂ�sibilÂ�ity
for the recÂ�iÂ�taÂ�tion of such lines.
5
The heavÂ�ens reÂ�sound with thunÂ�derÂ�claps that we
atÂ�tribÂ�ute to Jove, who, thereÂ�fore, must be a god:
AuÂ�gusÂ�tus, too will be one
when the BritÂ�ons and PerÂ�sians yield
to beÂ�come part of the emÂ�pire. Can it be

that Â�Crassus’ capÂ�tured solÂ�diers reÂ�main alive
104 Book III

and have not Â�killed themÂ�selves
but have setÂ�tled there and taken
naÂ�tive women as wives? What has beÂ�come

of the Roman charÂ�acÂ�ter? These men are now
relÂ�aÂ�tives of their foes,
and a ParÂ�thian Â�king’s subÂ�jects.
Their tough SaÂ�belÂ�lian foreÂ�bears are horÂ�rified,

and the Â�shields that hang in the temÂ�ple of Numa, disÂ�graced.
These men once wore togas
and Â�prayed at Â�Vesta’s Â�shrine.
On the CaÂ�pitÂ�oÂ�line Hill, Â�Jupiter’s temÂ�ple

preÂ�sides still over the city of Rome
alÂ�though these men have forÂ�gotÂ�ten
the oaths of alÂ�leÂ�giance they swore.
RegÂ�uÂ�lus, when he spoke in the SenÂ�ate, made clear

that the Roman solÂ�diers the CarÂ�thaÂ�ginÂ�ian army
had capÂ�tured Â�should not be ranÂ�somed:
the precÂ�eÂ�dent would be bad.
“I have seen our stanÂ�dards hung as troÂ�phies

in CarÂ�thaÂ�ginÂ�ian temÂ�ples. I have seen weapÂ�ons
taken withÂ�out bloodÂ�shed
from the hands of our feckÂ�less fightÂ�ers.
“With my own eyes I have seen RoÂ�mans Â�marched

with their hands bound beÂ�hind their freeÂ�born backs,
and Â�fields we had laid waste
again under culÂ�tiÂ�vaÂ�tion.
“Say that we ranÂ�som a solÂ�dier. The cost will be

more than gold, for he will have paid with his honor.
Book III 105

Once wool has been dyed,
its origÂ�iÂ�nal color is lost
“forÂ�ever. CouÂ�rage also can’t be reÂ�stored

for it will reÂ�fuse to enter corÂ�rupted Â�hearts.
If a deer esÂ�capes the net,
its Â�spirit is never free,
“and as long as it lives every step it takes

will be in fear. What solÂ�dier, havÂ�ing alÂ�lowed
himÂ�self to be capÂ�tured will ever
be willÂ�ing to fight to the death?
“He has Â�blurred the line Â�between war and peace

and his sense of shame is gone. CarÂ�thage has taken
his igÂ�noÂ�minÂ�ious soul
which now is anÂ�other troÂ�phy.”
He had been sent on paÂ�role and now was Â�obliged

to reÂ�turn to his capÂ�tivÂ�ity, torÂ�ture, and death.
Was it in shame or in pride
that he Â�pushed away his wife
and litÂ�tle chilÂ�dren and kept his eyes on the Â�ground

as he made his way among his grievÂ�ing Â�friends?
He had perÂ�suaded the SenÂ�ate
speakÂ�ing as no one had done
ever beÂ�fore. He Â�worked his way Â�through the crowd

of Â�friends and kinsÂ�men who tried to preÂ�vent him from going
back to CarÂ�thage. In siÂ�lence,
he did what he had to do,
106 Book III

as if he had finÂ�ished some piece of busiÂ�ness in court
on beÂ�half of a Â�client and were makÂ�ing his way home
or perÂ�haps to some pleasÂ�ant
counÂ�tryÂ�side spot like TaÂ�ranto.
H ere it is HorÂ�ace who is takÂ�ing libÂ�erÂ�ties. His verÂ�sion of the

Â�speech in the SenÂ�ate by M. AtilÂ�ius RegÂ�uÂ�lus is inÂ�vented,
or Â�rather Â�adapted from one that was acÂ�tuÂ�ally given by T. ManÂ�
lius TorÂ�quaÂ�tus—beÂ�cause it was betÂ�ter and cerÂ�tainly more draÂ�
matic to have RegÂ�uÂ�lus reÂ�leased by the CarÂ�thaÂ�ginÂ�ians in order
to go to Rome to plead for ranÂ�som money—only to have him
give this Â�speech Â�against ranÂ�somÂ�ing any of them. In any case,
what he is Â�really doing is supÂ�portÂ�ing Â�Augustus’ stern polÂ�icy
about capÂ�tured Roman solÂ�diers.
I conÂ�fess imÂ�meÂ�diÂ�ately to havÂ�ing omitÂ�ted some inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion,
or at least for not havÂ�ing supÂ�plied it. The capÂ�ture of Â�Crassus’
solÂ�diers in the secÂ�ond Â�stanza was at CarÂ�rhae in 53 BCE, and
while that may be an interÂ�estÂ�ing DouÂ�ble BubÂ�ble Fact, it does
not Â�really conÂ�tribÂ�ute to the poem. It is Â�enough that there were
capÂ�tured Roman solÂ�diers who did not fight to the death or kill
themÂ�selves.
HorÂ�ace then moves on to RegÂ�uÂ�lus and the great paÂ�triÂ�otic
Â�speech that will be puncÂ�tuÂ�ated by Â�Regulus’ reÂ�turnÂ�ing in such
an adÂ�mirÂ�ably stoic manÂ�ner to his capÂ�tors in CarÂ�thage. There,
in the last line, I also took a libÂ�erty. HorÂ�ace says that RegÂ�uÂ�lus
Â�looked like an adÂ�voÂ�cate going back to his home in the counÂ�tryÂ�
side in VeÂ�naÂ�fra (CamÂ�paÂ�nia) or TaÂ�ranto. HorÂ�ace likes these
dimÂ�iÂ�nuendi, but the gesÂ�ture is difÂ�fiÂ�cult to renÂ�der here. So I
Â�picked TaÂ�ranto, of which peoÂ�ple have heard, alÂ�though I did
leave out the inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion that the town was Â�founded by SparÂ�
tans. It’s a bit of pedÂ�antry that HorÂ�ace puts in there as a deÂ�libÂ�erÂ�
ate disÂ�tracÂ�tion from the drama of Â�Regulus’ deÂ�parÂ�ture, which is
Book III 107

what we Â�should be thinkÂ�ing about. Think of someÂ�one in one
of those Â�funeral-home parÂ�lors who chatÂ�ters away and whom
you can’t tell to shut up. It’s that kind of tenÂ�sion HorÂ�ace is
draÂ�maÂ�tizÂ�ing.
6
GuiltÂ�less Â�though you may be, you must pay
for your Â�fathers’ sins. You must reÂ�pair
the Â�shrines of the gods and temÂ�ples
grimy and blackÂ�ened with smoke.
You only rule beÂ�cause you know

that you are less than any god.
ThereÂ�fore seek their blessÂ�ing
for whatÂ�ever you plan,
and if you sucÂ�ceed give them the Â�credit.

For too long they have been neÂ�glected
and for this they have imÂ�posed
many a grief upon us.
Twice have the ParÂ�thian solÂ�diers deÂ�feated

us in our milÂ�iÂ�tary efÂ�forts
beÂ�fore which there had been
no Â�prayers to the gods
who Â�grinned in deÂ�light at our untoÂ�ward failÂ�ures

when the barÂ�barÂ�ians took their Â�plunder
to wear Â�around their necks inÂ�stead
of crude Â�strings of worthÂ�less beads.
While we have squabÂ�bled among ourÂ�selves,

wogs have come from Egypt on ships
108 Book III

to raid us and the DaÂ�cians
to Â�pester us with their arÂ�rows.
Where our probÂ�lems arise is in sin

in one genÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tion after anÂ�other:
the inÂ�stiÂ�tuÂ�tion of marÂ�riage
is, worse than deÂ�filed, forÂ�gotÂ�ten.
A young girl is Â�taught how to dance

in the sugÂ�gesÂ�tive IoÂ�nian style;
she also Â�learns the Â�tricks
of courteÂ�sans and Â�whores.
Â�
Sooner Â�rather than later she
will underÂ�take ilÂ�licit afÂ�fairs
and her tenÂ�der age will give her
all the more alÂ�lure.
She will marry—of Â�course, for money—

but whenÂ�ever her husÂ�band Â�drinks
more than he Â�should and dozes,
or seems to, she will seek out
playÂ�mates—and not for a quick Â�thrill

but with her Â�husband’s conÂ�niÂ�vance
to get some merÂ�chant to Â�sweeten
a busiÂ�ness deal Â�between them,
or perÂ�haps she Â�chooses some SpanÂ�ish capÂ�tain

of a vesÂ�sel about to put to sea
to get a betÂ�ter rate
on the cargo down in his hold.
From parÂ�ents like these, we canÂ�not exÂ�pect

brave sons who can stain the waves
Book III 109

with CarÂ�thaÂ�ginÂ�ian blood
or batÂ�tle on land to deÂ�feat
anÂ�other PyrÂ�rhus, a Â�mighty AntiÂ�ochus,

or a terÂ�rible HanÂ�niÂ�bal come again.
In the good old days, our solÂ�diers
were the manly sons of farmÂ�ers
who knew what work was about and Â�turned

the earth with a matÂ�tock or Â�fetched wood
from the pile to burn in the Â�hearth
as boys at their Â�mothers’ bidÂ�ding
when the shadÂ�ows lengthÂ�ened up on the hillÂ�side,

and the sun, deÂ�partÂ�ing in his car,
Â�showed that the time had come
to reÂ�move the yoke from oxen
and for men to rest from their day’s labor.

Those times have been corÂ�rupted: our Â�fathers’
lives were less good
than their Â�fathers’ beÂ�fore them.
And our deÂ�genÂ�erÂ�ate genÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tion

was what they bred, as our own chilÂ�dren
will be, I am all but cerÂ�tain,
of even less worth than we are.
W ogs? Can one still say that withÂ�out being acÂ�cused of

bigÂ�otry? ProbÂ�ably not, but that is enÂ�tirely the point of
my using it. HorÂ�ace—in this oddly disÂ�agreeÂ�able poem—reÂ�fers
to the EgypÂ�tians as “EthiÂ�opians,” and it is not by inÂ�adÂ�verÂ�tence.
He means it as a slur, and “wogs” is a slur—alÂ�though not on any
parÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�lar group. An acÂ�roÂ�nym of “worthy orienÂ�tal genÂ�tleÂ�man,”
110 Book III

it reÂ�fers to any MedÂ�iÂ�terÂ�raÂ�neans or InÂ�dians. (EveÂ�lyn Waugh
faÂ�mously said, “Wogs begin at CaÂ�lais.”)
I preÂ�fer to think that this enÂ�tire piece is not an exÂ�presÂ�sion of
Â�right-wing grumpiÂ�ness but a Â�satire on it. Those evÂ�anÂ�gelÂ�iÂ�cals who
supÂ�posed that KaÂ�trina was the punÂ�ishÂ�ment God had inÂ�flicted
on New OrÂ�leans beÂ�cause of the numÂ�ber of homoÂ�sexÂ�uÂ�als livÂ�ing
there were makÂ�ing the same moÂ�ronic sugÂ�gesÂ�tion. AuÂ�gusÂ�tus
took a Â�strong stand Â�against imÂ�moÂ�ralÂ�ity, which may have had
someÂ�thing to do with Â�Ovid’s relÂ�eÂ�gaÂ�tion to the Black Sea, and it
can be Â�argued that HorÂ�ace was proÂ�ducÂ�ing an ode that, on its
surÂ�face, Â�seemed to be a simÂ�ple decÂ�larÂ�aÂ�tion of AuÂ�guÂ�stan prinÂ�
ciÂ�ples. The openÂ�ing reÂ�marks about the temÂ�ples Â�surely refer to
Â�Augustus’ camÂ�paign to have them reÂ�furÂ�bished—for civic if not
for reÂ�liÂ�gious reaÂ�sons. We are are exÂ�pected to reÂ�alÂ�ize this, but as
the poem deÂ�velÂ�ops we see that it turns into egreÂ�gious nonÂ�sense
and we can enjoy it for its doÂ�piÂ�ness.
7
Why do you weep on Â�Gyges’ acÂ�count when you know
he is a loyal and steadÂ�fast young man. ReÂ�memÂ�ber,
AsteÂ�rie, who he is
and beÂ�lieve that he will reÂ�turn.
The zephÂ�yrs will waft him back to you in the Â�spring,

and he will be rich with BythÂ�nian merÂ�chanÂ�dise.
He is now in Â�Epirus,
Â�driven there by the winds,
and toÂ�ward the end of SepÂ�temÂ�ber seas are rough.

He is spendÂ�ing his cold wakeÂ�ful Â�nights in woe,
tearÂ�fully thinkÂ�ing of you
as he waits for dawn to break.
Book III 111

Does his hostÂ�ess send her serÂ�vant to tempt him
with a bowl of fruit or a cupÂ�ful of wine? Does he say
that his misÂ�tress, Chloe, sighs,
conÂ�sumed with the same pasÂ�sion
that you feel yourÂ�self ? But Gyges does not reÂ�spond.

The serÂ�vant threatÂ�ens and says how a Â�spurned wife
can level false acÂ�cuÂ�saÂ�tions
as StheÂ�noÂ�boea did,
beÂ�cause she could not seÂ�duce BelÂ�lerÂ�oÂ�phon,

and ProÂ�teus, her husÂ�band, thereÂ�fore deÂ�cided
to have him murÂ�dered.
(ReÂ�memÂ�ber, he got away.)
He Â�speaks, too, of PeÂ�leus who reÂ�sisted

HypÂ�poÂ�lite, the wife of King AeasÂ�tus,
who at once made plans
for PeÂ�leus to be murÂ�dered.
Will Gyges lisÂ�ten to any of this? Of Â�course not.

He will be deaf as a stone to this kind of talk
and in his virÂ�tue will be
abÂ�soÂ�lutely unÂ�swervÂ�ing.
MeanÂ�while, you Â�should think about your own

sitÂ�uÂ�aÂ�tion at home and the blandÂ�ishÂ�ments
of EnipÂ�eus next door
who beÂ�gins to seem atÂ�tracÂ�tive.
Yes, he’s a splenÂ�did horseÂ�man, as good as any

trotÂ�ting along on the Campo. He does swim well
churnÂ�ing his way Â�across
the Â�Tiber’s Â�tricky curÂ�rent.
112 Book III

Even so, when eveÂ�ning comes, take care
that the doors are Â�locked to your house, body, and heart,
igÂ�nore his plainÂ�tive pipÂ�ing,
and keep away from the winÂ�dows.
T his seems to me a perÂ�fect exÂ�amÂ�ple of HoÂ�raÂ�tian Â�aplomb,

and I was as delÂ�iÂ�cate with it as I could be. My alÂ�terÂ�aÂ�tions
were Â�mostly trivÂ�ial and for the sake of inÂ�telÂ�liÂ�gibilÂ�ity. In the
secÂ�ond Â�stanza, for exÂ�amÂ�ple, HorÂ�ace has Gyges in OrÂ�iÂ�cus, of
which no one has heard. But it’s in Â�Epirus, which is much less
obÂ�scure, so I used that inÂ�stead. Â�Chloe’s Â�servant’s refÂ�erÂ�ences to
male visÂ�iÂ�tors who reÂ�jected their Â�hostesses’ adÂ�vances are to enÂ�
counÂ�ters that most of us have never heard of, so I put in some
bits of clarÂ�ifyÂ�ing inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion, idenÂ�tifyÂ�ing HypÂ�poÂ�lite as the
wife of King AeasÂ�tus to disÂ�tinÂ�guish her from the AmÂ�aÂ�zon of
that name. HorÂ�ace calls her MagÂ�neÂ�sian, but I Â�wasn’t sure that
every Â�reader would know that the AmÂ�aÂ�zon was not MagÂ�neÂ�
sian. This Â�seemed safer. I Â�didn’t Â�bother to idenÂ�tify ProÂ�teus
and BelÂ�lerÂ�oÂ�phon, Â�mostly beÂ�cause the shape of the story is clear
even if one has no idea who these peoÂ�ple were. (ProÂ�teus was
king of TyÂ�rins, and BelÂ�lerÂ�oÂ�phon, the hero, came to him as a
supÂ�pliÂ�ant.)
I have fidÂ�dled a bit with the endÂ�ing. The deÂ�clenÂ�sion of house/
body/heart is my inÂ�venÂ�tion, but I asÂ�sume that such decÂ�oÂ�raÂ�tions
are warÂ�ranted and even neÂ�cesÂ�siÂ�tated by the fact that so much of
the Â�Latin’s liveÂ�liÂ�ness is inÂ�evÂ�iÂ�taÂ�bly lost when the poem is Â�dragged
into our lanÂ�guage. My idea is to try to reÂ�store some of the linÂ�
guisÂ�tic denÂ�sity of the origÂ�iÂ�nal howÂ�ever I can.
8
You see a modÂ�est bachÂ�eÂ�lor busÂ�tle about
preÂ�parÂ�ing a celÂ�eÂ�braÂ�tion with arÂ�rangeÂ�ments
Book III 113

of flowÂ�ers and perÂ�fumÂ�ing the room with inÂ�cense.
What can it mean?
It’s the KaÂ�lends of March, MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas. I celÂ�eÂ�brate.

You, who are Â�learned in Greek as well as Latin,
are puzÂ�zled, but don’t be. This is the saÂ�cred day
when my life was Â�spared
and that huge tree limb Â�missed my head, but just.

I promÂ�ised BacÂ�chus that every year on this day
I’d preÂ�pare a feast and sacÂ�riÂ�fice a goat
as a token of Â�thanks.
I shall reÂ�move the stopÂ�pers from old wine

laid down in Â�Tullus’ conÂ�sulÂ�ship and drink
as you will with me in hapÂ�piÂ�ness. The lamps
will burn until dawn.
ForÂ�get, if you can, the Â�clamor of busiÂ�ness. Put by

your worÂ�ries about the governÂ�ment. Relax,
for the DaÂ�cians have falÂ�len, and the Â�greedy Medes are fightÂ�ing
among themÂ�selves.
Our anÂ�cient foes in Spain are now our Â�slaves,

in fetÂ�ters at last. The ScythÂ�ians have unÂ�strung
their bows and withÂ�drawn to their borÂ�ders. We have peace.
Put your feet up,
eat, drink, and enjoy the rare gifts

of the Â�present hour. Don’t you think you deÂ�serve it?
The Â�world’s busiÂ�ness goes on, but just for toÂ�night,
to hell with it all.
114 Book III

E veryÂ�body knows the Ides of March, but the KaÂ�lends? Â�That’s
the first day of the month, and I left it that way not only
beÂ�cause it’s pleasÂ�ing but also beÂ�cause it was the fesÂ�tiÂ�val of Juno
LiÂ�ciÂ�nia that marÂ�ried women celÂ�eÂ�brated. This is why HorÂ�ace
specÂ�ifies that he is a bachÂ�eÂ�lor—beÂ�cause Â�that’s not the reaÂ�son
at all.
The conÂ�sulÂ�ship of L. VoÂ�laÂ�cius TulÂ�lus was in 33 BCE, which
means that AuÂ�gusÂ�tus was off in Spain and MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas was runÂ�
ning the governÂ�ment, which exÂ�plains the sugÂ�gesÂ�tion in the fifth
Â�stanza that he stop worÂ�ryÂ�ing about the citÂ�iÂ�zens, at least for the
eveÂ�ning.
9
As long as I was your sweetÂ�heart
and noÂ�body else put his arms Â�around you,
I was a happy man,
betÂ�ter off than even the king of PerÂ�sia.
As long as I was your dearÂ�est
and did not have to yield first place in your heart
to Chloe, I was deÂ�lighted
the equal of any, as faÂ�mous as the Â�mother
of RomÂ�uÂ�lus and Remus.
Now Chloe rules me: she can sing like a bird
and she plays a Â�lovely lyre.
If only the Fates would spare her, I would give
my own life for hers.
It’s Â�Calaïs, a Â�pretty boy from ThuÂ�rii
who’s my pasÂ�sion now
as I am his. And I would die for his sake
twice if only I could.
Book III 115

But what if whimÂ�siÂ�cal Venus Â�should Â�change her mind
and force under her yoke
two who have been someÂ�how Â�driven apart?
Say there were no Chloe
and Lydia were welÂ�comed eaÂ�gerly back?
Â�Calaïs is quite Â�lovely,
and you are as light as a cork and have a terÂ�rible
temÂ�per and can rage
like the AdriÂ�atic, but I would welÂ�come you back,
would live with you,
and be happy to die as long as it was with you.
S imÂ�ple Â�enough, and droll, it is a diÂ�alogue Â�between two forÂ�-

mer lovÂ�ers who are conÂ�sidÂ�erÂ�ing getÂ�ting toÂ�gether again.
For the sake of clarÂ�ity, I have put the man’s lines in roman and
Â�Lydia’s in Â�italic face. The fancy word for a diÂ�alogue poem is
“amoeÂ�bean,” but that’sÂ� Â�hardly esÂ�senÂ�tial.
I could have idenÂ�tified Ilia, who was RomÂ�uÂ�lus and Â�Remus’
Â�mother, but Â�rather than do it clumÂ�sily, I just named her sons,
who are well Â�enough known. That Chloe is a ThraÂ�cian did not
seem to me esÂ�peÂ�cially imÂ�porÂ�tant. And I omitÂ�ted the fact that
OrÂ�nyÂ�tus (a ficÂ�tion) was the Â�father of Â�Calaïs (also a ficÂ�tion).
NoÂ�body can be sure about Latin proÂ�nunÂ�ciÂ�aÂ�tion, but my
guess here is that the last two vowÂ�els in Â�Calaïs’ name Â�should be
proÂ�nounced sepÂ�arÂ�ately, as in “Thaïs.”
10
Lyce, let us supÂ�pose you drank the water
that flows in the barÂ�barÂ�ous Don and that you were marÂ�ried
to a savÂ�age ScythÂ�ian brute, even then you would take
pity on someÂ�one like me,
116 Book III

down on the cold Â�ground in front of your door,
asÂ�sailed by the cruel north wind and your scornÂ�ful neighÂ�bors.
Your door ratÂ�tles. Do you not hear the sound?
and the trees that grow in your courtÂ�yard
bow to the howlÂ�ing gale, while falÂ�len snow

under the cloudÂ�less sky shows Â�Jupiter’s power
as it turns to ice. OmÂ�iÂ�nous, Â�surely, but which
of us does it warn or perÂ�haps Â�threaten?
Give up on this haughÂ�tiÂ�ness of yours that Venus

hates. The rope you hold may break
or I might let go, and the rope would snap back
Â�quickly so you could be hurt.
Your noble Â�father did not beget a woman

as simÂ�ple (or one could even say Â�simple-minded)
as PeneÂ�lope was, spurnÂ�ing all her lovÂ�ers.
Gifts as well as plainÂ�tive apÂ�peals
and Â�lovely poÂ�sies of delÂ�iÂ�cate yelÂ�low viÂ�oÂ�lets

mean nothÂ�ing to you. You know your husÂ�band has falÂ�len
for a MacÂ�eÂ�doÂ�nian bimbo. Why Â�should you be
so stubÂ�born and unÂ�forthÂ�comÂ�ing?
Be kind to one like me who begs for mercy.

You are as unÂ�bendÂ�ing as tall oaks
the wind Â�brings down. You are as pitÂ�iÂ�less as
Â�deadly MoorÂ�ish viÂ�pers. Think!
This poor body of mine will reach its limit

of what it can enÂ�dure out here at your threshÂ�old
in rain and snow and this reÂ�lentÂ�less cold
the heavÂ�ens have inÂ�flicted on me.
Book III 117

T he poem is a parÂ�aÂ�clauÂ�sithÂ�yÂ�ron, which is the techÂ�niÂ�cal word
for a love poem from someÂ�one at the gate. The Â�husband’s
bimbo (I Â�thought of “chickie-babe” but reÂ�jected it) is in the
origÂ�iÂ�nal “PierÂ�ian,” but the Â�reader’s first Â�thought would be of
HelÂ�iÂ�con and arÂ�tisÂ�tic talÂ�ent. I susÂ�pect that HorÂ�ace meant it Â�merely
as inÂ�diÂ�catÂ�ing that she was a counÂ�try type from MacÂ�eÂ�doÂ�nia, so I
Â�avoided it.
The cuÂ�riÂ�ous metaÂ�phor about the rope sugÂ�gests that in
time it will fray or his Â�strength will fail so that he has to let go.
ImÂ�plicit here, howÂ�ever, is a warnÂ�ing that with the pasÂ�sage of
time, she is not getÂ�ting any Â�younger or pretÂ�tier.
I inÂ�serted “the wind Â�brings down” in the peÂ�nulÂ�tiÂ�mate
Â�stanza. It’s a posÂ�sible inÂ�ferÂ�ence. And the poem is turnÂ�ing here
from pleadÂ�ing to mild Â�threat, so havÂ�ing had that idea, I Â�thought
it only right to inÂ�sist on it. (This was not altoÂ�gether reckÂ�less,
beÂ�cause I have these notes with which to exÂ�plain it.)
11
MerÂ�cury, you Â�taught AmÂ�phion to sing
the Â�stones to come toÂ�gether to make
a wall. You made the siÂ�lent shell
of the torÂ�toise tuneÂ�ful
as it resÂ�oÂ�nates to the seven Â�strings

and comes to grace the banÂ�quets of rich,
civÂ�ilÂ�ized men and the temÂ�ples of gods.
Come to my aid
and help me fashÂ�ion a tune to reach

Â�Lyde’s ear and her mind as well.
Now she is like a nerÂ�vous filly,
Â�prances in meadÂ�ows,
118 Book III

and shies away from being Â�touched
by the most genÂ�tle hand. Just so
Lyde has not yet Â�reached an age
to know about marÂ�riage,
but you have the power to tame tiÂ�gers

and lead the Â�rooted trees of the forÂ�est
to folÂ�low you. You check the flow
of rivÂ�ers and Â�streams.
CerÂ�berus, with his three heads,

Â�tongues lolÂ�ling from each mouth
all stinkÂ�ing of blood and gore,
you manÂ�aged to charm.
Ixion and TitÂ�yus, too,

Â�looked up and even Â�smiled at you
as did the daughÂ�ters of Â�Danaüs
with their leaky pitchÂ�ers,
deÂ�lighted as much as they were able

at hearÂ�ing the sweet Â�strains of your lyre
that Â�soothes even the sorÂ�riÂ�est soul
when you perÂ�form.
Let Lyde learn about

the vile deed of the fifty virÂ�gins
who Â�stabbed their brideÂ�grooms and now must sufÂ�fer,
carÂ�ryÂ�ing water
in leaky vesÂ�sels that make their chore

imÂ�posÂ�sible to comÂ�plete. This is
their punÂ�ishÂ�ment in Â�Orcus’ Â�depths
for their mass murÂ�der.
Book III 119

What crime can one comÂ�pare with Â�theirs?
Only one of the fifty sisÂ�ters
was Â�worthy of the marÂ�riage torch
and Â�fooled her Â�father.
MagÂ�nanÂ�iÂ�mous, magÂ�nifÂ�iÂ�cent
she has Â�earned unÂ�dyÂ�ing fame
for her reÂ�fuÂ�sal to go along
and do as the othÂ�ers.
“Wake!” she whisÂ�pered to her husÂ�band,

“beÂ�fore you fall to the Â�longer sleep
and the last hand you would susÂ�pect.
Don’t let my Â�father
“or any of my Â�wicked sisÂ�ters

noÂ�tice as you Â�scurry away,
for they will fall upon you as Â�fiercely
as hunÂ�gry lions
“fall on a helpÂ�less Â�heifer. Each

is now enÂ�gaged in Â�bloody slaughÂ�ter
of her own vicÂ�tim, but I canÂ�not,
am not hardÂ�hearted
“the way they are. I canÂ�not kill you.

My Â�father will punÂ�ish me for this
with heavy Â�chains about my body
or else some boat
“will bear me away to Â�Numidia’s darkÂ�est

reÂ�gions. But you Â�should go at once
as fast as you can Â�wherever your legs
may carry you.
120 Book III

“While night and Venus help you, go
like the wind with the Â�wind’s help. And build
a tomb by which I may be reÂ�memÂ�bered—
HyperÂ�mesÂ�tra.”
P eoÂ�ple have comÂ�pared this ode to those of PinÂ�dar or

Bac Â�chyÂ�lides, but I think the reÂ�semÂ�blance is faint. Those
epiÂ�niÂ�cial odes (vicÂ�tory odes) would begin with someÂ�body winÂ�
ning a charÂ�iot race, asÂ�cend to some grand myth, and then as
graceÂ�fully deÂ�scend to the adÂ�dressee. HorÂ�ace Â�doesn’t deÂ�scend
here but Â�leaves us with HyperÂ�mesÂ�tra. Not that Â�that’s such a bad
place to be. She is the model, after all, for Â�wifely Â�self-sacrifice
and loyÂ�alty. And the point is to make Lyde aware of the imÂ�porÂ�
tance of marÂ�riage and the great value some women have put
on it.
There are very few Â�changes I’ve made. The line with “magÂ�
nanÂ�iÂ�mous, magÂ�nifÂ�iÂ�cent” I introÂ�duced for metÂ�riÂ�cal reaÂ�sons and
for the alÂ�litÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tion. HorÂ�ace never menÂ�tions Â�Hypermestra’s name,
a kind of comÂ�pliÂ�ment to his readÂ�ers, all of whom cerÂ�tainly
knew it. I wish I could do the same thing, but I am not conÂ�fiÂ�dent
that it would be reÂ�ceived as flatÂ�tery. InÂ�stead, I made it the last
line—as a reÂ�lief for peoÂ�ple who knew the story but Â�couldn’t
genÂ�erÂ�ate the name.
12
It’s tough for girls, who canÂ�not give themÂ�selves
to Â�love’s deÂ�lights—or even wash away
their woeÂ�fulÂ�ness with wine—
withÂ�out the fear of a Â�tongue lashÂ�ing (or worse)

from cenÂ�soÂ�riÂ�ous unÂ�cles. Cupid comes along
to disÂ�tract you from your spinÂ�ning,
Book III 121

your weavÂ�ing, and all of Â�Minerva’s houseÂ�hold arts,
NeoÂ�bule, when you canÂ�not take your eyes
off of handÂ�some HeÂ�brus,
when he goes to bathe his oiled and glisÂ�tenÂ�ing body

in Â�Tiber’s waÂ�ters; he is a splenÂ�did horseÂ�man
to rival BelÂ�lerÂ�oÂ�phon;
he is a Â�strong and skillÂ�ful boxer, a Â�speedy

Â�
sprinter, and Â�throws an acÂ�cuÂ�rate javÂ�eÂ�lin
at a herd of runÂ�ning deer;
he is a brave comÂ�batÂ�ant in the purÂ�suit

of the wild Â�tusker, hidÂ�ing deep in a Â�thicket
and desÂ�perÂ�ate in its rage.
T his is anÂ�other exÂ�amÂ�ple of Â�Horace’s disÂ�interÂ�ested interÂ�est

in Rome’s perÂ�petÂ�ual sex comÂ�edy, and here he exÂ�presses
symÂ�paÂ�thy for the conÂ�straints of the Â�well-reared young woman
who is proÂ�hibÂ�ited from actÂ�ing on, or even showÂ�ing, her
emoÂ�tions.
I have exÂ�panded a litÂ�tle on Â�Horace’s gesÂ�ture in which he has
a sinÂ�gle senÂ�tence run on from the secÂ�ond Â�stanza to the end. I
made the enÂ�tire ode a sinÂ�gle senÂ�tence beÂ�cause I think the way it
opens with a genÂ�erÂ�alÂ�ity and then turns speÂ�cific as it deÂ�scribes
NeoÂ�bule is clear Â�enough. (“Neo-bule” means new plan, or new
idea, in Greek.)
The busiÂ�ness about “a Â�tongue lashÂ�ing (or worse)” is my
emÂ�belÂ�lishÂ�ment that I added beÂ�cause I Â�wanted to make the
Â�uncle’s beÂ�havÂ�ior more threatÂ�enÂ�ing. I omitÂ�ted the inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion
that HeÂ�brus was from LiÂ�para, one of the AeÂ�oÂ�lian isÂ�lands. Now
that you know that, do you feel any betÂ�ter?
122 Book III

13
Â�
Brighter than any bauÂ�ble made out of glass,
you deÂ�serve, BanÂ�duÂ�sian Â�spring, our Â�thanks in wine,
flowÂ�ers, and even a young kid,
just beÂ�ginÂ�ning to grow his horns.
that would have preÂ�pared him for love and doing batÂ�tle—
exÂ�cept that we shall sacÂ�riÂ�fice him to you
and your cool waÂ�ters will Â�stream
with his warm, Â�bright red blood.
The hotÂ�test days of sumÂ�mer canÂ�not afÂ�fect you,

for even then you proÂ�vide deÂ�lightÂ�ful reÂ�lief
for any tired and Â�thirsty plowÂ�men
and Â�woolly sheep of the wanÂ�derÂ�ing flock.
I shall make you one of the faÂ�mous Â�springs

praisÂ�ing you and the holm oak above you
at the mouth of the rocky cave from which
your welÂ�come waÂ�ters come babÂ�bling forth.
W hat could be simÂ�pler? I could have omitÂ�ted “BanÂ�duÂ�sian,”

if only beÂ�cause scholÂ�ars wranÂ�gle about where BanÂ�
duÂ�sia could have been. It Â�doesn’t make any difÂ�ferÂ�ence. But it’s
a place name and they are like the goodÂ�ies in a fruitÂ�cake. There
are a Â�couple of words that are in there to fill out the meter,
but nothÂ�ing disÂ�corÂ�dant. I menÂ�tion that the sheep are “woolly”
beÂ�cause that would sugÂ�gest that they are unÂ�comÂ�fortÂ�able in the
heat and all the more apÂ�preÂ�ciaÂ�tive of cold water. Oh, and I put
in “bauÂ�ble” in the first line beÂ�cause HorÂ�ace Â�doesn’t mean sheet
Book III 123

or plate glass but fused glass, and the easiÂ�est and clearÂ�est way to
conÂ�vey that was to make it some kind of knickÂ�knack.
14
Like HerÂ�cules, O peoÂ�ple, AuÂ�gusÂ�tus reÂ�turns
vicÂ�toÂ�riÂ�ous from Spain. That hero of old
overÂ�came GerÂ�yon there, and now we see
our emÂ�peror, too,
come back in triÂ�umph, havÂ�ing Â�risked his life

to exÂ�tend the sway of Rome far to the west.
Let Livia, who reÂ�joices at her Â�husband’s
wonÂ�derÂ�ful deeds,
come forth to give Â�thanks to the rightÂ�eous gods

withÂ�out whose help no man sucÂ�ceeds. And let
Â�Augustus’ sisÂ�ter, OcÂ�taÂ�via, Â�adorned with flowÂ�ers,
join in the rite
with the mothÂ�ers of all those fine young men and women
who were saved from cerÂ�tain death by Â�Augustus’ camÂ�paign.
You, meanÂ�while, the chilÂ�dren of Rome, beÂ�have
and show reÂ�spect
while the proÂ�cesÂ�sion on this happy day

makes its way Â�through the Â�streets. For my own part,
I am reÂ�lieved of worÂ�ries now that the world
at last is at peace.
InÂ�surÂ�recÂ�tion and viÂ�oÂ�lent death that dog

civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion have now been held at bay.
ReÂ�lieved, I reÂ�joice. Go, young man, and fetch
the perÂ�fumed ointÂ�ments,
124 Book III

and a jar of that wine that goes back to the MarÂ�sic War—
asÂ�sumÂ�ing Â�there’s any left after the raids
of Â�Spartacus’ gangs of maÂ�raudÂ�ers. And let us have
Â�Nearea’s songs
to enÂ�terÂ�tain the party. But Â�should you have trouÂ�ble

with her dreadÂ�ful bodyÂ�guard, don’t make a fuss.
Years ago, I Â�wouldn’t have put up
with nonÂ�sense like that,
but the hot blood of youth cools, and quarÂ�rels

and Â�fights seem less enÂ�terÂ�tainÂ�ing. I’m older now
and also at peace. That, too, is cause for reÂ�lief
and sober celÂ�eÂ�braÂ�tion.
A conÂ�troÂ�verÂ�sial poem, it has been the subÂ�ject of scholÂ�arly

disÂ�cusÂ�sion and even disÂ�apÂ�proval for the way it deÂ�scends
from the ofÂ�fiÂ�cial to the perÂ�sonal, from the decÂ�oÂ�rous to the conÂ�
fesÂ�sional. I have tried to Â�satisfy the critÂ�ics (of HorÂ�ace) by makÂ�
ing exÂ�plicit the metaÂ�phor that I think is the founÂ�daÂ�tion of the
ode. Rome is at peace, now, and so is HorÂ�ace. The quesÂ�tion is
Â�whether that corÂ�reÂ�sponÂ�dence was there, even imÂ�pliÂ�citly, or I
am willÂ�fully imÂ�provÂ�ing the origÂ�iÂ�nal. (That transÂ�laÂ�tors have to
apolÂ�oÂ�gize for makÂ�ing imÂ�proveÂ�ments is peÂ�cuÂ�liar, but it’s a peÂ�cuÂ�
liar busiÂ�ness.)
HorÂ�ace Â�trails off in one of his charÂ�acÂ�terÂ�isÂ�tic dimÂ�iÂ�nuendi,
talkÂ�ing about those wild days back in the conÂ�sulÂ�ship of PlanÂ�cus
(in 42 BCE). I was willÂ�ing to lose him to make room for my
gesÂ�ture of cloÂ�sure. And it is even Â�easier with the opÂ�porÂ�tuÂ�nity to
make this clear in the notes.
GerÂ�yon, a grandÂ�son of MeÂ�dusa, had the catÂ�tle HerÂ�cules was
sent to fetch as his tenth labor. Some verÂ�sions of the myth put
him on an isÂ�land of the HespeÂ�rides while othÂ�ers have him in
the south of Spain, which is what HorÂ�ace is using to get from
him to AuÂ�gusÂ�tus. The MarÂ�sic War, someÂ�times Â�called the SoÂ�cial
Book III 125

War, was in 90 BCE, which would make the wine Â�sixty-five
years old.
15
Poor (and also inÂ�diÂ�gent)
Â�Ibycus’ profÂ�liÂ�gate wife is beÂ�yond all limÂ�its
in scanÂ�dalÂ�ous exÂ�erÂ�tions: she
is also over the top in abÂ�surÂ�dity.
She is close to a not altoÂ�gether
early death, and yet she caÂ�vorts with youngÂ�sters
and casts a terÂ�rible pall
over their merÂ�riÂ�ment. What PhoÂ�loe does
is laughÂ�able for Â�Chloris to try.
Her daughÂ�ter can flirt, go to wild parÂ�ties,
and dance as the mad BacÂ�chantes do
in Â�frenzy to the beat of the tamÂ�bouÂ�rines.
Let her Â�daughter’s pasÂ�sion drive her
to frisk like a doe in seaÂ�son, but for Â�Chloris
it’s time to sit at the spinÂ�ning wheel
makÂ�ing wool now Â�rather than hay.
GoodÂ�bye to the lyre; fareÂ�well
to red roses in bloom and jars of wine
Â�drained all the way to the last dregs.
Â�Chloris, look in the mirÂ�ror: you are a crone.
O ne tiny adÂ�justÂ�ment I’ve made is to abanÂ�don the secÂ�ond

perÂ�son for most of the poem in order to give a litÂ�tle
more snap to the last line. The preÂ�tense of adÂ�dressÂ�ing Â�Chloris
diÂ�rectly never Â�seemed comÂ�fortÂ�able, so I did the piece in the
third perÂ�son and saw how I could take adÂ�vanÂ�tage of a shift at
the end.
126 Book III

PauÂ�peÂ�ris is the word HorÂ�ace apÂ�plies to IbÂ�yÂ�cus, which in
EnÂ�glish would be “poor.” That word has two Â�senses, Â�though,
and my parÂ�enÂ�thetÂ�iÂ�cal gloss was my way of esÂ�tabÂ�lishÂ�ing that
more seÂ�curely—even Â�though it isn’t in the Latin. I also Â�yielded
to the tempÂ�taÂ�tion to emÂ�belÂ�lish “makÂ�ing wool now Â�rather than
hay.” I tried to do someÂ�thing with gathÂ�erÂ�ing wool but I reÂ�alÂ�ized
it was betÂ�ter to fidÂ�dle with the noun Â�rather than the verb.
16
Â�
Danaë’s Â�bronze tower had doors
of heavy oak, and all Â�around
Â�fierce guard dogs Â�patrolled all day
and, more to the point, all night.
You’d think that all this would have Â�served

to proÂ�tect Â�against any Â�would-be lovÂ�ers,
but all it did was proÂ�voke laughÂ�ter
from JuÂ�piÂ�ter and Venus,
who knew the Â�father, AcriÂ�sius, had

gone to all this trouÂ�ble in vain
and that he could not avoid or evade
what fate had in store for him.
But they also underÂ�stood how gold

can unÂ�lock gates and open doors
and disÂ�tract dogs—so Jove beÂ�came
that faÂ�mous Â�shower of gold.
What lightÂ�ning canÂ�not do, gold can,

breakÂ�ing Â�through stone walls. ConÂ�sider
Book III 127

Â�Amphiarius’ sad story:
he knew he would die at Â�Thebes,
but his wife was Â�bribed by PolyÂ�nices

and she perÂ�suaded him to go—
and he did and he died. In MaceÂ�don
Â�Philip II Â�bribed more
kings than he conÂ�quered in his camÂ�paign.

Money beÂ�gets money but also
a cravÂ�ing for more, and worÂ�ries Â�withal.
I try to keep my head down.
I tell you, MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas, the less you want

the more you are Â�likely to get from the gods.
Poor myÂ�self, I hang out with the poor,
deÂ�sertÂ�ers from the ranks
of the rich and amÂ�biÂ�tious. I am the masÂ�ter

of the Â�wealth I reÂ�ject. I have no wish
for barns bulgÂ�ing with what the ApuÂ�lian
farmÂ�ers have sown and Â�reaped.
All I want is a few Â�well-watered

hecÂ�tares that proÂ�duce every year
Â�enough to Â�satisfy basic needs,
a much more forÂ�tuÂ�nate lot
than that of the masÂ�ter of great Â�swaths

of Â�African farmÂ�land—but how would he know?
I don’t have beeÂ�hives proÂ�ducÂ�ing honey
or Â�grapes to make wine with,
and I don’t have pasÂ�tures where sheep are grazÂ�ing,

but povÂ�erty does not nag at me.
128 Book III

(And if I were in need, I’m conÂ�fiÂ�dent
that you would help me out.)
By miniÂ�mizÂ�ing my wants I enÂ�large

my modÂ�est inÂ�come proÂ�porÂ�tionÂ�ately,
betÂ�ter than being a LyÂ�dian landÂ�lord
or one of those magÂ�nates from MygÂ�don.
Those who deÂ�sire any more

than I posÂ�sess also lack more.
The gods give best to a man when they
give with a fruÂ�gal hand.
T his is a straightÂ�forÂ�ward litÂ�tle poem that has fun with alÂ�-

luÂ�sions to varÂ�iÂ�ous precÂ�eÂ�dents showÂ�ing the ill efÂ�fects of
money. The quesÂ�tion for a transÂ�laÂ�tor is Â�whether to keep the alÂ�luÂ�
sions Â�slight and glancÂ�ing (and then fill them out in the notes) or
to put at least some of the inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion in the poem itÂ�self. I
favor the latÂ�ter as a matÂ�ter of genÂ�eral pracÂ�tice, so I have idenÂ�tified
AcriÂ�sius, have Â�placed AmphÂ�iÂ�arÂ�ius with PolyÂ�nices, and have
named Â�Philip II, where HorÂ�ace has only “the man of MaceÂ�don.”
I could have Â�glossed “ApuÂ�lian,” but I Â�thought the conÂ�text made
it clear Â�enough that this was a ferÂ�tile reÂ�gion with rich harÂ�vests.
SimÂ�iÂ�larly, I named Lydia Â�rather than refer to it as Â�Alyattes’
kingÂ�dom. MygÂ�don is in Â�Thrace, but that Â�doesn’t Â�really matÂ�ter.
All we reÂ�quire here is the exÂ�otic name and the idea that it’s
some Â�wealthy Â�foreign place.
17
AeÂ�lius Lamia, you are deÂ�scended from
a disÂ�tinÂ�guished line, the Â�founder of which was said
to have ruled over the forÂ�tified
town of ForÂ�miae and the Liris
Book III 129

River that Â�reaches the coast at a place
the nymph, MarÂ�ica, made faÂ�mous.
You are lord of a wide doÂ�main,
and I adÂ�dress you with all reÂ�spect
to say that the omens are bad, for I have seen

a murÂ�der of crows crossÂ�ing the westÂ�ern sky
and the Â�chances are thereÂ�fore good
that a storm will be comÂ�ing on.
The Â�leaves will blow down to make a slipÂ�pery carÂ�pet

and the shoreÂ�line will be Â�decked with a line of seaÂ�weed.
You may Â�gather your dry wood
today, but toÂ�morÂ�row, probÂ�ably not.
Your Â�slaves will have a day off and you

can sit by the fire and drink good wine.
PerÂ�haps you will kill a Â�two-month-old
pigÂ�let to have as a speÂ�cial treat.
But all of that havÂ�ing been said

I put it to you much more simÂ�ply:
I think it’s going to rain, and I
must deÂ�cline your kind inÂ�viÂ�taÂ�tion.
T he last Â�stanza is my adÂ�diÂ�tion. The point of the poem, I

think, is the granÂ�dilÂ�oÂ�quent openÂ�ing that deÂ�flates to the
modÂ�est asÂ�serÂ�tion that it may rain. And HorÂ�ace (like Miss Otis)
reÂ�grets he’s unÂ�able to lunch today. It’s riÂ�dicÂ�uÂ�lous, but Â�that’s the
fun of it.
I ought to add, perÂ�haps, that a “murÂ�der” of crows is the
group name for that bird, one I have alÂ�ways liked. It’s like a
clowÂ�der of cats or a flutÂ�ter of butÂ�terÂ�flies.
130 Book III

18
O FauÂ�nus, randy runÂ�ner after the Â�nymphs,
come Â�gently to grace my sunny bit of land
and, as you deÂ�part again, bless
my litÂ�tle nursÂ�lings.
At the end of every year, I give you a kid

and Â�plenty of wine to pour in the mixÂ�ing bowl
that Venus also enÂ�joys. The old altar
Â�smokes with inÂ�cense.
Your day comes in DeÂ�cemÂ�ber and my flock

Â�
frisks on the green Â�meadow, while the vilÂ�lage
celÂ�eÂ�brates and their oxen enjoy a rest
from their work in the Â�fields.
The wolf looks down at the lambs but they feel no fear.
The trees shed their Â�leaves to make you a carÂ�pet
to walk on. Even the Â�ditch-digger Â�dances
as if in triÂ�umph.
T he first quesÂ�tion was abÂ�surdly small: Â�Should I idenÂ�tify the

fifth of DeÂ�cemÂ�ber, callÂ�ing it that, or Â�should I refer to
the Nones of DeÂ�cemÂ�ber—which would be the fifth, and then
menÂ�tion the date in the notes? NeiÂ�ther Â�choice Â�seemed comÂ�fortÂ�
able, and we don’t Â�really care when Â�Faunus’ fesÂ�tiÂ�val was, so I
just left it unÂ�specÂ�ified. “DeÂ�cemÂ�ber” tells us the seaÂ�son, which is
all we need.
I made one other Â�change. The wolf, in HorÂ�ace, wanÂ�ders
among the sheep, but this Â�seemed to me too close to those
Book III 131

picÂ�tures of lions and lambs (some of them with Jesus). For
HorÂ�ace, it was mere hyperÂ�bole, but in our culÂ�ture it Â�seemed
conÂ�venÂ�tional and too sweet, so I left the wolf lookÂ�ing down at
the flock, which would orÂ�diÂ�narÂ�ily be quite Â�enough to upset the
sheep and the shepÂ�herd.
FiÂ�nally, HorÂ�ace has the Â�ditch-digger dance in Â�triple time,
but the point is that it’s a triÂ�umÂ�phant dance, so I just laÂ�beled it
as that.
19
You ramÂ�ble on, sir, tellÂ�ing us all
what we alÂ�ready know—how many years
Â�elapsed Â�between Â�Inachus’ reign
and that of CoÂ�drus, the last king of AthÂ�ens,
or Â�Aeacus’ line of deÂ�scenÂ�dants Â�through
Â�Achilles to those who now live in MaceÂ�don.
What we are eager to know
is the price of Chian wine these days, and who
is tendÂ�ing the fire to heat the water
to mix with it. At whose house is the banÂ�quet?
And how soon do we get there
and come in out of this terÂ�rible AppeÂ�nine cold?
About those pressÂ�ing subÂ�jects that we
are eager to hear, you have nothÂ�ing to say.
At midÂ�night our Â�friend MuÂ�rena beÂ�comes
an Augur, and we must drink a toast to him
and also the start of a new month.
The only quesÂ�tion is Â�whether the wine bowl
Â�should have three laÂ�dles in it or nine.
As a poet with my inÂ�vestÂ�ment in the Muses,
I proÂ�pose three times three as betÂ�ter.
132 Book III

The Â�Graces disÂ�couÂ�rage inÂ�ebriÂ�aÂ�tion for fear
of Â�brawls, but I want to be a bit giddy.
Where is the oboe Â�player? He Â�should begin!
Why are the lyre and the syÂ�rinx siÂ�lent?
Tell the boy with the rose petÂ�als to strew them
everyÂ�where and lavÂ�ishly. Let’s
have a time that will Â�bother the Â�next-door neighÂ�bors,
Lycus, that old crank, and his wife
who is far too young for him and also unÂ�happy.
TeleÂ�phus, with your shiny hair,
have you met Rhode, who is exÂ�tremely Â�friendly?
For my part, I burn with deÂ�sire
for GlyÂ�cera, whom I’m happy to see again.
I t could be LiÂ�cinÂ�ius MuÂ�rina, Â�Maecenas’ Â�brother-in-law, or it

could be A. TeÂ�renÂ�tius Varro MuÂ�rena, but knowÂ�ing which
one HorÂ�ace is talkÂ�ing about Â�hardly afÂ�fects our underÂ�standÂ�ing
of the poem.
I have made a few tactÂ�ful subÂ�stiÂ�tuÂ�tions. InÂ�stead of PaeÂ�ligÂ�nian
cold, I make it “AppeÂ�nine,” beÂ�cause Â�that’s where PaeÂ�ligÂ�num is.
InÂ�stead of the BerÂ�eÂ�cynÂ�thian pipe, which was more or less like
an oboe, I have simÂ�ply an oboe.
InÂ�achus was the first king of Argos, but I Â�thought it was
clear from the conÂ�text that he preÂ�ceded CoÂ�drus, which is all
that matÂ�ters.
20
You know, PyrÂ�rhus, you take your life in your hands
when you try to steal a lion cub from its Â�mother,
for she can Â�pounce on you whenÂ�ever she likes
and tear your heart out.
Book III 133

Â�That’s the game Â�you’re playÂ�ing now with NearÂ�chus
whose Â�lady’s not a liÂ�onÂ�ess but a couÂ�gar
and she can deÂ�stroy you if she Â�thinks she has to
to get him back.
MeanÂ�while, you Â�sharpen your arÂ�rows and she hones

her Â�wicked claws and bares her gleamÂ�ing teeth,
while the youth who will give the lauÂ�rel enÂ�joys himÂ�self
Â�sprawled on a divan.
As the genÂ�tle Â�breeze touÂ�sles his perÂ�fumed hair,

he looks like NirÂ�eus, that deÂ�liÂ�cious devil
at Troy, or GanÂ�yÂ�mede, whom Â�Jupiter’s eagle
carÂ�ried away.
T he metaÂ�phor of likÂ�enÂ�ing the woman who was keepÂ�ing

NearÂ�chus to a liÂ�onÂ�ess was too conÂ�venÂ�ient for me to igÂ�
nore the idea of the couÂ�gar, the woman of a cerÂ�tain age who
likes boy toys. Had such a conÂ�venÂ�ient conÂ�cinÂ�nity of terms been
availÂ�able to HorÂ�ace, I am sure he’d have used it. So I did it for
him. The rest of the piece is alÂ�most word for word—exÂ�cept for
“deÂ�liÂ�cious,” which he Â�doesn’t use beÂ�cause his readÂ�ers recÂ�ogÂ�nized
NirÂ�eus as the most handÂ�some Greek at Troy exÂ�cept for Â�Achilles.
“HandÂ�some NirÂ�eus,” then? But “deÂ�liÂ�cious” is betÂ�ter.
21
Your vinÂ�tage and mine are exÂ�actly the same,
and I treat you, dear old botÂ�tle, with the reÂ�spect
you Â�richly deÂ�serve, Â�whether you bring
quarÂ�rels, fun, lust, or sleep.
CorÂ�viÂ�nus is home, and to celÂ�eÂ�brate the ocÂ�caÂ�sion,

nothÂ�ing less than the best FaÂ�lerno wine
134 Book III

will do to Â�please my old Â�friend
who recÂ�ogÂ�nizes qualÂ�ity.
He is well read in SocÂ�raÂ�tes’ diÂ�alogues,

but that Â�doesn’t make him some Â�dreary asÂ�cetic.
Cato, for all his moÂ�ralÂ�izÂ�ing,
liked to unÂ�wind with unÂ�mixed wine.
Those who are too rigid you like to bend.

The wise man’s worÂ�ries you Â�prompt him to disÂ�close,
even his most seÂ�cret Â�thoughts,
for BacÂ�chus knows how to Â�loosen Â�tongues.
You can reÂ�store hope to the man in deÂ�spair

and imÂ�part Â�strength and couÂ�rage to the weak
and poor, who have spent their lives
in fear of solÂ�diers and men in power.
BacÂ�chus will keep us comÂ�pany all night,

and Venus, too, if she’s in a good mood,
and the Â�Graces, I trust, and the lamps will burn
until the Sun puts the stars to Â�flight.
H orÂ�ace has MasÂ�sic wine, and FaÂ�lerno del MasÂ�sico is the

best known of these now availÂ�able.
Not that it matÂ�ters a great deal to the poem, but CorÂ�viÂ�nus
is M. VaÂ�lerÂ�ius MesÂ�salla, who was, as I say, an old Â�friend with
whom the poet spent some time in AthÂ�ens and who beÂ�came a
paÂ�tron of TiÂ�bulÂ�lus and posÂ�sibly Ovid.
22
VirÂ�gin godÂ�dess of mounÂ�tains and woods, when you
are inÂ�voked three times by young women in labor
Book III 135

you aid them and save them from a painÂ�ful death.
Â�Three-formed godÂ�dess,
Diana on earth, Luna up in the heavÂ�ens,

and HeÂ�cate in Hades, acÂ�cept as yours
the pine near my villa, so I may give you
every year
the blood of a young boar I have taken myÂ�self

in the deep woods over which you preÂ�side
with a slash of my spear like one of its sideÂ�long Â�slashes
with those Â�curved tusks.
T his is a third Â�longer than Â�Horace’s poem beÂ�cause I inÂ�cluded

idenÂ�tifiÂ�caÂ�tions of Â�Diana’s three forms. Â�Diana’s role as
godÂ�dess of childÂ�birth conÂ�nects her to LuÂ�cina, and Â�that’s close
Â�enough to Luna to work. If HorÂ�ace is comÂ�fortÂ�able with it, so
am I.
The Latin is in one senÂ�tence, but that Â�seemed awkÂ�ward in
EnÂ�glish, so I began a new one with the inÂ�serted maÂ�teÂ�rial.
23
Raise your palms to the sky at the new moon
and be a good counÂ�try girl, PhiÂ�dyle: plaÂ�cate
your own Â�property’s gods with inÂ�cense
and a small samÂ�ple of this Â�year’s grain.
Offer a fat sow if you can afÂ�ford it,

and your vines will Â�thrive and surÂ�vive the SciÂ�rocco; your crops
136 Book III

will not milÂ�dew; and your sheep and goats
will surÂ�vive the pesÂ�tiÂ�lences that come
when AuÂ�gust proÂ�duces its fruit harÂ�vest for us.

For pubÂ�lic sacÂ�riÂ�fices the Â�priests can Â�choose
vicÂ�tims that get speÂ�cial care
and root for Â�acorns on Alban hillÂ�sides
or graze the best meadÂ�ows beÂ�fore the blood

from their necks Â�stains the Â�pontifex’s axe.
Â�That’s fine for them, but you need not
comÂ�pete as you pray to your Â�lesser gods,
who deÂ�mand no sheep but can be conÂ�tented with myrÂ�tle

or Â�sprigs of roseÂ�mary. No hand Â�should touch
an altar withÂ�out makÂ�ing a gift
that can Â�satisfy and be perÂ�suaÂ�sive.
Â�
Surely you can afÂ�ford a litÂ�tle grain
in order to avoid the houseÂ�hold gods’
disÂ�pleasÂ�ure, and perÂ�haps a handÂ�ful
of crackÂ�ling salt Â�you’ll throw on the Â�flames.
T he Â�knotty probÂ�lem I don’t think I Â�solved sucÂ�cessÂ�fully was

what to do with rusÂ�tica. “CounÂ�try girl” was Â�slightly less
gratÂ�ing than anyÂ�thing else I could come up with, perÂ�haps beÂ�
cause I reÂ�memÂ�ber the 1954 movie The CounÂ�try Girl, with Grace
Kelly, Bing Â�Crosby, and Â�William Â�Holden (with a screenÂ�play by
ClifÂ�ford Odets). It still isn’t quite right, but at least it Â�doesn’t
annoy me.
OthÂ�erÂ�wise, I have been able to folÂ�low the Latin alÂ�most word
for word, reÂ�arÂ�rangÂ�ing the seÂ�quence of Â�phrases someÂ�times—as I
Book III 137

feel free to do beÂ�cause EnÂ�glish gramÂ�mar works difÂ�ferÂ�ently from
Latin just as EnÂ�glish metÂ�rics are difÂ�ferÂ�ent from Â�theirs.
24
Say that Â�you’re Â�richer than any sheik
or InÂ�dian maÂ�haÂ�raja, and let us supÂ�pose
Â�you’ve got a landÂ�fill for your villa that Â�stretches
Â�across the enÂ�tire TyrÂ�rhenÂ�ian Sea:
none of that will proÂ�tect you. NeÂ�cesÂ�siÂ�tas
will drive the spike of ownÂ�erÂ�ship
into the topÂ�most beam of your great roof,
no matÂ�ter how you Â�scheme or what you do,
for no morÂ�tal can hope to avoid
or wrigÂ�gle out of the Â�snares that death has set.
The ScythÂ�ian noÂ�mads who carry their Â�houses
in wagÂ�ons and wanÂ�der Â�wherever they like have a betÂ�ter
and cerÂ�tainly a less enÂ�cumÂ�bered life.
For the primÂ�iÂ�tive Getae there is no ownÂ�erÂ�ship
but they work their land in comÂ�mon, takÂ�ing
turns at each task, and they manÂ�age to feed
everyÂ�one from what it Â�yields.
It’s an altoÂ�gether difÂ�ferÂ�ent kind of life,
and women there are carÂ�ing and kind
to their mothÂ�erÂ�less stepÂ�chilÂ�dren. There are
no dowÂ�ries there and wives canÂ�not
use their Â�wealth to tyrÂ�anÂ�nize their husÂ�bands
while they amuse themÂ�selves with lovÂ�ers.
All a bride needs to supÂ�ply to a groom
are the upÂ�right charÂ�acÂ�ter her parÂ�ents
have Â�molded and chasÂ�tity she Â�brings as her gift
to the wedÂ�ding bed, for the Getae do not
138 Book III

sin—it is Â�strictly forÂ�bidÂ�den and it carÂ�ries
an autoÂ�matic penÂ�alty
of death. Â�Whoever asÂ�pires to bring an end
to the madÂ�ness of Â�bloody warÂ�fare and wants
to have inÂ�scribed on the Â�plinth of his marÂ�ble Â�statue
PATER URÂ�BIUM, let him first
learn to govÂ�ern his own lawÂ�lessÂ�ness
and curb his unÂ�ruly imÂ�pulses.
Then he will have fame in the time to come.
We pay litÂ�tle atÂ�tenÂ�tion to men
who, while alive, are modÂ�els of honor and jusÂ�tice.
Only after they die do we
reÂ�alÂ�ize the greatÂ�ness of our loss and wish
to have them alive again. Alas,
Â�that’s how we are in our jealÂ�ousy and meanÂ�ness.
What is the point of our lamÂ�enÂ�taÂ�tions
if guilt is not disÂ�couÂ�raged by punÂ�ishÂ�ment?
All our laws are vanÂ�ity
unÂ�less there is also moÂ�ralÂ�ity in them
and us as well. The rule holds true
in citÂ�ies that burn in the tropÂ�iÂ�cal heat and those
in the ArcÂ�tic that hudÂ�dle toÂ�gether for Â�warmth
with towÂ�erÂ�ing heaps of snow on the Â�ground that keep
even the boldÂ�est tradÂ�ers away.
Proud sailÂ�ors know how to Â�weather Â�storms,
but povÂ�erty can overÂ�whelm
fragÂ�ile souls as sufÂ�ferÂ�ing Â�forces men
to stray from the narÂ�row path of virÂ�tue.
Let us reÂ�solve to do betÂ�ter; let us reÂ�pent
of our sins and deÂ�posit gold and gems
that Â�arouse our greed in the CaÂ�pitÂ�oÂ�line Â�temple’s
treasÂ�ury. The Â�people’s apÂ�proval
is pleasÂ�ant Â�enough, but Â�that’s never imÂ�porÂ�tant.
Book III 139

One could as well fling Â�costly trinÂ�kets
into the sea in order to rid ourÂ�selves
of the greed by which they were first Â�amassed.
We have gone soft so that freeÂ�born youngÂ�sters
canÂ�not sit a horse and are Â�afraid
to hunt. All they know today is games
and how to maÂ�neuÂ�ver a Greek hoop.
They also can play at dice, which ought to be
forÂ�bidÂ�den by law. MeanÂ�while their Â�fathers
cheat their busiÂ�ness partÂ�ners and swinÂ�dle Â�friends
who have been their dinÂ�ner Â�guests, to leave
a Â�larger hoard to worthÂ�less, unÂ�grateÂ�ful sons.
The Â�wealth grows but someÂ�thing is alÂ�ways
missÂ�ing and what it is they canÂ�not imÂ�aÂ�gine.
I am frank to admit that this poem puzÂ�zles me. The utoÂ�pia of

the Getae turns sudÂ�denly into a dysÂ�toÂ�pia, and the adÂ�vice
at the end for us to disÂ�enÂ�cumÂ�ber ourÂ�selves of our Â�wealth can’t
be seÂ�riÂ�ous. That isn’t bothÂ�erÂ�some, howÂ�ever. What is Â�likely is
that it’s Â�half-serious—a real idea exÂ�agÂ�gerÂ�ated for comic efÂ�fect,
perÂ�haps to parÂ�ody other poems in that traÂ�diÂ�tion.
One might think that this lack of clarÂ�ity on my part would
disÂ�qualÂ�ify me as a transÂ�laÂ�tor, but that isn’t necÂ�esÂ�sarÂ�ily so. Beat
the Devil is one of my faÂ�vorÂ�ite moÂ�vies, and JenÂ�niÂ�fer Jones is
hysÂ�terÂ�iÂ�cally funny in it—beÂ�cause no one told her it was a
comÂ�edy and she Â�played it abÂ�soÂ�lutely Â�straight. (She was fuÂ�riÂ�ous
when she was comÂ�pliÂ�mented on her dry sense of humor.) My
guess is that if I Â�played it as it laid and let the abÂ�surÂ�dity speak
for itÂ�self, I’d have a good Â�chance of getÂ�ting it right. AcÂ�cordÂ�ingly,
I have Â�stayed close to the Latin. I even left NeÂ�cesÂ�siÂ�tas in Latin,
but that was beÂ�cause there was no graceÂ�ful way in EnÂ�glish to
take the abÂ�stracÂ�tion and turn it into a god.
140 Book III

25
I am up to here with you
and yet you hurry me along .Â€.Â€. but where,
to what woods or hidÂ�den caves
am I being husÂ�tled at such unÂ�seemly speed?
Which Â�grotto do I aim for
where I shall be heard as I pracÂ�tice meÂ�lodic Â�strains
with which to sing the glory of CaeÂ�sar,
peerÂ�less on earth and also among the stars,
even at Â�Jove’s counÂ�cil table?
I shall be the first to adÂ�dress this theme
in a new and strikÂ�ing way that no other
voice has manÂ�aged to do. Think of the sleepÂ�less
MaeÂ�nad on her way to join
the ecÂ�static dance as she looks out at Â�Thrace
to see the HeÂ�brus and RhoÂ�dope, white
with snow, where your enÂ�thuÂ�siasts perÂ�form.
Just so, in this Â�lonely place
I take deÂ�light in the Â�lovely isoÂ�laÂ�tion
of the woods and rock forÂ�maÂ�tions Â�around me.
O god of the Â�Naiads whom the BacÂ�chantes worÂ�ship,
who have the Â�strength to upÂ�root tall
ash trees using only their bare hands,
let me sing with the Â�strength my subÂ�ject
deÂ�mands and deÂ�serves—nothÂ�ing Â�merely morÂ�tal.
It is risky and yet exÂ�hilÂ�arÂ�atÂ�ing
to comÂ�mune with you, good god of the wineÂ�press
and atÂ�tempt to asÂ�sume your granÂ�deur,
wreathÂ�ing my temÂ�ples with a Â�Bacchant’s green vine Â�leaves.
Book III 141

W hat is cuÂ�riÂ�ous here is that HorÂ�ace is askÂ�ing for help
in the comÂ�poÂ�siÂ�tion of a new and strikÂ�ing piece about
AuÂ�gusÂ�tus, but what he proÂ�duces is a delÂ�iÂ�cate miniÂ�ature, a celÂ�eÂ�
braÂ�tion of naÂ�ture, an inÂ�voÂ�caÂ�tion to a god, and a refÂ�erÂ�ence, alÂ�most
en passÂ�ant, to AuÂ�gusÂ�tus.
HeÂ�brus is a river and RhoÂ�dope is a mounÂ�tain and they are
both in Â�Thrace, but I Â�didn’t think it necÂ�esÂ�sary to put that inÂ�forÂ�
maÂ�tion in the poem.
I ought to exÂ�plain the openÂ�ing of the poem, which is Â�rather
difÂ�ferÂ�ent from HorÂ�ace and yet simÂ�iÂ�lar in its brio. Quo me,
BacÂ�che, rapis tui/pleÂ�num? has an abruptÂ�ness that I Â�wanted to
duÂ�pliÂ�cate. Oddly, I Â�thought of a poem of Â�Donne’s with that
same brilÂ�liance: the openÂ�ing of “The CaÂ�nonÂ�izaÂ�tion” reads, “For
God’s sake, hold your Â�tongue and let me love .Â€.Â€.” I tried for
someÂ�thing of that emoÂ�tional sudÂ�denÂ�ness, takÂ�ing off from the
word pleÂ�num, which means “full.”
26
When I was Â�younger I Â�fought in Â�Venus’ wars
for which I’m no Â�longer fit. I Â�served with disÂ�tincÂ�tion,
but now I hang on the wall of her temÂ�ple
all my weapÂ�ons—the lyre I Â�strummed
and the crowÂ�bars and axes that broke down the Â�closed doors
of reÂ�lucÂ�tant women. No more of that for me.
I thank you, Venus, for all your gifts
which I now reÂ�cipÂ�roÂ�cate.
O godÂ�dess, you rule over CyÂ�prus and MemÂ�phis

and disÂ�like ThraÂ�cian snow and anyÂ�thing cold.
Give Chloe a flick of your whip
and let her think of me with reÂ�gret.
142 Book III

I left this alÂ�most unÂ�touched. The difÂ�fiÂ�culty was to Â�squeeze
out any unÂ�necÂ�esÂ�sary word, beÂ�cause an epiÂ�gramÂ�matic
poem like this would be Â�ruined by talkiÂ�ness. I omitÂ�ted the
yelÂ�low taÂ�pers that go with the crowÂ�bars and axes that were to
be used when breakÂ�ing down doors at night. The metaÂ�phor is
clear withÂ�out them and mudÂ�dled if they are inÂ�cluded. I renÂ�
dered SiÂ�thoÂ�nian snow as “ThraÂ�cian,” which is what it means.
The point is that Venus Â�doesn’t like cold Â�weather—or cold
women.
27
For the Â�wicked setÂ�ting out to Â�travel, let the omens
be dreadÂ�ful: the hootÂ�ing owl, the pregÂ�nant bitch,
a Â�glimpse of a runÂ�ning wolf, or the sight of a vixen
nursÂ�ing her kits.
Or let a snake come dartÂ�ing Â�across their path

to Â�frighten the Â�horses. But you, GaÂ�laÂ�tea, Â�should have
the auÂ�guÂ�ries of good forÂ�tune that I, as a Â�priest,
pray for your jourÂ�ney.
Let there be a black raven that flies Â�across

the sky on your left side beÂ�fore it turns
back to the PompÂ�tine Â�Marshes, makÂ�ing its sign
of imÂ�miÂ�nent rain.
Â�
Wherever you are, I hope that you will be happy
and that Â�you’ll reÂ�memÂ�ber me. Let there be no
Â�woodpecker’s drumÂ�ming to warn you of woe
or crow contraÂ�venÂ�ing
the deÂ�parÂ�ture you have Â�planned. You are

of Â�course aware that Â�Orion’s Â�weather is often
Book III 143

unÂ�cerÂ�tain and that he can bring Â�storms
as he sinks in the west.
I have seen, myÂ�self, the black AdriÂ�atic

Â�
churned by the wind to wildÂ�ness. Let it be
for Â�enemies’ wives and chilÂ�dren to hear the roar
of frenÂ�zied water
that makes the very rocks on the shore tremÂ�ble.

These, I am sure, were the worÂ�ries that trouÂ�bled EuÂ�ropa
as she enÂ�trusted her body to that black bull
swimÂ�ming away
from shore to the deep water where monÂ�sters lurk

along with who knows what other danÂ�gers ahead.
Only a while beÂ�fore she had been in a Â�meadow
gathÂ�erÂ�ing flowÂ�ers,
to make a garÂ�land for Â�nymphs, but that day was gone

and now in the starÂ�lit night there was nothÂ�ing but water
until she arÂ�rived at Crete with its hunÂ�dred citÂ�ies
where she was abanÂ�doned.
“Father, alas!” she cried, “I am unÂ�done,

and no Â�longer deÂ�serve to be your daughÂ�ter.
I must have been overÂ�come by sudÂ�den madÂ�ness.
Where have I been?
“And where am I now? One death is not Â�enough

as a punÂ�ishÂ�ment for girls like me who sin.
I canÂ�not tell if I am awake or this
is a terÂ�rible dream,
“isÂ�suÂ�ing from that ivory gate out of which

false Â�dreams come. Were the Â�meadow flowÂ�ers real?
144 Book III

Was the wide water real? If someÂ�one could capÂ�ture
that hateÂ�ful bull,
“I would slash its Â�throat and smash the horns

of the beast I loved so much for that brief time.
I was shameÂ�less, leavÂ�ing my Â�father that way.
Orcus is waitÂ�ing,
“and if any god can hear me, let me wanÂ�der

naked among a pride of lions. Let me,
while I am young and atÂ�tracÂ�tive and sucÂ�cuÂ�lent,
be eaten by tiÂ�gers.”
Her Â�father, AgÂ�enor, scoldÂ�ing, Â�called her worthÂ�less,

and asked what she was waitÂ�ing for. “Die!
Go ahead. You can hang yourÂ�self from a tree,
or jump off a cliff,
“trustÂ�ing the Â�jagged rocks below to kill you.

Or with your royal blood, you can beÂ�come
some Â�barbarian’s slave and work every day,
cardÂ�ing wool
as your misÂ�tress deÂ�mands of you. Her husÂ�band, of Â�course,

will take you to bed as one of his conÂ�cuÂ�bines.”
At these harsh words, EuÂ�ropa shed bitÂ�ter tears
and Â�wailed in her sorÂ�row,
but Venus apÂ�peared Â�beside her, in no way imÂ�pressed

by these exÂ�presÂ�sions of grief. Her Â�naughty son
was with her, but he had unÂ�strung his bow.
Both of them Â�grinned.
“Get hold of yourÂ�self,” the godÂ�dess comÂ�manded her.

“Stop these hysÂ�terÂ�iÂ�cal protÂ�esÂ�taÂ�tions and learn
Book III 145

that the bull whose neck you want to slash and whose horns
you would muÂ�tiÂ�late
“was not Â�merely a bull but inÂ�vinÂ�cible Jove.

This was your desÂ�tiny. Get used to it.
You Â�should be proud. A great part of the world
will be named after you.”
A n odd piece, it beÂ�gins as a Â�bon-voyage poem (proÂ�pempÂ�tiÂ�kon)

and then, alÂ�most as if in free asÂ�soÂ�ciÂ�aÂ�tion, Â�morphs in the
Â�seventh Â�stanza into an acÂ�count of Â�Europa’s crossÂ�ing of the sea
on the back of a bull that turns out to be JuÂ�piÂ�ter. The relÂ�eÂ�vance
of this is that HorÂ�ace has mixed feelÂ�ings about Â�Galatea’s deÂ�parÂ�
ture and this is a dark Â�enough narÂ�raÂ�tive to make that amÂ�bivÂ�aÂ�
lence clear.
I Â�didn’t add much, but I did menÂ�tion Â�Europa’s Â�father’s
name. I also added a line to the ninth Â�stanza to clarÂ�ify the
plot. HorÂ�ace Â�doesn’t Â�bother to menÂ�tion—as I do—that she
was abanÂ�doned, but he could rely on his readÂ�ers to be faÂ�milÂ�
iar with the story. I tinÂ�kered, too, with the pasÂ�sage where
EuÂ�ropa is reÂ�citÂ�ing (to whom? why?) what her Â�father said. InÂ�
stead, I just let him say it, beÂ�cause that was simÂ�pler and more
draÂ�matic.
28
What betÂ�ter way to spend
the Feast of NepÂ�tune, Lyde? Be quick about it
and fetch the CaeÂ�cuÂ�ban wine from the celÂ�lar,
the best we have, and with it we shall asÂ�sail
wisÂ�dom and soÂ�briety.
The sun, as you see, is well over the yardÂ�arm
and it’s alÂ�ready way past time
to grab a botÂ�tle from Â�Bibulus’ conÂ�sulÂ�ship
146 Book III

from high in the wine rack.
I’ll sing songs in Â�praise of Â�father NepÂ�tune
and the Â�green-haired NerÂ�eids, too.
Out here in the counÂ�tryÂ�side where Diana rules
Â�you’ll play on the Â�curved lyre.
The last song we’ll sing will be of Venus
who visÂ�its PaÂ�phos with her Â�snow-white
swans, and we shall celÂ�eÂ�brate the night
under her Â�lovely aegis as we
drift off to sleep, humÂ�ming her lulÂ�laby.
M y “yardÂ�arm” is an emÂ�belÂ�lishÂ�ment. HorÂ�ace Â�merely says

that it’s past noon and the sun is on the way down.
But we have in EnÂ�glish a Â�phrase anÂ�nouncÂ�ing Â�drinks time, which
has to do with the sun being over the yardÂ�arm—low Â�enough in
the sky—to serve cockÂ�tails. And inÂ�asÂ�much as it’s Â�Neptune’s feast,
that Â�seemed atÂ�tracÂ�tive. Â�Bibulus’ conÂ�sulÂ�ship was in 59 BCE, but I
think it’s the also name that apÂ�pealed to HorÂ�ace: bibÂ�uÂ�lous/
BiÂ�buÂ�lus.
I left out CniÂ�dos, which is menÂ�tioned as one of the Â�places
where Venus is imÂ�porÂ�tant. My only exÂ�cuse is that I tried it and
it was too Â�clotty. The CyÂ�clades, I deÂ�cided, were Â�enough.
29
Heir of TyrÂ�rhenÂ�ian kings, MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas, come
and taste the fine wine in the dusty botÂ�tle
that has been waitÂ�ing for you for years
here in my house. Roses, too,
will strew their petÂ�als for you, and fraÂ�grant balÂ�sam

will perÂ�fume your hair if you tear yourÂ�self away
from gazÂ�ing at your TiÂ�voli landÂ�scape
and the hill where they say the parÂ�riÂ�cide,
Book III 147

TeleÂ�goÂ�nus, setÂ�tled and Â�founded the town. Take
a litÂ�tle break from the acÂ�quiÂ�siÂ�tion of even
more Â�wealth than you alÂ�ready have
in Â�Rome’s hecÂ�tic and noisy arena,
and enjoy a simÂ�ple dinÂ�ner out in the counÂ�try

in a modÂ�est house withÂ�out any purÂ�ple hangÂ�ings.
From me Â�you’ll get no osÂ�tenÂ�taÂ�tion
but that, I trust, will be reÂ�laxÂ�ing.
Â�Andromeda’s Â�father’s star Â�shines in the sky

with its light that has been Â�hitherto conÂ�cealed;
ProÂ�cyon threatÂ�ens; Leo Â�pounces;
and the sun Â�brings on the dry seaÂ�son.
The shepÂ�herd and his flock rest in the shade

or by the riverÂ�bank or in Â�Silvanus’
deepÂ�est thickÂ�ets where in the heat
the Â�leaves wait for the Â�breezes’ touÂ�sle.
Your head is full of worÂ�ries about the state,

interÂ�nal conÂ�stiÂ�tuÂ�tional quesÂ�tions, of Â�course,
but also the many exÂ�terÂ�nal Â�threats .Â€.Â€.
What could the ChiÂ�nese be up to?
Are the ParÂ�thians actÂ�ing up again? Does the Don,

that hotÂ�bed of triÂ�bal Â�strife, pose any danÂ�ger?
The gods hide fuÂ�ture Â�events
in the murk and laugh at morÂ�tals who peer
into that darkÂ�ness, which is beÂ�yond our conÂ�trol.

Be calm. Focus atÂ�tenÂ�tion on what is beÂ�fore us
in the imÂ�meÂ�diÂ�ate Â�present. EveryÂ�thing
else flows away downÂ�stream
148 Book III

on a curÂ�rent that can be genÂ�tle or sudÂ�denly rough,
rollÂ�ing boulÂ�ders, upÂ�rootÂ�ing great trees,
and carÂ�ryÂ�ing liveÂ�stock and even Â�houses
all mixed toÂ�gether out to sea
while mounÂ�tains roar and the neighÂ�borÂ�ing woods reÂ�sound.

In such unÂ�cerÂ�tainty, a man must be
his own masÂ�ter, conÂ�tent with any
day Â�through which he has manÂ�aged to live.
ToÂ�morÂ�row, Â�Father Jove can cover the sky

with dark Â�clouds or fill it with Â�bright sunÂ�shine,
but he canÂ�not reÂ�vise the past or keep
the Â�present from takÂ�ing away what it Â�pleases.
UnÂ�perÂ�suadÂ�able ForÂ�tune plays her game

as she gives or else withÂ�holds her caÂ�priÂ�cious favor.
She may today be kind to me
but toÂ�morÂ�row it will be someÂ�one else.
I am happy to sing her Â�praises when she is good,

but when she Â�shakes her wings and flies away
I can give back her gifts and wrap
myÂ�self in a Â�philosopher’s cloak.
If only honÂ�est PovÂ�erty will have me,

I shall be conÂ�tent to dwell with her.
She will take me even withÂ�out
the usual dowry marÂ�riage deÂ�mands.
Say that I’m in a ship at sea in a storm

and the mast Â�creaks disÂ�mayÂ�ingly: I do not
pray to the gods and offer barÂ�gains
if they will save my TyrÂ�ian cargo.
Book III 149

It’s not to my taste, the preÂ�dicÂ�aÂ�ment or the ship,
and CasÂ�tor and PolÂ�lux may furÂ�nish a Â�breeze to help me
Â�safely to shore Â�through the huge waves
in my modÂ�est but Â�sturdy rowÂ�boat.
T he first word in Latin is “TyrÂ�rhena,” which means TyrÂ�-

rhenÂ�ian. Not a probÂ�lem. But it is. The name is an Â�old-
fashioned and Â�rather elÂ�eÂ�vated way to say “EtrusÂ�can,” or, for
that matÂ�ter, “TusÂ�can.” Which of these Â�should I use? It Â�doesn’t
seem to be an enorÂ�mously imÂ�porÂ�tant deÂ�ciÂ�sion, and yet it afÂ�fects
the tone, which, in Â�poetry, is as imÂ�porÂ�tant as meanÂ�ing. HorÂ�ace
is genÂ�erÂ�atÂ�ing a seÂ�ries of elabÂ�orate comÂ�pliÂ�ments that he means,
but he Â�doesn’t want to sound too serÂ�vile. He makes them Â�slightly
comÂ�ical, exÂ�agÂ�gerÂ�atÂ�ing so that he is makÂ�ing a litÂ�tle fun at his
own exÂ�pense, and maybe at Â�Maecenas’ also. So I went with the
granÂ�diÂ�ose TyrÂ�rhenÂ�ian, which is only Â�slightly more obÂ�scure. (But
with these notes, I can cheat a litÂ�tle.)
The next Â�not-so-trivial quesÂ�tion was Â�whether or not to
exÂ�plain that TeleÂ�goÂ�nus was the son Circe bore to UlysÂ�ses. To
omit this Â�barely relÂ�eÂ�vant inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion Â�seemed Â�high-handed,
but Â�high-handedness is what I think HorÂ�ace is tryÂ�ing for. (And,
again, here we can conÂ�vey the news to those who have yet to
disÂ�cover the web.)
The modÂ�erÂ�nity of the inÂ�strucÂ�tions to MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas that he not
worry too much about the ChiÂ�nese is not my inÂ�venÂ�tion. It’s in
the Latin. China was the furÂ�thest reÂ�gion on earth and, as the
poem deÂ�velÂ�ops, abÂ�surd as a cause for conÂ�cern.
FiÂ�nally, how to do the scaÂ�pha in the last Â�stanza? Â�Wherry?
Gig? DinÂ�ghy? Skiff ? They were all apÂ�pealÂ�ing but too speÂ�cific.
And some of them are tippy in rough water. “RowÂ�boat” Â�seemed
simÂ�plest and least Â�likely to be misÂ�leadÂ�ing.
150 Book III

30
What I have just comÂ�pleted will be a monÂ�uÂ�ment more
lastÂ�ing than Â�bronze and more imÂ�posÂ�ing than Â�Egypt’s royal
pyrÂ�aÂ�mids, one that rain can never deÂ�face or wind
deÂ�stroy—or the pasÂ�sage of time over the endÂ�less years.
I shall never die comÂ�pletely, for some of me
will perÂ�sist, eludÂ�ing the GodÂ�dess of Â�Death’s grip. I shall grow
and Â�thrive, reÂ�freshed by the Â�praise of all my fuÂ�ture readÂ�ers,
as long as the Â�priest Â�climbs the CaÂ�pitÂ�oÂ�line hill
with the siÂ�lent VesÂ�tal VirÂ�gin beÂ�hind him. I shall surÂ�vive
in the Â�mouths of livÂ�ing men as long as the AuÂ�fidus pours
its waÂ�ters into the sea in Â�Daunus’ dry kingÂ�dom.
Men shall speak my name as the one who rose from nothÂ�ing
to promÂ�iÂ�nence as the first to bring AeÂ�oÂ�lian verse
into the Latin lanÂ�guage and teach it to sing here.
MelÂ�poÂ�mene, you Â�should take pride you have well deÂ�served
for what you have done and for your imÂ�morÂ�tal kindÂ�ness to me,
deignÂ�ing to deck my brow with the anÂ�cient DelÂ�phic lauÂ�rel.
H ere, too, there was a Â�choice about the name of the river.
“AuÂ�fidus” or the modÂ�ern name, the Â�Ofanto—but who
can find that on an unÂ�marked map? A clarÂ�ifiÂ�caÂ�tion that does
not clarÂ�ify is silly. So I left it as it was. (It does have a handÂ�some
Roman Â�bridge at MonÂ�teÂ�verdi, but Â�that’s not exÂ�actly gerÂ�mane.)
And idenÂ�tify MelÂ�poÂ�mene? Not in the poem, Â�surely, and
I’m not enÂ�tirely comÂ�fortÂ�able about putÂ�ting her in the notes.
ReadÂ�ers may not be able to idenÂ�tify her as the Muse of music
and tragÂ�edy, but Â�they’ll know she’s a Muse, and that Â�should be
Â�enough.
Book III 151

Book IV
1
Not anÂ�other enÂ�gageÂ�ment, Venus!
After so long an arÂ�misÂ�tice? I beg you!
I ask you to show me mercy. I
am not the man I was back in Â�Cinara’s
sweet reign. You are the cruel
Â�mother of our deÂ�sires, but I have done
good serÂ�vice for fifty years.
I am no green reÂ�cruit and can Â�scarcely hear
the orÂ�ders you issue to Â�younger men
who welÂ�come them and are eager to do batÂ�tle.
Do you want a new heart to inÂ�flame?
Go to PaulÂ�lus Â�Maximus’ house, glidÂ�ing
down Â�through the air with your team of swans.
He’s noble, young, Â�good-looking, all you could ask for
in a most elÂ�oÂ�quent adÂ�voÂ�cate,
fit to carry your proud banÂ�ner and plant it
Â�wherever you may diÂ�rect. His riÂ�vals
can spend more money than he, but he
will be the vicÂ�tor in these rough Â�scrums.
He’ll laugh as he sets your marÂ�ble Â�statue up
in a Â�shrine with a roof of fraÂ�grant citÂ�ron
Â�branches at his Alban lake villa.
There, you will Â�breathe inÂ�censed air
and lisÂ�ten to pleasÂ�ant Â�strains of syÂ�rinx and lyre
155
and BerÂ�eÂ�cynÂ�thian oboe. YoungÂ�sters,
acÂ�knowlÂ�edgÂ�ing your diÂ�vinÂ�ity, will dance
in Â�triple time in the FrankÂ�ish style.
But as for me, I’m Â�afraid no willÂ�ing woman
or Â�pretty boy can atÂ�tract my interÂ�est,
nor even a conÂ�genÂ�ial wit and Â�spirit
after a long, bibÂ�uÂ�lous eveÂ�ning.
No one will deck my wrinÂ�kled brow with garÂ�lands
of Â�leaves and Â�pretty fraÂ�grant flowÂ�ers.
And yet, dear LiÂ�guÂ�riÂ�nus, why does a tear
well from my lid and slide down my cheek
as I write these lines? Why do words fail me
so that I fall sudÂ�denly siÂ�lent?
In my Â�dreams someÂ�times I hold you close
or chase you along the grass of the Campo
to watch you jump into the cold river.
I have not had any imÂ�porÂ�tant deÂ�ciÂ�sions to make in this one.

Its simÂ�plicÂ�ity and the turn at the end reÂ�mind me of CaÂ�vafy.
The only crux was in the last line, in which dure (hard) is gramÂ�
matÂ�iÂ�cally atÂ�tached to LiÂ�guÂ�riÂ�nus but is juxÂ�taÂ�posed with aquas
(water), so there is a sugÂ�gesÂ�tion that both of them are Â�hard-
hearted. InÂ�asÂ�much as rivÂ�ers are an obÂ�viÂ�ous metaÂ�phor for time,
both modÂ�ifiÂ�caÂ�tions are reaÂ�sonÂ�able; perÂ�haps one could say that
one Â�slides into the other. The best I could come up with was to
make the river cold, which would also cool down LiÂ�guÂ�riÂ�nus.
2
It’s a danÂ�gerÂ�ous enÂ�terÂ�prise to comÂ�pete with PinÂ�dar.
You rise up on wings that DaeÂ�dalus waxed
and the Â�chances are that disÂ�asÂ�ter will undo you
and Â�you’ll soon Â�splash down
156 Book IV
into the Â�glassy sea. I tell you, IulÂ�lus,
think of a mounÂ�tain Â�stream, swolÂ�len by snowÂ�melt,
a turÂ�buÂ�lent catÂ�aÂ�ract roarÂ�ing along. Â�That’s PinÂ�dar
in his dazÂ�zling dithÂ�yÂ�rambs,
carÂ�ried along by the Â�meter’s swing and singÂ�ing

of gods, heÂ�roes and kings, the death of CenÂ�taurs,
the flame of the Â�dreaded ChiÂ�maera and how it was Â�quenched,
or of charÂ�iot races
and boxÂ�ers at the games who Â�brought the palms

of vicÂ�tory home from Elis—the Â�equals of gods.
Or he can sing his Â�dirges for young brideÂ�grooms,
hurÂ�ried to Orcus
and leavÂ�ing beÂ�hind them widÂ�ows, weepÂ�ing and mournÂ�ing

the loss of such Â�strength of body and powÂ�ers
of mind that all men Â�praised them to the skies
but now disÂ�apÂ�peared.
A Â�breeze rufÂ�fles the feathÂ�ers of those seÂ�rene

swans at the Â�spring of Dirce where once PinÂ�dar
sat as he wrote his epiÂ�niÂ�cian odes—
as if he were there.
And when they take Â�flight, it is as if the poet

himÂ�self were asÂ�cendÂ�ing. Do you not see it, IulÂ�lus?
I am a mere honÂ�eyÂ�bee Â�clumsy and loud
as I light to sip
from thyme in the woods and riverÂ�banks Â�around me

in Â�Tivoli’s lushÂ�ness and, in my laÂ�bored makÂ�ing,
try to sugÂ�gest some of his soarÂ�ing Â�lyrics’
supÂ�ple grace.
Book IV 157
The quill you write with is more amÂ�biÂ�tious than mine
and you can celÂ�eÂ�brate Â�Caesar’s reÂ�turn to Rome
as he Â�marches up the CaÂ�pitÂ�oÂ�line Hill
with the Â�fierce SyÂ�gamÂ�bri
in Â�chains beÂ�hind him. What have the fates or the gods

given to us in the world betÂ�ter than him?
Even if you imÂ�aÂ�gine a Â�golden age
someÂ�how reÂ�turnÂ�ing,
how could they exÂ�ceed such a gift? That

is Â�surely your subÂ�ject—these days of joy in the Forum
and pubÂ�lic buildÂ�ings. To celÂ�eÂ�brate his reÂ�turn
lawÂ�suits have setÂ�tled,
for our Â�prayers have been anÂ�swered now and we have peace.
If I may be alÂ�lowed to inÂ�sert a grace note
I, too, shall add my voice to the Â�crowd’s
Â�cheers for CaeÂ�sar.
You and I and the whole city shall cry

“Trionferà!” and we shall offer inÂ�cense
to thank the Â�kindly gods with suitÂ�able ferÂ�vor.
You shall disÂ�charge
your debt with an ofÂ�ferÂ�ing of ten bulls

and as many cows. I am not a Â�grandee
but I shall offer a calf just leavÂ�ing its Â�mother
to fulÂ�fill my vows.
On its foreÂ�head it has a small blaze

in white in the form of an early cresÂ�cent moon.
ExÂ�cept for that one mark it is a handÂ�some,
rich tawny.
158 Book IV
I ulÂ�lus is AnÂ�tonÂ�ius IulÂ�lus, son of Mark AnÂ�tony; HorÂ�ace calls
him IulÂ�lis at first but then, later on, AnÂ�tonÂ�ius, which is
conÂ�fusÂ�ing, so I kept to IulÂ�lus throughÂ�out. All we need to know
about him is that he had money and wrote (or at least asÂ�pired
to do so), which is clearlyÂ� Â�enough imÂ�plied.
For all of Â�Horace’s Â�self-deprecation, the poem is very PinÂ�
daric, with the graceÂ�ful turn from deÂ�scripÂ�tions of Â�Pindar’s work
to sugÂ�gesÂ�tions for what IulÂ�lus might underÂ�take. The SyÂ�gambi
were a tribe from GerÂ�many (also Â�called the SiÂ�camÂ�bri, SyÂ�camrri,
or SuÂ�gamÂ�bri, but all that matÂ�ters is that AuÂ�gusÂ�tus conÂ�quered
them).
Â�Horace’s cheer, io TriÂ�umphe, was hard to renÂ�der, but
“Trionferà!” works for me, if only beÂ�cause it’s the reÂ�frain of an
old ItalÂ�ian comÂ�muÂ�nist song, “BanÂ�diera rossa.” One could get
arÂ�rested for singÂ�ing it in Â�Mussolini’s time, which makes it all
the more amusÂ�ing.
3
The man you Â�looked down on and Â�graced
at the hour of his birth, MelÂ�poÂ�mene,
will win no glory at the IsthÂ�mian
Games as a boxer or chaÂ�riÂ�otÂ�eer, and I fear
he will not shine as a solÂ�dier eiÂ�ther,
or wear decÂ�oÂ�raÂ�tions as he Â�marches in triÂ�umph
for havÂ�ing fetÂ�tered the enemy necks
to interÂ�rupt forÂ�ever their Â�wicked Â�boasts.
But here in TiÂ�voli where the Â�brooks
flow past ferÂ�tile Â�fields and lush woodÂ�lands,
he will be nurÂ�tured to win fame
beÂ�cause you gave him his Â�poetic talÂ�ent.
Â�Rome’s litÂ�erÂ�ary crowd sees fit
to acÂ�knowlÂ�edge me as one of the lyric poets
Book IV 159
in a very seÂ�lect choir, and now
the tooth of Envy no Â�longer nips at my heels.
Still, PierÂ�ian lady, you have
my Â�thanks. You tune the torÂ�toise shell to music
and could give the voice of the handÂ�some swans,
if you chose to do so, even to mute fish,
and you have been genÂ�erÂ�ous to me
so that peoÂ�ple point me out: “The poet!”
If I Â�breathe music and give pleasÂ�ure
it is you more than I who deÂ�serve the Â�praise.
T he poem is an artÂ�fully modÂ�est bit of boastÂ�ing. HorÂ�ace

anÂ�nounces that he has been acÂ�cepted by the opinÂ�ion
makÂ�ers of Rome as one of the imÂ�porÂ�tant poets, but he gives
Â�credit to the Muse. This reÂ�minds me of Â�Auden’s comÂ�ment
about how poets place too much imÂ�porÂ�tance on the way
they manÂ�age their caÂ�reers and not Â�enough on their talÂ�ent—
which is a gift. This is not just a conÂ�venÂ�tional exÂ�erÂ�cise, howÂ�
ever, for he menÂ�tions the tooth of Envy, that he felt beÂ�fore his
sucÂ�cess.
I folÂ�lowed along Â�fairly scruÂ�puÂ�lously. HorÂ�ace has the torÂ�toise
shell Â�golden, which is a way of sayÂ�ing “fine.” I thought that was
conÂ�fusÂ�ing.
4
Those thunÂ�derÂ�bolts of Jove in the Â�eagle’s claws
are its reÂ�ward for havÂ�ing Â�snatched GanÂ�yÂ�mede
and bringing the Â�pretty youth to OlymÂ�pus
to serve the god as his cupÂ�bearer.
Jove also made the eagle king of birds.

DruÂ�sus, like a fledgÂ�ling eagÂ�let, was given
160 Book IV
his thunÂ�derÂ�bolts and the grace
of the great god, alÂ�though he could not
imÂ�aÂ�gine the laÂ�bors he would have to face.

The skies Â�cleared and the Â�spring Â�breezes Â�taught him,
still timid, to swoop and soar
until he could dive down to seize
lambs from the fold, and now his love of batÂ�tle

has Â�prompted him to atÂ�tack venÂ�oÂ�mous serÂ�pents
so that his sigÂ�nal triÂ�umphs can prove
his bravÂ�ery as well as his skill.
Or anÂ�other and betÂ�ter metaÂ�phor might be

the young lion, Â�thrust from his Â�mother’s teat,
and in his first exÂ�ploÂ�raÂ�tion
of the wide plain beÂ�fore him
he is noÂ�ticed by a grazÂ�ing anteÂ�lope,

Â�doomed to die by teeth that never beÂ�fore
have bitÂ�ten into livÂ�ing flesh.
Thus did the VinÂ�delÂ�ici see
DruÂ�sus as he Â�marched toÂ�ward them Â�through the Alps.

(They are the ones who wield AmÂ�aÂ�zoÂ�nian axes
in their right hands as they go to batÂ�tle.
But why? I have no idea
and Â�wouldn’t even know whom to ask. No one

can hope to know everyÂ�thing.) Even so,
they are faÂ�mous fightÂ�ers and did not
supÂ�pose the young Roman posed
a seÂ�riÂ�ous Â�threat, but they did not take acÂ�count

of inÂ�telÂ�liÂ�gence and charÂ�acÂ�ter that had been Â�formed
Book IV 161
of NeÂ�roÂ�nian stock under the roof
of the great house of deÂ�voted AuÂ�gusÂ�tus.
BravÂ�ery comes from bravÂ�ery and virÂ�tue from virÂ�tue.

We see it in bulls and Â�horses and, up in the sky,
in eaÂ�gles that do not beget doves.
TrainÂ�ing plays a part of Â�course
and moral edÂ�uÂ�caÂ�tion, but what you begin with

preÂ�dicts betÂ�ter than anyÂ�thing what you get.
Rome owes much to the Neros,
as the River MetaÂ�urus demÂ�onÂ�strates,
and HasÂ�druÂ�bal’s overÂ�throw. ConÂ�sider the day

when HanÂ�niÂ�bal, who had galÂ�loped Â�through Â�Italy’s towns
like a wildÂ�fire among the pines,
was Â�driven back and the Â�clouds Â�parted
yieldÂ�ing to blue skies. From then on

Â�Rome’s young men grew Â�strong in their many strugÂ�gles
each of which was sucÂ�cessÂ�ful. Our Â�shrines
the imÂ�piÂ�ous CarÂ�thaÂ�ginÂ�ian horde
had Â�wrecked were all reÂ�built, and the honÂ�ored gods’

statÂ�ues were set up once more to preÂ�side
and proÂ�tect us in our noble city.
At last treachÂ�erÂ�ous HanÂ�niÂ�bal said:
“We are like stags upon whom Â�wolves can prey,

but we hunt men and, with luck and skill,
can triÂ�umph over them or at least
evade them when they Â�launch an atÂ�tack.
“These surÂ�viÂ�vors of anÂ�cient Â�Troy’s burnÂ�ing

have Â�crossed the sea to setÂ�tle here with their chilÂ�dren
162 Book IV
and eldÂ�ers, as well as their saÂ�cred symÂ�bols.
They are like Mount Â�Algidus’ holm oaks,
“where the canÂ�opy of green Â�leaves grows thick,

deÂ�spite the blows of the sharp Â�two-handed axe,
as if they could draw Â�strength from the bite
of the blade of the heavy steel head.
“The Hydra thus grew Â�stronger the more its body

was Â�hacked to Â�pieces by Â�mighty HerÂ�cules.
He was fuÂ�riÂ�ous at being
Â�beaten by the monÂ�strous creaÂ�ture.
“NothÂ�ing worse had ever apÂ�peared from ColÂ�chis,

not the Â�fire-breathing bulls or the savÂ�age dragÂ�ons
from whose scatÂ�tered teeth Â�Echion
grew and came to harry Â�Thebes.
“Plunge in the sword, howÂ�ever Â�deeply you can,

but the thing comes back all the Â�stronger to wresÂ�tle with you
and no unÂ�beaten chamÂ�pion can
meet it and come away unÂ�hurt.
“No more will I send proud Â�boasts home to CarÂ�thage,

for our hopes have been deÂ�feated and the sucÂ�cess
we used to Â�achieve has deÂ�serted us
now that HasÂ�druÂ�bal is dead.”
There is nothÂ�ing the ClauÂ�dians canÂ�not acÂ�comÂ�plish,

for JuÂ�piÂ�ter deÂ�fends them with his power
and wise counÂ�sel atÂ�tends them Â�through
the difÂ�fiÂ�cult criÂ�ses that come in wars.
I Â�
looked up the holm oak (QuerÂ�cus ilex) and it is an everÂ�green
oak with Â�dark-green Â�leaves. The holly oak is anÂ�other name
Book IV 163
for it. And the metaÂ�phor is acÂ�cuÂ�rate beÂ�cause this tree not only
surÂ�vives but Â�thrives when it is heavÂ�ily Â�pruned. Ilex is Â�slightly
conÂ�fusÂ�ing beÂ�cause to the RoÂ�mans it meant holm oak, but has
come in modÂ�ern taxÂ�onÂ�omy to be the genus name for holÂ�lies—
alÂ�though it reÂ�mains the speÂ�cies name for holm oaks. What is
pleasÂ�ing about this is that it’s counÂ�try lore that HorÂ�ace knew.
Â�Hannibal’s Â�speech is a draÂ�matic inÂ�venÂ�tion. His adÂ�misÂ�sion
to his asÂ�semÂ�bled Â�troops of Â�Rome’s superÂ�iorÂ�ity never hapÂ�pened—
but it Â�should have. And the charm of the poem comes in large
measÂ�ure from its sucÂ�cess as a paÂ�triÂ�otic dayÂ�dream.
DruÂ�sus and TiÂ�berÂ�ius were the sons of Livia, and thereÂ�fore
the stepÂ�sons of AuÂ�gusÂ�tus. Their Â�father was TiÂ�berÂ�ius ClauÂ�dius
Nero, which acÂ�counts for the Â�praise of the Neros. (The emÂ�peror
of ill reÂ�pute comes along much later.)
5
Heir of AeÂ�neas and thereÂ�fore of his Â�mother,
Venus, guarÂ�dian of Â�Romulus’ peoÂ�ple,
you have been away from us too long.
You made a solÂ�emn promÂ�ise
to the SenÂ�ate that you would be reÂ�turnÂ�ing soon.

ReÂ�turn, then. Bring the light of your face
home to shine on the citÂ�iÂ�zens. All days
are betÂ�ter if there is sunÂ�shine.
ImÂ�aÂ�gine a Â�mother, whose son is far away

and the north wind conÂ�tinÂ�ues to blow and keeps him
from comÂ�ing back, and the seaÂ�son for sailÂ�ing is over.
She wants him to be with her,
and she makes vows and reads the omens, and Â�stands
at the shoreÂ�line peerÂ�ing out to the hoÂ�riÂ�zon
164 Book IV
day after day ofÂ�ferÂ�ing Â�prayers to the gods
in her sorÂ�row and ferÂ�vent longÂ�ing.
That is exÂ�actly what his counÂ�try feels

for CaeÂ�sar, and we are eager for him to arÂ�rive.
The oxen amble over the pasÂ�tures, safe
from Â�foreign maÂ�raudÂ�ers and Â�thieves;
Ceres gives inÂ�crease to crops in the Â�fields;

ProsÂ�perÂ�ity Â�grants us her blessÂ�ing; sailÂ�ors voyÂ�age
withÂ�out havÂ�ing to fear the atÂ�tacks of piÂ�rates;
and moÂ�rals govÂ�ern our lives.
(PunÂ�ishÂ�ment folÂ�lows any Â�lapses Â�swiftly.)

If CaeÂ�sar is safe, we are all safe, too—
from ParÂ�thian Â�hordes, ScythÂ�ians, and the roughÂ�shod
and thugÂ�gish GerÂ�man Â�tribes.
Wars in Spain? They hapÂ�pen, but who cares

what those savÂ�ages do? Here at home
everyÂ�one Â�spends his days on his hills and Â�fields,
or culÂ�tiÂ�vatÂ�ing his vines,
and then, at dinÂ�ner, when the liÂ�baÂ�tions are Â�poured

he inÂ�vokes your name with those of the houseÂ�hold
gods, and you are honÂ�ored with his Â�prayers.
We are much like the Â�Greeks
who honor CasÂ�tor and Â�mighty HerÂ�cules,

morÂ�tal heÂ�roes, asÂ�cended to Â�heaven. We pray
day or night, sober or tipsy, that you
may keep us all safe.
A ll litÂ�erÂ�ate RoÂ�mans would have underÂ�stood Â�Horace’s openÂ�ing,

which simÂ�ply says that AuÂ�gusÂ�tus is an heir of the gods.
Book IV 165
He was Â�adopted by JuÂ�lius CaeÂ�sar, who was deÂ�ified himÂ�self
but was also deÂ�scended, at least theoÂ�retÂ�iÂ�cally, from AeÂ�neas. I
put Â�enough of that in the poem to keep it from soundÂ�ing too
exÂ�travÂ�aÂ�gant and fulÂ�some.
The transÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion of Italy into a buÂ�colic parÂ�aÂ�dise in the
Â�course of Â�Augustus’ Â�two-decade rule is also an exÂ�agÂ�gerÂ�aÂ�tion; but
in a poem of this kind, it is not unÂ�exÂ�pected. And in any event,
HorÂ�ace does not diÂ�rectly atÂ�tribÂ�ute the peace and prosÂ�perÂ�ity to
AuÂ�gusÂ�tus, alÂ�though readÂ�ers are by no means disÂ�couÂ�raged from
doing so. WorÂ�ship of AuÂ�gusÂ�tus was ofÂ�fiÂ�cially Â�frowned on, but
in 24 BCE the SenÂ�ate Â�passed a law alÂ�lowÂ�ing liÂ�baÂ�tions to be
Â�poured in his honor.
6
O Lord Â�Apollo, you punÂ�ished Â�Niobe’s boastÂ�ing
and slew TitÂ�yus, your Â�mother’s Â�would-be rapÂ�ist.
Your power is great when you are comÂ�pelled to use it
as Â�Achilles Â�learned,
when you asÂ�sumed the likeÂ�ness of Paris and shot

that fatal arrow. He was the son of TheÂ�tis,
a godÂ�dess, and he shook the towÂ�ers of Troy
with his fearÂ�some spear,
but he fell like a tall pine an axe bit

or a cyÂ�press, blown down by a howlÂ�ing wind.
He fell with his face down in the TroÂ�jan dust.
He had been brave,
not one of those Â�sneaky killÂ�ers that hid in a horse

waitÂ�ing until the celÂ�eÂ�bratÂ�ing TroÂ�jans
were exÂ�hausted from dancÂ�ing and too drunk to stand
let alone fight.
166 Book IV
He would have been open about it and cruel,
burnÂ�ing their inÂ�fants and even their unÂ�born baÂ�bies,
if you and Venus had not perÂ�suaded Jove
to proÂ�tect AeÂ�neas
and let him build under betÂ�ter omens

walls elseÂ�where. O PhoeÂ�bus, great
Â�singer and Â�teacher of song, who Â�washes his hair
in the River XanÂ�thus,
lord of the highÂ�ways, grant your diÂ�vine proÂ�tecÂ�tion

to your ItalÂ�ian pracÂ�tiÂ�tioner. You were the one
who gave me the lyric gift and the name of poet,
for which I am grateÂ�ful.
The noble daughÂ�ters and sons Diana proÂ�tects,

who hunts the swift Â�lynxes and handÂ�some stags,
sing to the LesÂ�bian beat with finÂ�gers snapÂ�ping
of Lord Â�Apollo
and also of Diana, the moon godÂ�dess

with her Â�sickle-shaped torch that helps crops grow
and rolls the swift Â�months along until
it is harÂ�vest time.
Those girls will soon grow up and, as marÂ�ried laÂ�dies,

will be able to say, “When fesÂ�tiÂ�vals came Â�around,
to Â�please the gods I perÂ�formed the hymn
I Â�learned from HorÂ�ace.”
F or the purÂ�pose of clarÂ�ity, I exÂ�plained who TitÂ�yus was. Niobe,

who Â�boasted that she, with her seven sons and seven
daughÂ�ters, was a betÂ�ter Â�mother than LaÂ�tona, is betÂ�ter known,
so I left her name simÂ�ply as an alÂ�luÂ�sion, the way HorÂ�ace does.
(Apollo Â�killed all the sons and Diana Â�killed the daughÂ�ters.
Book IV 167
Niobe was Â�turned into a weepÂ�ing rock.) I Â�didn’t medÂ�dle with
much else exÂ�cept to put the stanÂ�zas about the Â�chorus of young
men and women into the third perÂ�son (HorÂ�ace has it in the
secÂ�ond, adÂ�dressÂ�ing them, which is Â�slightly conÂ�fusÂ�ing beÂ�cause
that comes within
Â� an adÂ�dress to Â�Apollo).
The pasÂ�sage about the rage of Â�Achilles might have exÂ�tended
to how, after his death, he was “marÂ�ried” to PolyxÂ�ena, who was
sacÂ�riÂ�ficed to him; but HorÂ�ace Â�didn’t think to do that, and I
Â�didn’t dare.
7
The snow has Â�melted now and grass apÂ�pears to turn
brown Â�fields green again.
Â�Leaves unÂ�furl themÂ�selves on the Â�branches of bare trees.
The earth moves from one
seaÂ�son into the next. The Â�flooded rivÂ�ers subÂ�side
to their cusÂ�toÂ�mary Â�courses
Â�between their usual banks. It is warm Â�enough now for Â�nymphs
and Â�Graces, scantÂ�ily clad,
again to lead the celÂ�eÂ�braÂ�tions of happy dancÂ�ers.
The mesÂ�sage is noneÂ�theÂ�less
clear: that we are not to hope to live forÂ�ever.
The hours and days take Â�flight,
and nigÂ�gardly winÂ�ter gives way to a more forthÂ�comÂ�ing Â�spring
and cold Â�yields to the genÂ�tle
Â�breezes with their Â�warmth and delÂ�iÂ�cate fraÂ�grance.
SumÂ�mer with its bare feet
overÂ�takes Â�spring, but it, too, is Â�doomed to die
at Â�apple-picking when farmÂ�ers
harÂ�vest their crops and bring them from Â�fields into barns.
The moon meanÂ�while keeps time
168 Book IV
as it makes good its heaÂ�venly Â�losses markÂ�ing the Â�months.
We, too, have our Â�courses Â�marked
and will at last go down to Â�Father Â�Aeneas’ doÂ�main
and that of the early kings
of Rome who now rule over dust and shadÂ�ows.
ToÂ�morÂ�row is a hope
that none of us can be sure the gods will grant.
All that you have piled up
so that you may live out your years in relÂ�aÂ�tive comÂ�fort
may fall at any moÂ�ment
into the hands of your Â�greedy and not very grateÂ�ful heirs.
You—we all—will die.
And as you face the stern judgÂ�ment of Minos, you reÂ�alÂ�ize
that noble birth means nothÂ�ing
nor elÂ�oÂ�quence, TorÂ�quaÂ�tus, nor even pious livÂ�ing,
or Diana would show mercy
to Â�chaste HipÂ�polÂ�yÂ�tus who lanÂ�guishes in the darkÂ�ness.
And love won’t work eiÂ�ther,
or TheÂ�seus could have freed his dear Â�friend PirÂ�iÂ�thous
from bondÂ�age Â�across Lethe.
I think of the opening lines of the Yale anÂ�them:
The seaÂ�sons come, the seaÂ�sons go,

The earth is green or white with snow,
But time and Â�change shall Â�naught avail
To break the friendÂ�ships Â�formed at Yale.
The HoÂ�raÂ�tian view, which is more acÂ�cuÂ�rate, would be that the

seaÂ�sons come and go and we’re all going to die, later or Â�sooner.
I have made only a Â�couple of trivÂ�ial alÂ�terÂ�aÂ�tions, leavÂ�ing out the
names of TulÂ�lus and Arcus, who were the early kings of Rome
HorÂ�ace menÂ�tions. TorÂ�quaÂ�tus, to whom the poem is adÂ�dressed,
Book IV 169
was an oraÂ�tor, perÂ�haps the son of L. ManÂ�lius TorÂ�quaÂ�tus, who
was conÂ�sul in the year of Â�Horace’s birth (65 BCE).
8
At this Â�gift-giving seaÂ�son, I
Â�should be glad to offer cerÂ�eÂ�moÂ�nial bowls
or priÂ�cey Â�bronzes—triÂ�pods perÂ�haps,
of the kind the Greek heÂ�roes posÂ�sessed—
to my good Â�friends; and you, CenÂ�sorÂ�iÂ�nus,
would merit one of the best gifts.
If I had such exÂ�penÂ�sive artÂ�works,
one of Â�Parrhasius’ Â�lovely paintÂ�ings
or a ScoÂ�pas marÂ�ble figÂ�urine
of a man or a god. But you underÂ�stand
I am no rich colÂ�lecÂ�tor and have
no such trinÂ�kets at my disÂ�poÂ�sal.
And you, my Â�friend, neiÂ�ther want nor need
any of these obÂ�jets de luxe.
Â�Poetry is what you preÂ�fer
and what I am hapÂ�pily able to give,
and you know it’s by no means worthÂ�less.
What proud Â�statue can celÂ�eÂ�brate
a Â�general’s achieveÂ�ments in life,
his vicÂ�toÂ�ries (such as the rout
of HanÂ�niÂ�bal and deÂ�fiÂ�ance of
the Â�threats he made) as well as can
EnÂ�nius, whom the CaÂ�laÂ�brian Muses
inÂ�spired to comÂ�pose his Â�verses?
And your acÂ�comÂ�plishÂ�ments deÂ�serve
writÂ�ten celÂ�eÂ�braÂ�tion on pages
deÂ�clarÂ�ing your unÂ�doubted greatÂ�ness.
Where would RomÂ�uÂ�lus be today
withÂ�out the Â�bards’ comÂ�memoraÂ�tions?
170 Book IV
Homer Â�snatched AeaÂ�cus up
from the waves of the Styx to the isles of the blest.
If a man is worth being reÂ�memÂ�bered,
the Muse will willÂ�ingly preÂ�serve him.
Thus is the inÂ�deÂ�fatÂ�iÂ�gable
HerÂ�cules inÂ�vited to sit
at the banÂ�quet table where Jove preÂ�sides.
Thus are Â�Tyndareus’ twin sons,
CasÂ�tor and PolÂ�lux, still doing good,
savÂ�ing ships from the sea’s Â�depths.
And thus does BacÂ�chus, the god of freeÂ�dom,
his head beÂ�decked with green vine Â�leaves,
grant his Â�worshippers’ ferÂ�vent Â�prayers.
T he poem beÂ�gins Â�abruptly, but it is a reaÂ�sonÂ�able supÂ�poÂ�siÂ�tion

that it may be Â�Censorinus’ birthÂ�day or the KaÂ�lends of
March, which would be times for exÂ�changÂ�ing gifts. I Â�didn’t
Â�bother to idenÂ�tify CenÂ�sorÂ�iÂ�nus, beÂ�cause all we need to know is
that he is a reaÂ�sonÂ�able reÂ�cipÂ�iÂ�ent of Â�presents from HorÂ�ace. Most
probÂ�ably it was C. MarÂ�cius CenÂ�sorÂ�iÂ�nus, who was conÂ�sul in 39
BCE, or his son, who was conÂ�sul in 8 BCE.
My exÂ�pecÂ�taÂ�tion (or hope?) is that readÂ�ers can idenÂ�tify
ParÂ�rhaÂ�sius and ScoÂ�pas as a Â�painter and a sculpÂ�tor, reÂ�specÂ�tively.
HorÂ�ace Â�doesn’t menÂ�tion EnÂ�nius but he reÂ�fers to the CaÂ�laÂ�brian
Muse, and EnÂ�nius was from there and wrote about the Punic
Wars. SimÂ�iÂ�larly, he Â�doesn’t name CasÂ�tor or PolÂ�lux but reÂ�fers to
them as Â�Tyndarius’ sons. The same thing with BacÂ�chus, who is
simÂ�ply Â�called “the god of freeÂ�dom.” I took it upon myÂ�self to
make the epiÂ�thet Â�clearer.
9
You think these words of mine from Â�Aufidus’ banks
will float away? These lyric Â�pieces, meant
Book IV 171
to be sung to the soundÂ�ing Â�strings with an art
never beÂ�fore disÂ�played will enÂ�dure,
harÂ�dier than you may have supÂ�posed.

If Homer holds first place among all poets,
there is still room left for PinÂ�dar
and SimÂ�oÂ�nides, whom we all read,
along with Â�Alcaeus’ Â�verses about war

and those of SteÂ�sichÂ�orus. Time has been kind
to Â�Anacreon’s songs about Â�love’s
sweetÂ�nesss and pain and those of SapÂ�pho.
Is there any reaÂ�son to think that no woman beÂ�fore

Helen had been dazÂ�zled by good looks,
fine Â�clothes, handÂ�some hair,
and a very imÂ�presÂ�sive enÂ�tourÂ�age?
Â�Teucer was the Â�Achaians’ most skillÂ�ful Â�archer,

but men beÂ�fore him had shot arÂ�rows and Â�killed
many enemy solÂ�diers. Troy
Â�wasn’t the Â�world’s first city
to have been under siege and then deÂ�stroyed.

FurÂ�ther back than anyÂ�one can reÂ�memÂ�ber
an IdÂ�oÂ�menÂ�eus Â�fought in batÂ�tle,
man to man, with a SthenÂ�eÂ�lus.
Men like Â�mighty HecÂ�tor were getÂ�ting hurt

and Â�killed and the likes of DeiphoÂ�bus and even
AgÂ�aÂ�memÂ�non, but no one weeps
for them or even knows their names
that are lost in the endÂ�less darkÂ�ness of death—

beÂ�cause they did not have a saÂ�cred bard
172 Book IV
like Homer. Which were the brave men
and which were cowÂ�ards? No one knows.
But don’t you worry, LolÂ�lius, you have me

to keep your name alive and all your exÂ�ploits.
You have a keen mind and a knack
for polÂ�iÂ�tics and getÂ�ting Â�things done.
In good times as well as difÂ�fiÂ�cult, you disÂ�play

those qualÂ�ities of charÂ�acÂ�ter men adÂ�mire.
You are swift to punÂ�ish the disÂ�honÂ�est
and Â�greedy, and you keep aloof
from avÂ�aÂ�rice, yourÂ�self, and its tempÂ�taÂ�tions.

You have been conÂ�sul and alÂ�ways beÂ�have like one
and are Â�widely known as an exÂ�celÂ�lent judge,
Â�learned in the law and fair.
You canÂ�not be Â�bribed. (Who would dare to try?)

Your Â�shield of virÂ�tue proÂ�tects you from all asÂ�saults
from the Â�enemies’ blandÂ�ishÂ�ments or their mutÂ�tered
Â�threats you preÂ�tend not to have heard.
HapÂ�piÂ�ness is not the posÂ�sesÂ�sion of Â�wealth

but Â�rather the wisÂ�dom of how to use gods’ gifts
and live, if you are Â�forced to, a fruÂ�gal
exÂ�isÂ�tence—inÂ�difÂ�ferÂ�ent to circumÂ�stance.
Take care of your honor while you are alive

and do not be conÂ�cerned about your death.
Who would not wish to die for his Â�friends
or, if the need Â�should arise, his counÂ�try?
W hen the conÂ�text proÂ�vides Â�enough inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion, I disÂ�-

like addÂ�ing to the text to exÂ�plain, for inÂ�stance, who
Book IV 173
SteÂ�sichÂ�orus or SthenÂ�eÂ�lus was. It is interÂ�estÂ�ing but not at all
vital to know that LolÂ�lius was conÂ�sul in 21 BCE. The idea that
achieveÂ�ment was only a first step, and that a poet was necÂ�esÂ�sary
to conÂ�vert that achieveÂ�ment into kleos (fame), was conÂ�venÂ�tional
in Â�Greece, and the purÂ�pose of the epiÂ�niÂ�cian odes of PinÂ�dar,
SimÂ�oÂ�nides, and BacÂ�chyÂ�lides was to make that conÂ�verÂ�sion.
HorÂ�ace then turns to philÂ�oÂ�sophÂ�iÂ�cal stoÂ�iÂ�cism as he inÂ�sists
that virÂ�tue and modÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tion are the preÂ�reqÂ�uiÂ�sites to hapÂ�piÂ�ness.
Again, these are conÂ�venÂ�tional senÂ�tiÂ�ments, but the point is not
to conÂ�vey the inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion but to disÂ�play elÂ�eÂ�gance in the way it
is exÂ�pressed. The chalÂ�lenge for me was to arÂ�range the synÂ�tax
and the metÂ�rics in such a way as to sugÂ�gest the snap of the Latin.
10
You can be as cruel as you want, as long as you have
Â�Venus’ aweÂ�some powÂ�ers, but how long will they last?
You arÂ�roÂ�gance, LiÂ�guÂ�riÂ�nus, will Â�shiver in Â�winter’s cold,
and those casÂ�cades of silky hair thin and begin
to fall out. Those roses that grace your Â�cheeks will fade
to stubÂ�ble, and you will see that difÂ�ferÂ�ent face in a mirÂ�ror
and, in your loneÂ�liÂ�ness, wonÂ�der why as a youth you Â�showed
so litÂ�tle underÂ�standÂ�ing for those who felt a deÂ�sire
that you have begun to feel but canÂ�not Â�satisfy.
T he Latin has LiÂ�guÂ�riÂ�nus in diÂ�rect quoÂ�taÂ�tion at the end, and

I supÂ�pose I could have done that, but I liked the edge in
the Â�speaker’s voice and how it could be mainÂ�tained if he were
imÂ�aÂ�ginÂ�ing Lugurinus’
Â� words. The pace of those last five lines
was betÂ�ter, too, withÂ�out the gramÂ�matÂ�iÂ�cal shift. The point, after
all, is the rage that the Â�speaker alÂ�lows to show Â�through the
deÂ�coÂ�rum of the hexamÂ�eÂ�ters.
174 Book IV
11
I’ve got a botÂ�tle of fine Alban wine
laid down nine years ago and ready to drink.
In the garÂ�den you must reÂ�memÂ�ber, PhylÂ�lis, is parÂ�sley
for makÂ�ing garÂ�lands
and Â�plenty of ivy with which to bind your hair

(you look splenÂ�did that way). The house is smilÂ�ing,
the polÂ�ished silÂ�ver Â�gleams, the altar is Â�decked
with green Â�boughs
and waits for the sacÂ�riÂ�fice of a lamb. The Â�slaves,

male and feÂ�male, Â�scurry this way and that.
Smoke from the lamps asÂ�cends into the air
in playÂ�ful edÂ�dies.
The ocÂ�caÂ�sion? The Ides of April, Â�Venus’ month,

but more than that it is the forÂ�tuÂ�nate month
of my birthÂ�day and, even more imÂ�porÂ�tant,
my Â�friend, Â�Maecenas’.
TeleÂ�phus will be there, but I sugÂ�gest

that you don’t get your hopes up. He’s Â�spoken for
by a girl with asÂ�sets as well as a great ass—
both of which are atÂ�tracÂ�tive.
He is happy in his fetÂ�ters, as Â�you’ll see.

You don’t want to aim too high, as PhaeÂ�thon did
beÂ�fore he deÂ�scended Â�abruptly and in Â�flames.
Think about him
Book IV 175
and also about BelÂ�lerÂ�oÂ�phon who tried
to ride PegÂ�aÂ�sus into the air—but the horse,
restÂ�less under a Â�merely human rider,
Â�bucked and threw him.
The moral, my dear, is clear Â�enough: asÂ�pire

but not Â�higher than what you can reach for.
UnÂ�equal Â�matches are Â�mostly difÂ�fiÂ�cult
and end badly.
But come. For my sake. You are my last love.

(I can’t imÂ�aÂ�gine anÂ�other.) Sing a few songs
with your Â�lovely voice and drive away dark Â�thoughts
at least for a while.
T his is Â�rather a Â�breezy and inÂ�forÂ�mal piece, as I read it, so I

alÂ�lowed myÂ�self a litÂ�tle breeziÂ�ness, even going so far as
that busiÂ�ness about “asÂ�sets as well as a great ass,” which is more
or less what HorÂ�ace is sayÂ�ing and, if I’m right, has the same
kind of spin. The parÂ�sley he menÂ�tions in the first Â�stanza is slang
(or was some years back) for pubic hair, but even Â�though HorÂ�ace
Â�couldn’t have preÂ�dicted that, he’d be pleased
Â� with it.
I Â�wanted to do someÂ�thing with Â�Horace’s “weighty moral,”
which he deÂ�rives from the PegÂ�aÂ�sus story. The sugÂ�gesÂ�tion perÂ�haps
is that, as a morÂ�tal, BelÂ�lerÂ�oÂ�phon was too heavy for PegÂ�aÂ�sus. I
Â�thought about it some, but I Â�didn’t want to force it, beÂ�cause
often the unÂ�happy reÂ�sult is that it Â�sounds Â�forced.
12
The winds are now from Â�Thrace and they calm the sea
even as they anÂ�nounce the comÂ�ing of Â�spring.
The Â�fields have Â�thawed and the roar of the Â�brooks has Â�hushed
to a soothÂ�ing, civÂ�ilÂ�ized babÂ�ble
176 Book IV
now that the Â�year’s snowÂ�melt has come to an end.
Â�Procne’s nightÂ�inÂ�gale sings her mournÂ�ful song
for poor Itys, her son she Â�killed in her rage,
as she laÂ�bors, buildÂ�ing her nest.
On the tenÂ�der young grass, the shepÂ�herds play

on their pipes as they keep their eyes on their Â�flocks of sheep,
and Pan, who loves their music, looks after them
on their ArÂ�caÂ�dian hillÂ�sides.
It’s the seaÂ�son for parÂ�ties, VirÂ�gil. The wine

Â�awaits us that is Â�Bacchus’ gift to manÂ�kind.
You sit at the taÂ�bles of noÂ�bleÂ�men where your Â�tastes
have probÂ�ably been reÂ�fined;
you offer your litÂ�tle cerÂ�eÂ�moÂ�nial gift

of fraÂ�grant spikeÂ�nard, and for this you get
vinÂ�tages only lots of money can buy,
which I have never Â�tasted,
to wash away Â�depression’s bitÂ�terÂ�ness.

Let us drink toÂ�gether. Come when you can
and bring a botÂ�tle or two along. I’m not
one of those rich guys.
But you and I can kick back and relax

as only old Â�friends can, laughÂ�ing toÂ�gether.
You Â�haven’t forÂ�gotÂ�ten how to be silly, have you?
Life often deÂ�mands that.
I am esÂ�peÂ�cially taken by this one, and perÂ�haps beÂ�cause of

that I’ve alÂ�lowed myÂ�self more libÂ�erÂ�ties than usual. Small,
but tellÂ�ing. And I think they make a good poem even betÂ�ter in
Â�slightly streamÂ�lined EnÂ�glish.
The inÂ�viÂ�taÂ�tion to VirÂ�gil isn’t real. He is alÂ�most cerÂ�tainly
Book IV 177
dead by the time HorÂ�ace Â�writes this. It is, thereÂ�fore, Â�rather a
meÂ�moÂ�rial, a boast that HorÂ�ace knew him and also a wish that
they could get toÂ�gether to horse Â�around a litÂ�tle the way they
used to. And I just love the way it ends, with HorÂ�ace tellÂ�ing
him to Â�lighten up a litÂ�tle. (VirÂ�gil was the most “ofÂ�fiÂ�cial” poet in
WestÂ�ern civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion, and Â�Horace’s adÂ�vice was exÂ�celÂ�lent.)
I simÂ�plified the Â�Procne story a litÂ�tle, omitÂ�ting the busiÂ�ness
about the house of CecÂ�rops. The story is well Â�enough known in
its genÂ�eral outÂ�line that I could nod in its diÂ�recÂ�tion, as I think
HorÂ�ace was doing. CecÂ�rops was a mythÂ�iÂ�cal king of AthÂ�ens to
whom Â�Procne was thereÂ�fore reÂ�lated (her Â�father was PanÂ�dion,
king of AthÂ�ens), but CecÂ�rops is irÂ�relÂ�eÂ�vant to the poem here.
I left out SulÂ�piÂ�cius, who is probÂ�ably the upÂ�scale wine merÂ�
chant Â�Virgil’s rich Â�friends (MaeÂ�ceÂ�nas, AuÂ�gusÂ�tus) paÂ�tronÂ�ize, but
the name disÂ�tracts more than it helps. So that got Â�dropped.
“Kick back and relax” isn’t in the Latin, but I am conÂ�fiÂ�dent
that Â�that’s what HorÂ�ace is sugÂ�gestÂ�ing at the end of the poem. Its
inÂ�forÂ�malÂ�ity is alÂ�most as imÂ�porÂ�tant as the silÂ�liÂ�ness (baÂ�bouiÂ�nisme)
HorÂ�ace is proÂ�posÂ�ing.
13
The gods have heard my Â�prayers, Lyce. They have
and they have Â�granted them too, as you can see
whenÂ�ever you pass a mirÂ�ror:
Lyce, Â�you’ve grown old.
But that isn’t the half of it, for you

still try to look young and join in the party,
drinkÂ�ing, singÂ�ing songs,
shakÂ�ing your hips, and flirtÂ�ing.
178 Book IV
Venus, herÂ�self, is emÂ�barÂ�rassed and looks away
in Â�Chia’s diÂ�recÂ�tion, more Â�likely than not,
with that perÂ�fect glowÂ�ing comÂ�plexÂ�ion
in the fresh bloom of youth.
You, on the other hand, are a Â�blasted oak

the gods and men avoid—with your yelÂ�lowed teeth,
your wrinÂ�kles and snowy hair,
and woeÂ�fully sagÂ�ging tits.
You used to be a terÂ�rific piece of ass,

but time has taken its toll. Your sex apÂ�peal
and your graceÂ�ful liqÂ�uid moveÂ�ment
are anÂ�cient hisÂ�tory now.
You stole me away from myÂ�self. The only woman

I loved and deÂ�sired as much as you was CiÂ�nara,
also a great Â�beauty
but fate has been Â�kinder to her,
letÂ�ting her die young while you perÂ�sist,

a crone, an old crow the lads laugh at.
Your torch has flickÂ�ered out
and nothÂ�ing is left but ashes.
T here is a poem here, of Â�course, but what the transÂ�laÂ�tor must

try to conÂ�vey is its deÂ�lightÂ�ful sass, and to acÂ�comÂ�plish this
I have had to imÂ�proÂ�vise modÂ�ern equivÂ�aÂ�lents to the Â�tropes HorÂ�
ace used (that were, then, also modÂ�ern). The sagÂ�ging tits are
noÂ�where in the Latin, but they are everyÂ�where. The rule I obÂ�
serve is that my inÂ�truÂ�sions must fit with the sigÂ�nifÂ�iÂ�cant moÂ�ments
in the poem. How one gets from point A to point B is less imÂ�
porÂ�tant than the makÂ�ing of those Â�points, and I think I do that.
Book IV 179
14
How can the grateÂ�ful SenÂ�ate and peoÂ�ple of Rome
comÂ�memorate your achieveÂ�ments in such a way
that they will proÂ�claim forÂ�ever what you
have done and the honÂ�ors you have Â�earned?
Most Â�mighty AuÂ�gusÂ�tus, how can we conÂ�trive

to tesÂ�tify by inÂ�scripÂ�tions and pubÂ�lic Â�records,
O Â�prince, your power Â�wherever the sun
Â�shines on men in the wide world?
They have seen exÂ�amÂ�ples of your Â�strength

in the rout of VinÂ�delÂ�ici far away
by DruÂ�sus, who with your brave solÂ�diers
smote the obÂ�strepÂ�erÂ�ous GeÂ�nauni
and disÂ�ciÂ�plined seÂ�verely Â�Breuni tribesÂ�men

up in their forÂ�tified perch in the snowy Alps.
TiÂ�berÂ�ius, very soon thereÂ�afÂ�ter,
Â�fought a Â�bloody batÂ�tle for you
Â�
against the savÂ�age Raeti and Â�crushed them.
They were deÂ�terÂ�mined to die in freeÂ�dom, and he
afÂ�forded them their Â�chance to do so
in a gory scene Mars would have loved.
He was like the south wind whipÂ�ping the waves

of the agÂ�iÂ�tated sea when the Â�Pleades shine
Â�through ranÂ�dom gaps in the tatÂ�tered Â�clouds
and like that wind Â�fanned the Â�flames
of batÂ�tle Â�through which he rode on his fearÂ�less Â�charger.

You know how the AuÂ�fidus can roar like a bull
180 Book IV
as it rises from its banks to flood
the culÂ�tiÂ�vated Â�fields Â�around it
in Â�Daunus’ kingÂ�dom and goes on its ramÂ�page:

so did TiÂ�berÂ�ius with his Â�troops overÂ�whelm
the Â�savages’ lines, mowÂ�ing them down
from van to rear to litÂ�ter the field
beÂ�cause of the bravÂ�ery of his men, his tacÂ�tics,

and asÂ�sisÂ�tance from the gods who favor you.
Our army inÂ�curred no Â�losses in this
triÂ�umÂ�phant and lopÂ�sided enÂ�counÂ�ter.
It is fifÂ�teen years exÂ�actly since you deÂ�feated

AlexÂ�anÂ�dria, which Â�opened its port to us
and its empty palÂ�aces, and now
ForÂ�tune Â�grants sucÂ�cess again,
addÂ�ing furÂ�ther disÂ�tincÂ�tion to that glory

you had alÂ�ready acÂ�quired in other camÂ�paigns
Â�against the SpanÂ�iards, the ScythÂ�ians,
the Medes and even beÂ�yond the Indus
all of whom now look upon you with awe.

You are Â�Rome’s deÂ�fender, and she is misÂ�tress
of all the world beÂ�cause of you,
from the DaÂ�nube to the Â�far-off Nile
(whose Â�source no one has ever seen). From the TiÂ�gris

to the Ocean in the west that teems with monÂ�sters
and roars about the Â�Britons’ isÂ�land,
you are the unÂ�disÂ�puted masÂ�ter.
Even the Gauls, who have no fear of death,

obey your comÂ�mands and acÂ�knowlÂ�edge your great power.
Book IV 181
The bloodÂ�thirsty SyÂ�gramÂ�bri have laid aside
their weapÂ�ons and pay you homÂ�age and tribÂ�ute.
M y only alÂ�terÂ�aÂ�tion here was to name TiÂ�berÂ�ius, which Hor-

Â�ace conÂ�trives not to do—beÂ�cause AuÂ�gusÂ�tus Â�didn’t like
him. OmitÂ�ting the name, he calls him Â�Drusus’ elder Â�brother,
and then, later, ClauÂ�dius, beÂ�cause his full name was TiÂ�berÂ�ius
ClauÂ�dius Nero. It seems odd to have sevÂ�eral stanÂ�zas praisÂ�ing him
even while supÂ�pressÂ�ing the name he was known by. AuÂ�gusÂ�tus is
not Â�around anyÂ�more to disÂ�apÂ�prove and, for the sake of clarÂ�ity,
I call him TiÂ�berÂ�ius.
I could have idenÂ�tified some of the Â�tribes, eiÂ�ther in the ode
or here in the notes, but all that is relÂ�eÂ�vant is that they are
OthÂ�ers—farÂ�away, Â�lesser Â�breeds withÂ�out the law. One could
acÂ�cuse Rome of being “imÂ�peÂ�riÂ�alÂ�ist,” but in an emÂ�pire that is
not surÂ�prisÂ�ing.
15
I had inÂ�tended to sing of strenÂ�uÂ�ous batÂ�tles
and the conÂ�quest of citÂ�ies, but PhoeÂ�bus disÂ�apÂ�proved
and Â�strummed on his Â�curved lyre to keep me
from setÂ�ting forth on any such voyÂ�age.
Your era, CaeÂ�sar, has Â�brought us the gift of peace

with rich harÂ�vests in our unÂ�trouÂ�bled Â�fields.
Our stanÂ�dards that CrasÂ�sus lost at CarÂ�rhai
have been reÂ�stored and hang on the walls
of the temÂ�ple of war, the doors of which are Â�closed.

You have corÂ�rected the Â�people’s imÂ�moÂ�ral beÂ�havÂ�ior,
supÂ�pressed sin, and reÂ�vived the Â�crafts
and anÂ�cient arts for which we were faÂ�mous.
182 Book IV
The emÂ�pire is exÂ�tended from the west,
where the sun sets, to the east from which it rises,
and Â�Rome’s presÂ�tige Â�spreads with it,
like none that has ever gone beÂ�fore.
With CaeÂ�sar rulÂ�ing in the afÂ�fairs of men,

peace will not be disÂ�turbed by civil madÂ�ness,
or anger that hones Â�swords to loose
the bloodÂ�lust for war of city with city.
Those Â�tribes in the north that drink from the blue DaÂ�nube
will obey the JuÂ�lian Laws, as will the Getae,
the ParÂ�thians, or farÂ�ther east
those who live near the ChiÂ�nese gate.
Here in Rome, on workÂ�days and feast days,

we are Â�blessed by BacÂ�chus, the god of freeÂ�dom,
and with our wives and chilÂ�dren offer
Â�prayers and songs of celÂ�eÂ�braÂ�tion
acÂ�comÂ�paÂ�nied by LyÂ�dian pipes: we reÂ�memÂ�ber

our Â�fathers who lived lives of virÂ�tues and led
a naÂ�tion of true men, the heirs
of AnÂ�chises and Â�ever-friendly Venus.
O kay, so HorÂ�ace does not menÂ�tion the color of the DaÂ�n-

ube. I stuck that in, not enÂ�tirely as a joke but beÂ�cause
it is a “meme” and Â�likely to evoke a tiny nod of recÂ�ogÂ�niÂ�tion—
unÂ�imÂ�porÂ�tant in itÂ�self but in an agÂ�greÂ�gate way conÂ�tribÂ�utÂ�ing to the
linÂ�guisÂ�tic denÂ�sity of the poem. A lot gets lost in the EngÂ�lishÂ�ing
of the Latin and one must supÂ�ply a few kerÂ�nels here and there,
gesÂ�tures of conÂ�spirÂ�acy between
Â� the text and the Â�reader.
I supÂ�plied Â�Bacchus’ name but inÂ�cluded “god of freeÂ�dom” as
an apÂ�poÂ�siÂ�tion. BetÂ�ter than a footÂ�note. And I omitÂ�ted the name
Book IV 183
of the temÂ�ple of Janus QuiÂ�riÂ�nus but I did exÂ�plain about the
doors. I Â�didn’t abÂ�soÂ�lutely need the “LyÂ�dian pipes” but the
menÂ�tion Â�sounded just the right exÂ�otic note.
OthÂ�erÂ�wise, it is alÂ�most line for line, if not verbatim.
184 Book IV
WisÂ�conÂ�sin StudÂ�ies in ClasÂ�sics
GenÂ�eral EdÂ�iÂ�tors
PaÂ�triÂ�cia A. RoÂ�senÂ�meyer, Laura McClure, and
Mark Stansbury-O’Donnell
E. A. ThompÂ�son
RoÂ�mans and BarÂ�barÂ�ians: The DeÂ�cline of the WestÂ�ern EmÂ�pire
H. I. MarÂ�rou
A HisÂ�tory of EdÂ�uÂ�caÂ�tion in AnÂ�tiqÂ�uity
HisÂ�toire de Â�l’Education dans Â�l’Antiquité,
transÂ�lated by Â�George Lamb
JenÂ�niÂ�fer TolÂ�bert RobÂ�erts

AcÂ�countÂ�abilÂ�ity in AtheÂ�nian GovernÂ�ment
Erika Simon
FesÂ�tiÂ�vals of AtÂ�tica: An ArÂ�chaeÂ�oÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal ComÂ�menÂ�tary
WarÂ�ren G. Moon, edÂ�iÂ�tor

AnÂ�cient Greek Art and IcÂ�oÂ�nogÂ�raÂ�phy
G. MiÂ�chael WoÂ�loch
Roman CitÂ�ies: Les Â�villes roÂ�maines by Â�Pierre GriÂ�mal,
transÂ�lated and edÂ�ited by G. MiÂ�chael WoÂ�loch,
toÂ�gether with A DeÂ�scripÂ�tive CatÂ�aÂ�logue of Roman CitÂ�ies by
G. MiÂ�chael WoÂ�loch
KatheÂ�rine Dohan MorÂ�row
Greek FootÂ�wear and the DatÂ�ing of SculpÂ�ture
John Kevin NewÂ�man

The ClasÂ�siÂ�cal Epic TraÂ�diÂ�tion
Â�
Jeanny Vorys Canby, Edith PoÂ�rada, BruÂ�nilde SisÂ�mondo RidgÂ�way,
and TaÂ�mara Stech, edÂ�iÂ�tors
AnÂ�cient AnÂ�aÂ�toÂ�lia: AsÂ�pects of Â�Change and CulÂ�tural DeÂ�velÂ�opÂ�ment
Ann NorÂ�ris MichÂ�eÂ�lini

EuÂ�riÂ�pides and the Â�Tragic TraÂ�diÂ�tion
Wendy J. Â�Raschke, edÂ�iÂ�tor

The ArÂ�chaeÂ�olÂ�ogy of the OlymÂ�pics: The OlymÂ�pics and Other FesÂ�tiÂ�vals in
AnÂ�tiqÂ�uity
Paul Plass
Wit and the WritÂ�ing of HisÂ�tory: The RhetÂ�oÂ�ric of HistoriogÂ�raÂ�phy in
ImÂ�peÂ�rial Rome
BarÂ�bara Â�Hughes Â�Fowler

The HelÂ�leÂ�nisÂ�tic AesÂ�thetic
F. M. Â�Clover and R. S. HumÂ�phreys, edÂ�iÂ�tors

TraÂ�diÂ�tion and InÂ�noÂ�vaÂ�tion in Late AnÂ�tiqÂ�uity
BruÂ�nilde SisÂ�mondo RidgÂ�way

HelÂ�leÂ�nisÂ�tic SculpÂ�ture I: The Â�Styles of ca. 331–200 B.C.
BarÂ�bara Â�Hughes Â�Fowler, edÂ�iÂ�tor and transÂ�laÂ�tor

HelÂ�leÂ�nisÂ�tic Â�Poetry: An AnÂ�tholÂ�ogy
KathÂ�ryn J. GutzÂ�willer
Â�Theocritus’ PasÂ�toÂ�ral AnalÂ�oÂ�gies: The ForÂ�maÂ�tion of a Genre
ViÂ�mala BeÂ�gley and RichÂ�ard DanÂ�iel De Puma, edÂ�iÂ�tors

Rome and India: The AnÂ�cient Sea Trade
RuÂ�dolf Blum
Hans H. WellÂ�isch, transÂ�laÂ�tor
KalÂ�liÂ�maÂ�chos: The AlexÂ�anÂ�drian LiÂ�brary and the OrÂ�iÂ�gins of
BibÂ�liogÂ�raÂ�phy
David CasÂ�triÂ�ota
Myth, Ethos, and AcÂ�tuÂ�alÂ�ity: OfÂ�fiÂ�cial Art in Fifth CenÂ�tury B.C. AthÂ�ens
BarÂ�bara Â�Hughes Â�Fowler, edÂ�iÂ�tor and transÂ�laÂ�tor

ArÂ�chaic Greek Â�Poetry: An AnÂ�tholÂ�ogy
John H. OakÂ�ley and ReÂ�becca H. Sinos

The WedÂ�ding in AnÂ�cient AthÂ�ens
RichÂ�ard DanÂ�iel De Puma and JoceÂ�lyn Penny Small, edÂ�iÂ�tors

Murlo and the EtrusÂ�cans: Art and SoÂ�ciÂ�ety in AnÂ�cient EtruÂ�ria
JuÂ�dith Lynn SeÂ�besta and LaÂ�rissa BonÂ�fante, edÂ�iÂ�tors

The World of Roman CosÂ�tume
JenÂ�niÂ�fer LarÂ�son
Greek HerÂ�oÂ�ine Cults
WarÂ�ren G. Moon, edÂ�iÂ�tor

PolyÂ�kleiÂ�tos, the DorÂ�yÂ�phoÂ�ros, and TraÂ�diÂ�tion
Paul Plass
The Game of Death in AnÂ�cient Rome: Arena Sport and
PoÂ�litÂ�iÂ�cal SuiÂ�cide
MarÂ�gaÂ�ret S. Â�Drower
FlindÂ�ers PeÂ�trie: A Life in ArÂ�chaeÂ�olÂ�ogy
Susan B. MatheÂ�son
PolygÂ�noÂ�tos and Vase PaintÂ�ing in ClasÂ�siÂ�cal AthÂ�ens
JeÂ�niÂ�fer Neils, edÂ�iÂ�tor

WorÂ�shipÂ�ping Â�Athena: PanÂ�aÂ�theÂ�naia and PartheÂ�non
PamÂ�ela A. Webb
HelÂ�leÂ�nisÂ�tic ArchiÂ�tecÂ�tuÂ�ral SculpÂ�ture: FigÂ�ural MoÂ�tifs in
WestÂ�ern AnÂ�aÂ�toÂ�lia and the AeÂ�gean IsÂ�lands

Â�
Fourth-Century Â�Styles in Greek SculpÂ�ture
Lucy GooÂ�diÂ�son and ChrisÂ�tine MorÂ�ris, edÂ�iÂ�tors

AnÂ�cient GodÂ�desses: The Myths and the EvÂ�iÂ�dence
Â�
Jo-Marie ClaasÂ�sen
DisÂ�placed PerÂ�sons: The LitÂ�erÂ�aÂ�ture of Exile from CiÂ�cero to
BoethÂ�ius

HelÂ�leÂ�nisÂ�tic SculpÂ�ture II: The Â�Styles of ca. 200–100 B.C.
Pat Â�Getz-Gentle
PerÂ�sonal Â�Styles in Early CyÂ�cladic SculpÂ�ture
CaÂ�tulÂ�lus
David MulÂ�roy, transÂ�laÂ�tor and comÂ�menÂ�taÂ�tor
The ComÂ�plete Â�Poetry of CaÂ�tulÂ�lus

HelÂ�leÂ�nisÂ�tic SculpÂ�ture III: The Â�Styles of ca. 100–31 B.C.
AnÂ�geÂ�liki KosÂ�moÂ�pouÂ�lou
The IcÂ�oÂ�nogÂ�raÂ�phy of SculpÂ�tured Â�Statue Bases in the ArÂ�chaic and
ClasÂ�siÂ�cal PeÂ�riÂ�ods
Sara H. LindÂ�heim
Mail and FeÂ�male: EpisÂ�toÂ�lary NarÂ�raÂ�tive and DeÂ�sire in Ovid’s
“HeÂ�roides”
GraÂ�ham Zanker
Â�
Modes of ViewÂ�ing in HelÂ�leÂ�nisÂ�tic Â�Poetry and Art
AlexÂ�anÂ�dra Ann CarÂ�pino
Discs of SplenÂ�dor: The ReÂ�lief MirÂ�rors of the EtrusÂ�cans
TimÂ�oÂ�thy S. JohnÂ�son
A SymÂ�poÂ�sion of Â�Praise: HorÂ�ace ReÂ�turns to Lyric in “Odes” IV
Â�
Jean-René JanÂ�not
ReÂ�liÂ�gion in AnÂ�cient EtruÂ�ria
DeÂ�vins, Dieux et DémÂ�ons: ReÂ�gards sur la reÂ�liÂ�gion de Â�l’Etrurie Â�antique,
transÂ�lated by Jane K. WhiteÂ�head
CatheÂ�rine Â�Schlegel
Â�Satire and the Â�Threat of Â�Speech: Â�Horace’s Â�“Satires,” Book 1
ChrisÂ�toÂ�pher A. FaÂ�raone and Laura K. Â�McClure, edÂ�iÂ�tors

ProsÂ�tiÂ�tutes and CourteÂ�sans in the AnÂ�cient World
PlauÂ�tus
John HenÂ�derÂ�son, transÂ�laÂ�tor and comÂ�menÂ�taÂ�tor
AsÂ�iÂ�naria: The One about the Asses
PaÂ�trice D. RanÂ�kine
UlysÂ�ses in Black: Ralph ElÂ�liÂ�son, ClasÂ�siÂ�cism, and African Â�American
LitÂ�erÂ�aÂ�ture
Paul Rehak
John G. Â�Younger, edÂ�iÂ�tor
ImÂ�peÂ�rium and CosÂ�mos: AuÂ�gusÂ�tus and the NorthÂ�ern CamÂ�pus MarÂ�tius
PaÂ�triÂ�cia J. JohnÂ�son
Ovid beÂ�fore Exile: Art and PunÂ�ishÂ�ment in the “MetaÂ�morÂ�phoses”
Vered Lev KeÂ�naan

Â�Pandora’s Â�Senses: The FemÂ�iÂ�nine CharÂ�acÂ�ter of the AnÂ�cient Text
Erik GunÂ�derÂ�son
Nox PhiÂ�lolÂ�oÂ�giae: Aulus GelÂ�lius and the FanÂ�tasy of the Roman LiÂ�brary
SinÂ�clair Bell and Helen Nagy, edÂ�iÂ�tors
New PerÂ�specÂ�tives on EtruÂ�ria and Early Rome
BarÂ�bara PavÂ�lock
The Image of the Poet in Â�Ovid’s “MetaÂ�morÂ�phoses”
Paul CarÂ�tledge and Fiona Rose GreenÂ�land, edÂ�iÂ�tors

ReÂ�sponses to OlÂ�iÂ�ver Â�Stone’s “AlÂ�exÂ�anÂ�der”: Film, HisÂ�tory, and
CulÂ�tural StudÂ�ies
Â�
Amalia AvÂ�ramÂ�iÂ�dou
The CoÂ�drus Â�Painter: IcÂ�oÂ�nogÂ�raÂ�phy and ReÂ�cepÂ�tion of AtheÂ�nian Vases
in the Age of PerÂ�iÂ�cles
Shane ButÂ�ler
The MatÂ�ter of the Page: EsÂ�says in Â�Search of AnÂ�cient and
MeÂ�diÂ�eval AuÂ�thors
AlÂ�liÂ�son GlazeÂ�brook and MadeÂ�leine Henry, edÂ�iÂ�tors

Greek ProsÂ�tiÂ�tutes in the AnÂ�cient MedÂ�iÂ�terÂ�raÂ�nean, 800 BCE–200 CE
NorÂ�man AusÂ�tin
Â�Sophocles’ “PhiÂ�locÂ�tetes” and the Great Soul RobÂ�bery
SophÂ�oÂ�cles
A verse transÂ�laÂ�tion by David MulÂ�roy, with introÂ�ducÂ�tion and notes
OedÂ�iÂ�pus Rex
John AnÂ�dreau and RayÂ�mond DeÂ�scat

The Slave in Â�Greece and Rome
EsÂ�clave en Grèce et à Rome, transÂ�lated by MarÂ�ion LeÂ�oÂ�pold
Â�
Amanda WilÂ�cox
The Gift of CorÂ�reÂ�sponÂ�dence in ClasÂ�siÂ�cal Rome: FriendÂ�ship in Â�Cicero’s
“Ad FaÂ�milÂ�iÂ�ares” and Â�Seneca’s “Moral EpisÂ�tles”
Mark BuÂ�chan
PerÂ�fidy and PasÂ�sion: ReÂ�introÂ�ducÂ�ing the “Iliad”
SophÂ�oÂ�cles
A verse transÂ�laÂ�tion by David MulÂ�roy, with introÂ�ducÂ�tion and notes
AntiÂ�gone
GeofÂ�frey W. BakeÂ�well
Â�Aeschylus’s “SupÂ�pliÂ�ant Women”: The TragÂ�edy of ImÂ�miÂ�graÂ�tion
ElizÂ�aÂ�beth PauÂ�lette BauÂ�ghan

Â�
Couched in Death: “KliÂ�nai” and IdenÂ�tity in AnÂ�aÂ�toÂ�lia and BeÂ�yond
BenÂ�jaÂ�min Eldon SteÂ�vens

SiÂ�lence in CaÂ�tulÂ�lus
HorÂ�ace
TransÂ�lated with comÂ�menÂ�tary by David R. SlaÂ�vitt
Odes

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(Wisconsin Studies in Classics) Horace, David R. Slavitt - Odes-University of Wisconsin Press (2014) PDF

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Odes

PubÂ�liÂ�caÂ�tion of this volÂ�ume has been made posÂ�sible, in part,

TransÂ�lated with comÂ�menÂ�tary by

The UniÂ�verÂ�sity of WisÂ�conÂ�sin Press

Â�Printed in the Â�United Â�States of AmerÂ�ica

LiÂ�brary of ConÂ�gress Â�Cataloging-Â�in-Â�Publication Data

QuinÂ�tus HoÂ�raÂ�tius FlacÂ�cus (65–8 BCE), whom we call simÂ�ply

T he Â�poetry, writÂ�ten over the Â�course of three Â�decades, de-

W hat folÂ�lows is a transÂ�laÂ�tion of the Odes, fasÂ�ciÂ�natÂ�ing and

T he Latin text of these poems is availÂ�able onÂ�line at the

who wonÂ�der Â�whether the dreadÂ�ful age of PyrÂ�rha

and fish may roost in the lofty Â�branches of elms

We saw how the muddy Tiber in its fury

and Â�spread beÂ�yond to inÂ�unÂ�date the city

Our chilÂ�dren shall hear the sorry story of war

Upon which of the gods shall peoÂ�ple call

ProÂ�phetic Â�Apollo, we pray you to come some night,

Or you, AuÂ�gusÂ�tus, of Venus and Mars’ race

Or will the son of Maia apÂ�pear on earth,

and then reÂ�turn to the skies to dwell among

First of the RoÂ�mans, you will not perÂ�mit

T his is an ode in Â�praise of AuÂ�gusÂ�tus in SapÂ�phics with a lilt

to speed you as you go,

That man who first set forth

to brave the Â�fierce winds

How could he not have Â�flinched

I won’t even menÂ�tion

ProÂ�meÂ�theus Â�brought fire

inÂ�cludÂ�ing sickÂ�ness and death.

It’s how we beÂ�have: we asÂ�pire

T his is a poem of hope that Â�Virgil’s voyÂ�age to Â�Greece goes

with her godÂ�like nimÂ�bus of hair of molÂ�ten gold.

He is Â�blinded by dazÂ�zle now: let him enjoy it.

I have hung all my seaÂ�goÂ�ing gear

T his is the first love poem and it is charÂ�acÂ�terÂ�isÂ�tiÂ�cally HoÂ�ra-

would only diÂ�minÂ�ish your glory as well as Â�Caesar’s.

The pasÂ�sages of arms of which I sing

T his is a graceÂ�ful Â�verse-Â�letter to Â�Agrippa, who was the com-

or Â�Thessaly’s vale of Tempe. Some poets sing of AthÂ�ens,

or rich MyceÂ�nae. For me, the tacÂ�iÂ�turn Â�charms of Â�Sparta

the Â�Anio’s falls, the abunÂ�dant orÂ�chards that Â�thrive on the

as one ought to do someÂ�times to fend off worÂ�riÂ�some Â�thoughts

from SaÂ�laÂ�mis, is said to have Â�decked his foreÂ�head with Â�boughs

T he PlanÂ�cus to whom the poem is adÂ�dressed is MuÂ�naÂ�tius

He once Â�showed off with pride

Now, like Â�Thetis’ son,

T here is in the Latin a seÂ�ries of inÂ�diÂ�rect quesÂ�tions (cur proÂ�peres

putÂ�ting anÂ�other log onto the fire

ThalÂ�iÂ�arÂ�chus. Put your trust in the gods

and the ash will surÂ�vive unÂ�hurt. Do not fret,

Games in the dayÂ�time and whisÂ�perÂ�ing girls after dark,

MesÂ�senÂ�ger of Jove and the gods,

When Â�Apollo, whose catÂ�tle you had stoÂ�len,

You Â�guarded the agèd Priam, laden

You welÂ�come souls of the dead to the bliss

T his is an elÂ�eÂ�gant hymn to MerÂ�cury that HorÂ�ace Â�writes not

T his is a relÂ�aÂ�tively straightÂ�forÂ�ward fragÂ�ment of a disÂ�cusÂ�sion

or Â�Pindus’ peak or the Â�ridges of Â�Haemus’ range

Let me celÂ�eÂ�brate the alÂ�mighty Â�father

From him is beÂ�gotÂ�ten nothÂ�ing Â�greater than he,

ClosÂ�est in glory to Jove is PalÂ�las, brave

HerÂ�cules, too, deÂ�serves our panÂ�eÂ�gyric

when the Â�storm-Â�tossed waÂ�ters roar Â�against the Â�cliffs