BkII:VII A Friend Home From the Wars

O Pompey, often led, with me, by Brutus,

the head of our army, into great danger,

who’s sent you back, as a citizen,

to your country’s gods and Italy’s sky,

Pompey, the very dearest of my comrades,

with whom I’ve often drawn out the lingering

day in wine, my hair wreathed, and glistening

with perfumed balsam, of Syrian nard?

I was there at Philippi, with you, in that

headlong flight, sadly leaving my shield behind,

when shattered Virtue, and what threatened

from an ignoble purpose, fell to earth.

While in my fear Mercury dragged me, swiftly,

through the hostile ranks in a thickening cloud:

the wave was drawing you back to war,

carried once more by the troubled waters.

So grant Jupiter the feast he’s owed, and stretch

your limbs, wearied by long campaigning, under

my laurel boughs, and don’t spare the jars

that were destined to be opened by you.

Fill the smooth cups with Massic oblivion,

pour out the perfume from generous dishes,

Who’ll hurry to weave the wreathes for us

of dew-wet parsley or pliant myrtle?

Who’ll throw high Venus at dice and so become

the master of drink? I’ll rage as insanely

as any Thracian: It’s sweet to me

to revel when a friend is home again.

BkII:V Be Patient

She’s not ready to bear a yoke on her bowed

neck yet, she’s not yet equal to the duty

of coupling, or bearing the heavy

weight of a charging bull in the mating act.

The thoughts of your heifer are on green pastures,

on easing her burning heat in the river,

and sporting with the eager calves

in the depths of moist willow plantations.

Forget this passion of yours for the unripe

grape: autumn, the season of many-colours,

will soon be dyeing bluish clusters

a darker purple, on the vine, for you.

Soon she’ll pursue you, since fierce time rushes on

and will add to her the years it takes from you,

soon Lalage herself will be eager

to search you out as a husband, Lalage,

beloved as shy Pholoë was not, nor your

Chloris, with shoulders gleaming white, like a clear

moon shining over a midnight sea,

nor Cnidian Gyges, that lovely boy,

whom you could insert in a choir of girls,

and the wisest of strangers would fail to tell

the difference, with him hidden behind

his flowing hair, and ambiguous looks.

BkII:III One Ending

When things are troublesome, always remember,

keep an even mind, and in prosperity

be careful of too much happiness:

since my Dellius, you’re destined to die,

whether you live a life that’s always sad,

or reclining, privately, on distant lawns,

in one long holiday, take delight

in drinking your vintage Falernian.

Why do tall pines, and white poplars, love to merge

their branches in the hospitable shadows?

Why do the rushing waters labour

to hurry along down the winding rivers?

Tell them to bring us the wine, and the perfume, 

and all-too-brief petals of lovely roses,

while the world, and the years, and the dark

threads of the three fatal sisters allow.

You’ll leave behind all those meadows you purchased,

your house, your estate, yellow Tiber washes,

you’ll leave them behind, your heir will own

those towering riches you’ve piled so high.

Whether you’re rich, of old Inachus’s line,

or live beneath the sky, a pauper, blessed with

humble birth, it makes no difference:

you’ll be pitiless Orcus’s victim.

We’re all being driven to a single end,

all our lots are tossed in the urn, and, sooner

or later, they’ll emerge, and seat us

in Charon’s boat for eternal exile.

BkII:I To Pollio, Writing His History of the Civil Wars

You’re handling the Civil Wars, since Metellus

was Consul, the causes, errors, and stages,

Fortune’s game, and the heavy friendships

of princes, and the un-expiated

stain of blood over various weapons,

a task that’s filled with dangerous pitfalls,

so that you’re walking over embers

hidden under the treacherous ashes.

Don’t let the Muse of dark actions be long away

from the theatre: soon, when you’ve finished writing

public events, reveal your great gifts

again in Athenian tragedy,

you famous defendant of troubled clients,

Pollio, support of the Senate’s councils,

whom the laurel gave lasting glory

in the form of your Dalmatian triumph.

Already you’re striking our ears with the sounds,

the menace of blaring horns, and the trumpets,

already the glitter of weapons

terrifies horses, and riders’ faces.

Now I seem to hear magnificent leaders,

heads darkened, but not with inglorious dust,

and all the lands of earth are subdued,

but not implacable Cato’s spirit.

Juno, and those gods friendly to Africa,

who, powerless to avenge the land, withdrew,

make funeral offerings to Jugurtha,

of the grandchildren of his conquerors.

What fields are not enriched with the blood of Rome,

to bear witness with their graves to this impious

struggle of ours, and the sound, even heard

by the Persians, of Italy’s ruin?

What river or pool is ignorant of these

wretched wars? What sea has Roman slaughter failed

to discolour, and show me the shores

that are, as yet, still unstained by our blood.

But Muse, lest you dare to leave happy themes,

and take up Simonides’ dirges again,

search out a lighter plectrum’s measures,

with me, in some deep cavern of Venus.

BkI:XXXVIII The Simple Myrtle

My child, how I hate Persian ostentation,

garlands twined around lime-tree bark displease me:

forget your chasing, to find all the places

where late roses fade.

You’re eager, take care, that nothing enhances

the simple myrtle: it’s not only you that

it graces, the servant, but me as I drink,

beneath the dark vine.

This was the last poem from Horace's "Odes"; I have to find something else to start from tomorrow on.

BkI:XXXVI Numida’s Back Again

With music, and incense, and blood

of a bullock, delight in placating the gods

that guarded our Numida well,

who’s returned safe and sound, from the farthest West, now,

showering a host of kisses

on every dear friend, but on none of us more than

lovely Lamia, remembering

their boyhood spent under the self-same master,

their togas exchanged together.

Don’t allow this sweet day to lack a white marker,

no end to the wine jars at hand,

no rest for our feet in the Salian fashion,

Don’t let wine-heavy Damalis

conquer our Bassus in downing the Thracian draughts.

Don’t let our feast lack for roses,

or the long-lasting parsley, or the brief lilies:

we’ll all cast our decadent eyes

on Damalis, but Damalis won’t be parted

from that new lover of hers she’s

clasping, more tightly than the wandering ivy.

BkI:XXXIV Fortune’s Changes

Once I wandered, an expert in crazy wisdom,

a scant and infrequent adorer of gods,

now I’m forced to set sail and return,

to go back to the paths I abandoned.

For Jupiter, Father of all of the gods,

who generally splits the clouds with his lightning,

flashing away, drove thundering horses,

and his swift chariot, through the clear sky,

till the dull earth, and the wandering rivers,

and Styx, and dread Taenarus’ hateful headland,

and Atlas’s mountain-summits shook.

The god has the power to replace the highest

with the lowest, bring down the famous, and raise

the obscure to the heights. And greedy Fortune

with her shrill whirring, carries away

the crown and delights in setting it, there.

BkI:XXXII To the Lyre

I’m called on. O Lyre, if I’ve ever played

idle things with you in the shade, that will live,

for a year or more, come and utter a song

now, of Italy:

you were first tuned by Alcaeus of Lesbos,

a man daring in war, yet still, amongst arms,

or after he’d moored his storm-driven boat

on a watery shore,

he sang of the Muses, Bacchus, and Venus

that boy of hers, Cupid, that hangs around her,

and that beautiful Lycus, with his dark eyes

and lovely dark hair.

O tortoiseshell, Phoebus’s glory, welcome

at the feasts of Jupiter, the almighty,

O sweet comfort and balm of our troubles, heal,

if I call you true!

BkI:XXX Ode To Venus

O Venus, the queen of Cnidos and Paphos,

spurn your beloved Cyprus, and summoned

by copious incense, come to the lovely shrine

of my Glycera.

And let that passionate boy of yours, Cupid,

and the Graces with loosened zones, and the Nymphs,

and Youth, less lovely without you, hasten here,

and Mercury too.

BkI:XXVIII Three Handfuls of Earth

You, my Archytas, philosopher, and measurer of land,

of the sea, of wide sands, are entombed 

in a small mound of meagre earth near the Matinian shore,

and it’s of no use to you in the least,

that you, born to die, have explored the celestial houses

crossed, in spirit, the rounds of the sky.

Tantalus, Pelop’s father, died too, a guest of the gods,

and Tithonus took off to the heavens,

Minos gained entry to great Jupiter’s secrets, Tartarus

holds Euphorbus, twice sent to Orcus,

though he bore witness, carrying his shield there, to Trojan times,

and left nothing more behind, for black Death,

but his skin and his bones, and that certainly made him, Archytas,

to your mind, no trivial example

of Nature and truth. But there’s still one night that awaits us all,

and each, in turn, makes the journey of death.

The Furies deliver some as a spectacle for cruel Mars,

the greedy sea’s the sailor’s ruin:

the funerals of the old, and the young, close ranks together,

and no one’s spared by cruel Proserpine.

Me too, the south wind, Notus, swift friend of setting Orion,

drowned deep in Illyrian waters.

O, sailor, don’t hesitate, from spite, to grant a little treacherous

sand, to my unburied bones and skull.

So that, however the east wind might threaten the Italian

waves, thrashing the Venusian woods,

you’ll be safe, yourself, and rich rewards will flow from the source,

from even-handed Jupiter, and from

Neptune, who is the protector of holy Tarentum. Are you

indifferent to committing a wrong

that will harm your innocent children hereafter? Perhaps

a need for justice, and arrogant

disdain, await you, too: don’t let me be abandoned here

my prayers unanswered: no offering

will absolve you. Though you hurry away, it’s a brief delay:

three scattered handfuls of earth will free you.