BkI:XXVI A Garland For Lamia

Friend of the Muses, I’ll throw sadness and fear

to the winds, to blow over the Cretan Sea,

untroubled by whoever he is, that king

of the icy Arctic shores we’re afraid of,

or whatever might terrify the Armenians.

O Sweet Muse, that joys in fresh fountains,

weave them together all the bright flowers,

weave me a garland for my Lamia.

Without you there’s no worth in my tributes:

it’s fitting that you, that all of your sisters,

should immortalise him with new strains

of the lyre, with the Lesbian plectrum.

BkI:XXIV A Lament For Quintilius

What limit, or restraint, should we show at the loss

of so dear a life? Melpomene, teach me, Muse,

a song of mourning, you, whom the Father granted

a clear voice, the sound of the lyre.

Does endless sleep lie heavy on Quintilius,

now? When will Honour, and unswerving Loyalty,

that is sister to Justice, and our naked Truth,

ever discover his equal?

Many are the good men who weep for his dying,

none of them, Virgil, weep more profusely than you.

Piously, you ask the gods for him, alas, in vain:

not so was he given to us.

Even if you played on the Thracian lyre, listened

to by the trees, more sweetly than Orpheus could,

would life then return, to that empty phantom,

once Mercury, with fearsome wand,

who won’t simply re-open the gates of Fate

at our bidding, has gathered him to the dark throng?

It is hard: but patience makes more tolerable

whatever wrong’s to be righted.

BkI:XXII Singing of Lalage (Integer Vitae)

The man who is pure of life, and free of sin,

has no need, dear Fuscus, for Moorish javelins,

nor a bow and a quiver, fully loaded

with poisoned arrows,

whether his path’s through the sweltering Syrtes,

or through the inhospitable Caucasus,

or makes its way through those fabulous regions

Hydaspes waters.

While I was wandering, beyond the boundaries

of my farm, in the Sabine woods, and singing

free from care, lightly-defended, of my Lalage,

a wolf fled from me:

a monster not even warlike Apulia

nourishes deep in its far-flung oak forests,

or that Juba’s parched Numidian land breeds,

nursery of lions.

Set me down on the lifeless plains, where no trees

spring to life in the burning midsummer wind,

that wide stretch of the world that’s burdened by mists

and a gloomy sky:

set me down in a land denied habitation,

where the sun’s chariot rumbles too near the earth:

I’ll still be in love with my sweetly laughing,

sweet talking Lalage.

BkI:XX To Maecenas

Come and drink with me, rough Sabine in cheap cups,

yet wine that I sealed myself, and laid up

in a Grecian jar, when you dear Maecenas,

flower of knighthood,

received the theatre’s applause, so your native

river-banks, and, also, the Vatican Hill,

together returned that praise again, to you,

in playful echoes.

Then, drink Caecubum, and the juice of the grape

crushed in Campania’s presses, my cups are

unmixed with what grows on Falernian vines,

or Formian hills.

BkI:XVIII Wine

Cultivate no plant, my Varus, before the rows of sacred vines,

set in Tibur’s gentle soil, and by the walls Catilus founded:

because the god decreed all things are hard for those who never drink,

and he gave us no better way to lessen our anxieties.

Deep in wine, who rattles on, about harsh campaigns or poverty?

Who doesn’t rather speak of you, Bacchus, and you, lovely Venus?

And lest the gifts of Liber pass the bounds of moderation set,

we’ve the battle over wine, between the Lapiths and the Centaurs,

as a warning to us all, and the frenzied Thracians, whom Bacchus

hates, when they split right from wrong, by too fine a line of passion.

Lovely Bacchus, I’ll not be the one to stir you, against your will,

nor bring to open light of day what’s hidden under all those leaves.

Hold back the savagery of drums, and the Berecyntian horns,

and those deeds that, afterwards, are followed by a blind self-love,

by pride that lifts its empty head too high, above itself, once more,

and wasted faith in mysteries much more transparent than the glass.

BkI:XVI He Repents

O lovelier child of a lovely mother,

end as you will, then, my guilty iambics

whether in flames or whether instead

deep down in the Adriatic’s waters.

Neither Cybele, nor Apollo, who troubles

the priestess’s mind in the Pythian shrine,

nor Bacchus, nor the Corybants who

clash their shrill, ringing cymbals together,

pain us like anger, that’s undefeated by

swords out of Noricum, or sea, the wrecker,

or cruel fire, or mighty Jupiter

when he sweeps down in terrible fury.

They say when Prometheus was forced to add

something from every creature to our first clay

he chose to set in each of our hearts

the violence of the irascible lion.

Anger brought Thyestes down, to utter ruin,

and it’s the prime reason powerful cities

vanished in their utter destruction,

and armies, in scorn, sent the hostile plough

over the levelled spoil of their shattered walls.

Calm your mind: the passions of the heart have made

their attempt on me, in my sweet youth,

and drove me, maddened, as well, to swift verse:

I wish to change the bitter lines to sweet, now,

since I’ve charmed away all of my hostile words,

if you might become my friend, again,

and if you, again, might give me your heart.

BkI:XIV The Ship of State

O ship the fresh tide carries back to sea again.

Where are you going! Quickly, run for harbour.

Can’t you see how your sides

have been stripped bare of oars,

how your shattered masts and yards are groaning loudly

in the swift south-westerly, and bare of rigging,

your hull can scarce tolerate

the overpowering waters?

You haven’t a single sail that’s still intact now,

no gods, that people call to when they’re in trouble.

Though you’re built of Pontic pine,

a child of those famous forests,

though you can boast of your race, and an idle name:

the fearful sailor puts no faith in gaudy keels.

You must beware of being

merely a plaything of the winds.

You, who not long ago were troubling weariness

to me, and now are my passion and anxious care,

avoid the glistening seas

between the shining Cyclades.

BkI:XII Praising Augustus

What god, man, or hero do you choose to praise

on the high pitched flute or the lyre, Clio?

Whose name will it be that joyfully resounds

in playful echoes,

either on shadowed slopes of Mount Helicon,

or on Pindus’s crest, or on cool Haemus,

where the trees followed thoughtlessly after

Orpheus’s call,

that held back the swift-running streams and the rush

of the breeze, by his mother the Muse’s art,

and seductively drew the listening oaks

with enchaining song?

Which shall I sing first of the praises reserved

for the Father, who commands mortals and gods,

who controls the seas, and the land, and the world’s

various seasons?

From whom nothing’s born that’s greater than he is,

and there’s nothing that’s like him or near him,

though Athene has honour approaching his,

she’s bravest in war:

I won’t be silent about you, O Bacchus,

or you Diana, virgin inimical

to wild creatures, or you Apollo, so feared

for your sure arrows.

I’ll sing Hercules, too, and Leda’s twin boys,

one famed for winning with horses, the other

in boxing. When their clear stars are shining bright

for those on the sea,

the storm-tossed water streams down from the headland,

the high winds die down, and the clouds disappear,

and, because they wish it, the menacing waves

repose in the deep.

I don’t know whether to speak next, after those,

of Romulus, or of Numa’s peaceful reign,

of Tarquin’s proud axes, or of that younger

Cato’s noble death.

Gratefully, I speak in distinguished verses

of Regulus: and the Scauri: and Paulus

careless of his life, when Hannibal conquered:

of Fabricius.

Of him, and of Curius with uncut hair,

and Camillus too, whom their harsh poverty

and their ancestral gods, and their ancient farms,

inured to struggle.

Marcellus’ glory grows like a tree, quietly

with time: the Julian constellation shines,

among the other stars, as the Moon among

the lesser fires.

Father, and guardian of the human race,

son of Saturn, the care of mighty Caesar

was given you by fate: may you reign forever

with Caesar below.

Whether its the conquered Persians, menacing

Latium, that he leads, in well-earned triumph,

or the Seres and the Indians who lie

beneath Eastern skies,

under you, he’ll rule the wide earth with justice:

you’ll shake Olympus with your heavy chariot,

you’ll send your hostile lightning down to shatter

once-pure sacred groves.

BkI:X To Mercury

Mercury, eloquent grandson of Atlas,

I’ll sing of you, who wise with your training, shaped

the uncivilised ways of our new-born race,

with language, and grace

in the ways of wrestling, you the messenger

of Jove and the gods, and the curved lyre’s father,

skilful in hiding whatever pleases you,

with playful deceit.

While he tried to scare you, with his threatening voice,

unless you returned the cattle you’d stolen,

and so craftily, Apollo was laughing

missing his quiver.

And indeed, with your guidance, Priam carrying

rich gifts left Troy, escaped the proud Atridae,

Thessalian fires, and the menacing camp

threatening Ilium.

You bring virtuous souls to the happy shores,

controlling the bodiless crowds with your wand

of gold, pleasing to the gods of the heavens

and the gods below.

BkI:VIII: To Lydia: Stop Ruining Sybaris!

Lydia, by all the gods,

say why you’re set on ruining poor Sybaris, with passion:

why he suddenly can’t stand

the sunny Campus, he, once tolerant of the dust and sun:

why he’s no longer riding

with his soldier friends, nor holds back the Gallic mouth, any longer,

with his sharp restraining bit.

Why does he fear to touch the yellow Tiber? Why does he keep

away from the wrestler’s oil

like the viper’s blood: he won’t appear with arms bruised by weapons,

he who was often noted

for hurling the discus, throwing the javelin out of bounds?

Why does he hide, as they say

Achilles, sea-born Thetis’ son, hid, before sad Troy was ruined,

lest his male clothing

had him dragged away to the slaughter, among the Lycian  troops?