Chapter 4

I.

INTERMISSA, VENUS.

Yet again thou wak'st the flame That long had slumber'd! Spare me, Venus, spare! Trust me, I am not the same As in the reign of Cinara, kind and fair. Cease thy softening spells to prove On this old heart, by fifty years made hard, Cruel Mother of sweet Love! Haste, where gay youth solicits thy regard. With thy purple cygnets fly To Paullus' door, a seasonable guest; There within hold revelry, There light thy flame in that congenial breast. He, with birth and beauty graced, The trembling client's champion, ne'er tongue-tied, Master of each manly taste, Shall bear thy conquering banners far and wide. Let him smile in triumph gay, True heart, victorious over lavish hand, By the Alban lake that day 'Neath citron roof all marble shalt thou stand: Incense there and fragrant spice With odorous fumes thy nostrils shall salute; Blended notes thine ear entice, The lyre, the pipe, the Berecyntine flute: Graceful youths and maidens bright Shall twice a day thy tuneful praise resound, While their feet, so fair and white, In Salian measure three times beat the ground. I can relish love no more, Nor flattering hopes that tell me hearts are true, Nor the revel's loud uproar, Nor fresh-wreathed flowerets, bathed in vernal dew. Ah! but why, my Ligurine, Steal trickling tear-drops down my wasted cheek? Wherefore halts this tongue of mine, So eloquent once, so faltering now and weak? Now I hold you in my chain, And clasp you close, all in a nightly dream; Now, still dreaming, o'er the plain I chase you; now, ah cruel! down the stream.

II.

PINDARUM QUISQUIS.

Who fain at Pindar's flight would aim, On waxen wings, Iulus, he Soars heavenward, doom'd to give his name To some new sea. Pindar, like torrent from the steep Which, swollen with rain, its banks o'erflows, With mouth unfathomably deep, Foams, thunders, glows, All worthy of Apollo's bay, Whether in dithyrambic roll Pouring new words he burst away Beyond control, Or gods and god-born heroes tell, Whose arm with righteous death could tame Grim Centaurs, tame Chimaeras fell, Out-breathing flame, Or bid the boxer or the steed In deathless pride of victory live, And dower them with a nobler meed Than sculptors give, Or mourn the bridegroom early torn From his young bride, and set on high Strength, courage, virtue's golden morn, Too good to die. Antonius! yes, the winds blow free, When Dirce's swan ascends the skies, To waft him. I, like Matine bee, In act and guise, That culls its sweets through toilsome hours, Am roaming Tibur's banks along, And fashioning with puny powers A laboured song. Your Muse shall sing in loftier strain How Caesar climbs the sacred height, The fierce Sygambrians in his train, With laurel dight, Than whom the Fates ne'er gave mankind A richer treasure or more dear, Nor shall, though earth again should find The golden year. Your Muse shall tell of public sports, And holyday, and votive feast, For Caesar's sake, and brawling courts Where strife has ceased. Then, if my voice can aught avail, Grateful for him our prayers have won, My song shall echo, "Hail, all hail, Auspicious Sun!" There as you move, "Ho! Triumph, ho! Great Triumph!" once and yet again All Rome shall cry, and spices strow Before your train. Ten bulls, ten kine, your debt discharge: A calf new-wean'd from parent cow, Battening on pastures rich and large, Shall quit my vow. Like moon just dawning on the night The crescent honours of his head; One dapple spot of snowy white, The rest all red.

III.

QUEM TU, MELPOMENE.

He whom thou, Melpomene, Hast welcomed with thy smile, in life arriving, Ne'er by boxer's skill shall be Renown'd abroad, for Isthmian mastery striving; Him shall never fiery steed Draw in Achaean car a conqueror seated; Him shall never martial deed Show, crown'd with bay, after proud kings defeated, Climbing Capitolian steep: But the cool streams that make green Tibur flourish, And the tangled forest deep, On soft Aeolian airs his fame shall nourish. Rome, of cities first and best, Deigns by her sons' according voice to hail me Fellow-bard of poets blest, And faint and fainter envy's growls assail me. Goddess, whose Pierian art The lyre's sweet sounds can modulate and measure, Who to dumb fish canst impart The music of the swan, if such thy pleasure: O, 'tis all of thy dear grace That every finger points me out in going Lyrist of the Roman race; Breath, power to charm, if mine, are thy bestowing!

IV.

QUALEM MINISTRUM.

E'en as the lightning's minister, Whom Jove o'er all the feather'd breed Made sovereign, having proved him sure Erewhile on auburn Ganymede; Stirr'd by warm youth and inborn power, He quits the nest with timorous wing, For winter's storms have ceased to lower, And zephyrs of returning spring Tempt him to launch on unknown skies; Next on the fold he stoops downright; Last on resisting serpents flies, Athirst for foray and for flight: As tender kidling on the grass Espies, uplooking from her food, A lion's whelp, and knows, alas! Those new-set teeth shall drink her blood: So look'd the Raetian mountaineers On Drusus:--whence in every field They learn'd through immemorial years The Amazonian axe to wield, I ask not now: not all of truth We seekers find: enough to know The wisdom of the princely youth Has taught our erst victorious foe What prowess dwells in boyish hearts Rear'd in the shrine of a pure home, What strength Augustus' love imparts To Nero's seed, the hope of Rome. Good sons and brave good sires approve: Strong bullocks, fiery colts, attest Their fathers' worth, nor weakling dove Is hatch'd in savage eagle's nest. But care draws forth the power within, And cultured minds are strong for good: Let manners fail, the plague of sin Taints e'en the course of gentle blood. How great thy debt to Nero's race, O Rome, let red Metaurus say, Slain Hasdrubal, and victory's grace First granted on that glorious day Which chased the clouds, and show'd the sun, When Hannibal o'er Italy Ran, as swift flames o'er pine-woods run, Or Eurus o'er Sicilia's sea. Henceforth, by fortune aiding toil, Rome's prowess grew: her fanes, laid waste By Punic sacrilege and spoil, Beheld at length their gods replaced. Then the false Libyan own'd his doom:-- "Weak deer, the wolves' predestined prey, Blindly we rush on foes, from whom 'Twere triumph won to steal away. That race which, strong from Ilion's fires, Its gods, on Tuscan waters tost, Its sons, its venerable sires, Bore to Ausonia's citied coast; That race, like oak by axes shorn On Algidus with dark leaves rife, Laughs carnage, havoc, all to scorn, And draws new spirit from the knife. Not the lopp'd Hydra task'd so sore Alcides, chafing at the foil: No pest so fell was born of yore From Colchian or from Theban soil. Plunged in the deep, it mounts to sight More splendid: grappled, it will quell Unbroken powers, and fight a fight Whose story widow'd wives shall tell. No heralds shall my deeds proclaim To Carthage now: lost, lost is all: A nation's hope, a nation's name, They died with dying Hasdrubal." What will not Claudian hands achieve? Jove's favour is their guiding star, And watchful potencies unweave For them the tangled paths of war.

V.

DIVIS ORTE BONIS.

Best guardian of Rome's people, dearest boon Of a kind Heaven, thou lingerest all too long: Thou bad'st thy senate look to meet thee soon: Do not thy promise wrong. Restore, dear chief, the light thou tak'st away: Ah! when, like spring, that gracious mien of thine Dawns on thy Rome, more gently glides the day, And suns serener shine. See her whose darling child a long year past Has dwelt beyond the wild Carpathian foam; That long year o'er, the envious southern blast Still bars him from his home: Weeping and praying to the shore she clings, Nor ever thence her straining eyesight turns: So, smit by loyal passion's restless stings, Rome for her Caesar yearns. In safety range the cattle o'er the mead: Sweet Peace, soft Plenty, swell the golden grain: O'er unvex'd seas the sailors blithely speed: Fair Honour shrinks from stain: No guilty lusts the shrine of home defile: Cleansed is the hand without, the heart within: The father's features in his children smile: Swift vengeance follows sin. Who fears the Parthian or the Scythian horde, Or the rank growth that German forests yield, While Caesar lives? who trembles at the sword The fierce Iberians wield? In his own hills each labours down the day, Teaching the vine to clasp the widow'd tree: Then to his cups again, where, feasting gay, He hails his god in thee. A household power, adored with prayers and wine, Thou reign'st auspicious o'er his hour of ease: Thus grateful Greece her Castor made divine, And her great Hercules. Ah! be it thine long holydays to give To thy Hesperia! thus, dear chief, we pray At sober sunrise; thus at mellow eve, When ocean hides the day.

VI.

DIVE, QUEM PROLES.

Thou who didst make thy vengeful might To Niobe and Tityos known, And Peleus' son, when Troy's tall height Was nigh his own, Victorious else, for thee no peer, Though, strong in his sea-parent's power, He shook with that tremendous spear The Dardan tower. He, like a pine by axes sped, Or cypress sway'd by angry gust, Fell ruining, and laid his head In Trojan dust. Not his to lie in covert pent Of the false steed, and sudden fall On Priam's ill-starr'd merriment In bower and hall: His ruthless arm in broad bare day The infant from the breast had torn, Nay, given to flame, ah, well a way! The babe unborn: But, won by Venus' voice and thine, Relenting Jove Aeneas will'd With other omens more benign New walls to build. Sweet tuner of the Grecian lyre, Whose locks are laved in Xanthus' dews, Blooming Agyieus! help, inspire My Daunian Muse! 'Tis Phoebus, Phoebus gifts my tongue With minstrel art and minstrel fires: Come, noble youths and maidens sprung From noble sires, Blest in your Dian's guardian smile, Whose shafts the flying silvans stay, Come, foot the Lesbian measure, while The lyre I play: Sing of Latona's glorious boy, Sing of night's queen with crescent horn, Who wings the fleeting months with joy, And swells the corn. And happy brides shall say, "'Twas mine, When years the cyclic season brought, To chant the festal hymn divine By HORACE taught."

VII.

DIFFUGERE NIVES.

The snow is fled: the trees their leaves put on, The fields their green: Earth owns the change, and rivers lessening run. Their banks between. Naked the Nymphs and Graces in the meads The dance essay: "No 'scaping death" proclaims the year, that speeds This sweet spring day. Frosts yield to zephyrs; Summer drives out Spring, To vanish, when Rich Autumn sheds his fruits; round wheels the ring,-- Winter again! Yet the swift moons repair Heaven's detriment: We, soon as thrust Where good Aeneas, Tullus, Ancus went, What are we? dust. Can Hope assure you one more day to live From powers above? You rescue from your heir whate'er you give The self you love. When life is o'er, and Minos has rehearsed The grand last doom, Not birth, nor eloquence, nor worth, shall burst Torquatus' tomb. Not Dian's self can chaste Hippolytus To life recall, Nor Theseus free his loved Pirithous From Lethe's thrall.

VIII.

DONAREM PATERAS.

Ah Censorinus! to my comrades true Rich cups, rare bronzes, gladly would I send: Choice tripods from Olympia on each friend Would I confer, choicer on none than you, Had but my fate such gems of art bestow'd As cunning Scopas or Parrhasius wrought, This with the brush, that with the chisel taught To image now a mortal, now a god. But these are not my riches: your desire Such luxury craves not, and your means disdain: A poet's strain you love; a poet's strain Accept, and learn the value of the lyre. Not public gravings on a marble base, Whence comes a second life to men of might E'en in the tomb: not Hannibal's swift flight, Nor those fierce threats flung back into his face, Not impious Carthage in its last red blaze, In clearer light sets forth his spotless fame, Who from crush'd Afric took away--a name, Than rude Calabria's tributary lays. Let silence hide the good your hand has wrought. Farewell, reward! Had blank oblivion's power Dimm'd the bright deeds of Romulus, at this hour, Despite his sire and mother, he were nought. Thus Aeacus has 'scaped the Stygian wave, By grace of poets and their silver tongue, Henceforth to live the happy isles among. No, trust the Muse: she opes the good man's grave, And lifts him to the gods. So Hercules, His labours o'er, sits at the board of Jove: So Tyndareus' offspring shine as stars above, Saving lorn vessels from the yawning seas: So Bacchus, with the vine-wreath round his hair, Gives prosperous issue to his votary's prayer.

IX.

NE FORTE CREDAS.

Think not those strains can e'er expire, Which, cradled 'mid the echoing roar Of Aufidus, to Latium's lyre I sing with arts unknown before. Though Homer fill the foremost throne, Yet grave Stesichorus still can please, And fierce Alcaeus holds his own, With Pindar and Simonides. The songs of Teos are not mute, And Sappho's love is breathing still: She told her secret to the lute, And yet its chords with passion thrill. Not Sparta's queen alone was fired By broider'd robe and braided tress, And all the splendours that attired Her lover's guilty loveliness: Not only Teucer to the field His arrows brought, nor Ilion Beneath a single conqueror reel'd: Not Crete's majestic lord alone, Or Sthenelus, earn'd the Muses' crown: Not Hector first for child and wife, Or brave Deiphobus, laid down The burden of a manly life. Before Atrides men were brave: But ah! oblivion, dark and long, Has lock'd them in a tearless grave, For lack of consecrating song. 'Twixt worth and baseness, lapp'd in death, What difference? YOU shall ne'er be dumb, While strains of mine have voice and breath: The dull neglect of days to come Those hard-won honours shall not blight: No, Lollius, no: a soul is yours, Clear-sighted, keen, alike upright When fortune smiles, and when she lowers: To greed and rapine still severe, Spurning the gain men find so sweet: A consul, not of one brief year, But oft as on the judgment-seat You bend the expedient to the right, Turn haughty eyes from bribes away, Or bear your banners through the fight, Scattering the foeman's firm array. The lord of boundless revenues, Salute not him as happy: no, Call him the happy, who can use The bounty that the gods bestow, Can bear the load of poverty, And tremble not at death, but sin: No recreant he when called to die In cause of country or of kin.

XI.

EST MIHI NONUM.

Here is a cask of Alban, more Than nine years old: here grows Green parsley, Phyllis, and good store Of ivy too (Wreathed ivy suits your hair, you know) The plate shines bright: the altar, strewn With vervain, hungers for the flow Of lambkin's blood. There's stir among the serving folk; They bustle, bustle, boy and girl; The flickering flames send up the smoke In many a curl. But why, you ask, this special cheer? We celebrate the feast of Ides, Which April's month, to Venus dear, In twain divides. O, 'tis a day for reverence, E'en my own birthday scarce so dear, For my Maecenas counts from thence Each added year. 'Tis Telephus that you'd bewitch: But he is of a high degree; Bound to a lady fair and rich, He is not free. O think of Phaethon half burn'd, And moderate your passion's greed: Think how Bellerophon was spurn'd By his wing'd steed. So learn to look for partners meet, Shun lofty things, nor raise your aims Above your fortune. Come then, sweet, My last of flames (For never shall another fair Enslave me), learn a tune, to sing With that dear voice: to music care Shall yield its sting.

XII.

JAM VERIS COMITES.

The gales of Thrace, that hush the unquiet sea, Spring's comrades, on the bellying canvas blow: Clogg'd earth and brawling streams alike are free From winter's weight of snow. Wailing her Itys in that sad, sad strain, Builds the poor bird, reproach to after time Of Cecrops' house, for bloody vengeance ta'en On foul barbaric crime. The keepers of fat lambkins chant their loves To silvan reeds, all in the grassy lea, And pleasure Him who tends the flocks and groves Of dark-leaved Arcady. It is a thirsty season, Virgil mine: But would you taste the grape's Calenian juice, Client of noble youths, to earn your wine Some nard you must produce. A tiny box of nard shall bring to light The cask that in Sulpician cellar lies: O, it can give new hopes, so fresh and bright, And gladden gloomy eyes. You take the bait? then come without delay And bring your ware: be sure, 'tis not my plan To let you drain my liquor and not pay, As might some wealthy man. Come, quit those covetous thoughts, those knitted brows, Think on the last black embers, while you may, And be for once unwise. When time allows, 'Tis sweet the fool to play.

XIII.

AUDIVERE, LYCE.

The gods have heard, the gods have heard my prayer; Yes, Lyce! you are growing old, and still You struggle to look fair; You drink, and dance, and trill Your songs to youthful Love, in accents weak With wine, and age, and passion. Youthful Love! He dwells in Chia's cheek, And hears her harp-strings move. Rude boy, he flies like lightning o'er the heath Past wither'd trees like you; you're wrinkled now; The white has left your teeth And settled on your brow. Your Coan silks, your jewels bright as stars, Ah no! they bring not back the days of old, In public calendars By flying Time enroll'd. Where now that beauty? where those movements? where That colour? what of her, of her is left, Who, breathing Love's own air, Me of myself bereft, Who reign'd in Cinara's stead, a fair, fair face, Queen of sweet arts? but Fate to Cinara gave A life of little space; And now she cheats the grave Of Lyce, spared to raven's length of days, That youth may see, with laughter and disgust, A fire-brand, once ablaze, Now smouldering in grey dust.

XIV.

QUAE CURA PATRUM.

What honours can a grateful Rome, A grateful senate, Caesar, give To make thy worth through days to come Emblazon'd on our records live, Mightiest of chieftains whomsoe'er The sun beholds from heaven on high? They know thee now, thy strength in war, Those unsubdued Vindelici. Thine was the sword that Drusus drew, When on the Breunian hordes he fell, And storm'd the fierce Genaunian crew E'en in their Alpine citadel, And paid them back their debt twice told; 'Twas then the elder Nero came To conflict, and in ruin roll'd Stout Raetian kernes of giant frame. O, 'twas a gallant sight to see The shocks that beat upon the brave Who chose to perish and be free! As south winds scourge the rebel wave When through rent clouds the Pleiads weep, So keen his force to smite, and smite The foe, or make his charger leap Through the red furnace of the fight. Thus Daunia's ancient river fares, Proud Aufidus, with bull-like horn, When swoln with choler he prepares A deluge for the fields of corn. So Claudius charged and overthrew The grim barbarian's mail-clad host, The foremost and the hindmost slew, And conquer'd all, and nothing lost. The force, the forethought, were thine own, Thine own the gods. The selfsame day When, port and palace open thrown, Low at thy footstool Egypt lay, That selfsame day, three lustres gone, Another victory to thine hand Was given; another field was won By grace of Caesar's high command. Thee Spanish tribes, unused to yield, Mede, Indian, Scyth that knows no home, Acknowledge, sword at once and shield Of Italy and queenly Rome. Ister to thee, and Tanais fleet, And Nile that will not tell his birth, To thee the monstrous seas that beat On Britain's coast, the end of earth, To thee the proud Iberians bow, And Gauls, that scorn from death to flee; The fierce Sygambrian bends his brow, And drops his arms to worship thee

XV.

PHOEBUS VOLENTEM.

Of battles fought I fain had told, And conquer'd towns, when Phoebus smote His harp-string: "Sooth, 'twere over-bold To tempt wide seas in that frail boat." Thy age, great Caesar, has restored To squalid fields the plenteous grain, Given back to Rome's almighty Lord Our standards, torn from Parthian fane, Has closed Quirinian Janus' gate, Wild passion's erring walk controll'd, Heal'd the foul plague-spot of the state, And brought again the life of old, Life, by whose healthful power increased The glorious name of Latium spread To where the sun illumes the east From where he seeks his western bed. While Caesar rules, no civil strife Shall break our rest, nor violence rude, Nor rage, that whets the slaughtering knife And plunges wretched towns in feud. The sons of Danube shall not scorn The Julian edicts; no, nor they By Tanais' distant river born, Nor Persia, Scythia, or Cathay. And we on feast and working-tide, While Bacchus' bounties freely flow, Our wives and children at our side, First paying Heaven the prayers we owe, Shall sing of chiefs whose deeds are done, As wont our sires, to flute or shell, And Troy, Anchises, and the son Of Venus on our tongues shall dwell.

CARMEN SAECULARE.

PHOEBE, SILVARUMQUE.

Phoebus and Dian, huntress fair, To-day and always magnified, Bright lights of heaven, accord our prayer This holy tide, On which the Sibyl's volume wills That youths and maidens without stain To gods, who love the seven dear hills, Should chant the strain! Sun, that unchanged, yet ever new, Lead'st out the day and bring'st it home, May nought be present to thy view More great than Rome! Blest Ilithyia! be thou near In travail to each Roman dame! Lucina, Genitalis, hear, Whate'er thy name! O make our youth to live and grow! The fathers' nuptial counsels speed, Those laws that shall on Rome bestow A plenteous seed! So when a hundred years and ten Bring round the cycle, game and song Three days, three nights, shall charm again The festal throng. Ye too, ye Fates, whose righteous doom, Declared but once, is sure as heaven, Link on new blessings, yet to come, To blessings given! Let Earth, with grain and cattle rife, Crown Ceres' brow with wreathen corn; Soft winds, sweet waters, nurse to life The newly born! O lay thy shafts, Apollo, by! Let suppliant youths obtain thine ear! Thou Moon, fair "regent of the sky," Thy maidens hear! If Rome is yours, if Troy's remains, Safe by your conduct, sought and found Another city, other fanes On Tuscan ground, For whom, 'mid fires and piles of slain, AEneas made a broad highway, Destined, pure heart, with greater gain. Their loss to pay, Grant to our sons unblemish'd ways; Grant to our sires an age of peace; Grant to our nation power and praise, And large increase! See, at your shrine, with victims white, Prays Venus and Anchises' heir! O prompt him still the foe to smite, The fallen to spare! Now Media dreads our Alban steel, Our victories land and ocean o'er; Scythia and Ind in suppliance kneel, So proud before. Faith, Honour, ancient Modesty, And Peace, and Virtue, spite of scorn, Come back to earth; and Plenty, see, With teeming horn. Augur and lord of silver bow, Apollo, darling of the Nine, Who heal'st our frame when languors slow Have made it pine; Lov'st thou thine own Palatial hill, Prolong the glorious life of Rome To other cycles, brightening still Through time to come! From Algidus and Aventine List, goddess, to our grave Fifteen! To praying youths thine ear incline, Diana queen! Thus Jove and all the gods agree! So trusting, wend we home again, Phoebus and Dian's singers we, And this our strain.

NOTES.