Horace Odes I

Introduction

Horace declares that his models for the four books of Odes were the early Greek lyric poets Sappho and Alcaeus. Books 1-3 comprise eighty-eight poems; book 4, published later, comprises another fifteen. Thirty-seven poems are in the alcaic metre, twenty-five in the sapphic, and the rest in a variety of asclepiads and other forms. The first six odes of Book 3 are sometimes referred to as the Roman Odes, written in stately alcaics in elevated style on patriotic themes. These grander odes owed something to the inspiration, if not the form, of the Greek poet Pindar, who also had had to evolve a style in which he could address powerful rulers intimately. There are many odes which touch on political themes, as did the lyrics of Alcaeus. They reflect the translation of Roman feeling from anxiety for the safety of the state to security and triumph under the guidance of Augustus, whom Horace sincerely admired.

Overall the Odes cover a variety of subjects, private as well as public, incidents in the poet's own life or the lives of his friends, their departures on voyages or happy returns, their love affairs and his own, the changing seasons, the joys of the countryside and of wine; the poet sometimes treats these subjects as symbolic of the brevity of human life with its ephemeral pleasures. Mostly the poems address individuals, as did early Greek lyric poetry, or start out with a personal reference. Many of them show Horace's keen sense of situation and his sharp observation of the human comedy; they are full of wit and charm and cleverness, often with a surprise at the end. The Odes are the product not of immediate, intense emotion, but of meditation, not lyric in a modern sense nor yet in the original Greek sense. They are characterized by faultless economy of phrasing, perfect control, balance and harmony of thought and expression; their euphony and intricate word order have proved inimitable. The moderation and urbane good sense they express, in an often ironic and self-deprecating tone, have endeared them to readers of all periods.

-- "Odes and Epodes", The Oxford Companion to Classical Literature, ed. M. C. Howatson. Oxford UP: Oxford, 1989.

Many of the Odes so-called are, in their primary purport, poetical epistles, professedly written on the spur of the moment in view of some pleasant or unpleasant event in his own or a friend's life, just past or just about to be, and, as a rule, Horace is at his best when he maintains this personal and impulsive note. It was of the essence of Horace's temper to think, or at least to say, small things of himself, his work, and all that concerned either as compared with the grandiose performances and productions of more ambitious doers and writers; he was only a bee, he tells us (Odes IV. ii. 27), flitting from flower to flower, to gather here or there a little honey; but one bee-like quality he did insist on, the most unwearied labor in the perfecting of his little humble themes.

-- Excerpt from "Introduction", Everyman's Library: The Complete Works of Horace, ed. John Marshall. E.P. Dutton & Co, Inc.: New York, 1911.

An interesting alternative view of Horace, stressing the political realities.

Horace's villa site 360 degree panorama.

Carmina I - XXXVIII

I.

There is also a text with dictionary links from every word here.

A translation by Tony Kline which imitates Horace's metres.

Note: Rest the mouse over a word to read the meaning or note. Only a few words have clickable links, shown in the text that appears on mouse-over.

Maecenas, my nobly-born patron, people have all sorts of different ambitions. Some love racing chariots in the Olympics and winning fame and glory. Another loves political office. Another wants barns full of wheat. The peasant farmer wouldn't become a sailor, and the merchant, though he praises the farmer's life, couldn't put up with the poverty that goes with it. Someone else likes to relax in the open air with a glass of fine wine. Many like the soldier's life. That man is crazy about hunting. And me? I'm a poet. I like to withdraw from the crowd and enjoy the countryside and its nymphs and satyrs. If the Muses inspire me and you regard me as a poet, that's the summit of my ambition.

Maecenas atavis edite regibus,
o et praesidium et dulce decus meum:
sunt quos curriculo pulverem Olympicum
collegisse iuvat metaque fervidis

evitata rotis palmaque nobilis
terrarum dominos evehit ad deos.
hunc, si mobilium turba Quiritium
certat tergeminis tollere honoribus,

illum, si proprio condidit horreo
quidquid de Libycis verritur areis.
gaudentem patrios findere sarculo
agros Attalicis condicionibus

numquam demoveas, ut trabe Cypria
Myrtoum pavidus nauta secet mare.
luctantem Icariis fluctibus Africum
mercator metuens otium et oppidi

laudat rura sui; mox reficit rates
quassas indocilis pauperiem pati.
est qui nec veteris pocula Massici
nec partem solido demere de die

spernit, nunc viridi membra sub arbuto
stratus, nunc ad aquae lene caput sacrae.
multos castra iuvant et lituo tubae
permixtus sonitus bellaque matribus

detestata. manet sub Iove frigido
venator tenerae coniugis inmemor,
seu visa est catulis cerva fidelibus
seu rupit teretes Marsus aper plagas.

me doctarum hederae praemia frontium
dis miscent superis, me gelidum nemus
Nympharumque leves cum Satyris chori
secernunt populo, si neque tibias

Euterpe cohibet nec Polyhymnia
Lesboum refugit tendere barbiton.
quodsi me lyricis vatibus inseres,
sublimi feriam sidera vertice.

Maecenas, thou of royalty's descent, Both my protector and my dear ornament, Among humanity's conditions are Those who take pleasure in the flying car, Whirling Olympian dust, as on they roll, And shunning with the glowing wheel the goal; While the ennobling palm, the prize of worth, Exalts them to the gods, the lords of earth. Here one is happy if the fickle crowd His name the threefold honor has allowed; And there another, if into his stores Comes what is swept from Libyan threshing-floors. He who delights to til his father's lands, And grasps the delving-hoe with willing hands, Can never to Attalic offers hark, Or cut the Myrtoan Sea with Cyprian bark. The merchant, timorous of Afric's breeze, When fiercely struggling with Icarian seas Praises the restful quiet of his home, Nor wishes from the peaceful fields to roam; Ah, speedily his shattered ships he mends, -- To poverty his lesson ne'er extends. One there may be who never scorns to fill His cups with mellow drops from Massic's hill, Nor from the busy day an hour to wean, Now stretched at length beneath the arbute green, Now at the softly whispering stream, to dream Of the fair nymphs who haunt the sacred stream. For camp and trump and clarion some have zest, -- The cruel wars the mothers so detest. 'Neath the cold sky the hunter spends his life, Unmindful of his home and tender wife, Whether the doe is seen by faithful hounds Or Marsian boar through the fine meshes bounds. But as for me, the ivy-wreaths, the prize Of learned brows, exalt me to the skies; The shady grove, the nymphs and satyrs there, Draw me away from people everywhere; If it may be, Euterpe's flute inspires, Or Polyhymnia strikes the Lesbian lyres; And if you place me where no bard debars, With head exalted I shall strike the stars! - Roswell Martin Field

Maecenas, descendant of royal ancestors, O my protector, and my sweet glory, some are delighted by showers of dust, Olympic dust, over their chariots, they are raised to the gods, as Earth’s masters, by posts clipping the red-hot wheels, by noble palms: this man, if the fickle crowd of Citizens compete to lift him to triple honours: that one, if he’s stored away in his granary whatever he gleaned from the Libyan threshing. The peasant who loves to break clods in his native fields, won’t be tempted, by living like Attalus, to sail the seas, in fear, in a Cyprian boat. The merchant afraid of the African winds as they fight the Icarian waves, loves the peace and the soil near his town, but quickly rebuilds his shattered ships, unsuited to poverty. There’s one who won’t scorn cups of old Massic, nor to lose the best part of a whole day lying under the greenwood tree, or softly close to the head of sacred waters. Many love camp, and the sound of trumpets mixed with the horns, and the warfare hated by mothers. The hunter, sweet wife forgotten, stays out under frozen skies, if his faithful hounds catch sight of a deer, or a Marsian wild boar rampages, through his close meshes. But the ivy, the glory of learned brows, joins me to the gods on high: cool groves, and the gathering of light nymphs and satyrs, draw me from the throng, if Euterpe the Muse won’t deny me her flute, and Polyhymnia won’t refuse to exert herself on her Lesbian lyre. And if you enter me among all the lyric poets, my head too will be raised to touch the stars. - Tony Kline