Sunday, February 27, 2011

Horace, Epode 7

Quo, quo scelesti ruitis? Aut cur dexteris
aptantur enses conditi?
Parumne campis atque Neptuno super
fusum est Latini sanguinis,
non ut superbas invidae Carthaginis
Romanus arces ureret,
intactus au Britannus ut descenderet
Sacra catenatus Via,
sed ut, secundum vota Parthorum, sua
urbs haec periret dextera?
Neque hic lupis mos nec fuit leonibus,
umquam nisi in dispar feris.
Furorne caecus an rapit vis acrior
an culpa? Responsum date!
Tacent, et albus ora pallor inficit
mentesque perculsae stupent.
Sic est: acerba fata Romanos agunt
scelusque fraternae necis,
ut immerentis fluxit in terram Remi
sacer nepotibus cruor.

Wither, wither do you wicked people rush? Or why are
the sheathed swords being fitted to your right hand?
Has too little of Latin blood been poured in the fields and
over Neptune,
not so that a Roman burned the proud citadels of
hateful Carthage,
or that an untamed Briton chained might descend
by the sacred way,
but so that, after the prayers of the Parthians, this
city perishes by her own right hand?
This was the custom neither with wolves nor lions,
ever unless against a different animal.
Does blind madness or sharp strength or guilt
drive you? Give an answer!
They are silent, and the white pallor stains their faces,
and their terrified minds are dazed.
It is so: bitter fates drive the Romans and
the crime of a fraternal murder,
ever since the blood of blameless Remus flowed
into the earth from his descendants.

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