Monday, February 28, 2011

Horace, Ode 1.1

Maecenas atauis edite regibus,
o et praesidium et dulce decus meum,
sunt quos curriculo puluerem Olympicum
collegisse iuuat metaque feruidis
euitata rotis palmaque nobilis
terrarum dominos euehit ad deos;
hunc, si mobilium turba Quiritium
certat tergeminis tollere honoribus;
illum, si proprio condidit horreo
quicquid de Libycis uerritur areis.
Gaudentem patrios findere sarculo
agros Attalicis condicionibus
numquam demoueas, ut trabe Cypria
Myrtoum pauidus 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 ueteris pocula Massici
nec partem solido demere de die
spernit, nunc uiridi membra sub arbuto
stratus, nunc ad aquae lene caput sacrae.
Multos castra iuuant et lituo tubae
permixtus sonitus bellaque matribus
detestata. Manet sub Ioue frigido
uenator tenerae coniugis inmemor,
seu uisa est catulis cerua fidelibus,
seu rupit teretis Marsus aper plagas.
Me doctarum hederae praemia frontium
dis miscent superis, me gelidum nemus
Nympharumque leues cum Satyris chori
secernunt populo, si neque tibias
Euterpe cohibet nec Polyhymnia
Lesboum refugit tendere barbiton.
Quod si me lyricis uatibus inseres,
sublimi feriam sidera uertice.

Maecenas having been put forth from kingly ancestors,
oh my sweet glory and my defence,
there are those whom it pleases him to collect Olympic
dust in a chariot, and whom the turning post having been
avoided by burning wheels and the noble palm lifts up
to the gods those who are lords of the earth;
it pleases this one if the mob of fickle Romans
strives to raise him with threefold honors, ;
it pleases that one if he has stored away in his own storehouse
whatever is swept from Lybian threshing floors.
Rejoicing to split from the fatherland fields with
a hoe, you could never dislodge him, even on
the terms of an Attalis, so that with
a Cyprian tree trunk a fearful sailor might cleave the Myrtoum sea.
The trader fearing Africus wrestling with the waves of Icarus;
he praises the leisure and farm of his hometown;
soon he repairs the shaking rafts untrained to suffer poverty.
He is he who never turns away the drinks of old Massicus
nor to remove the part from a solid day,
now having spread his limbs under a green tree,
now at the soft head of a sacred fountain.
The camps please many and war is detested by mothers.
The hunter forgetful of his young spouse
remains under cold Jupiter whether a deer has been
seen by his faithful dog or a Marsian boar has broken the nets.
Ivy mix me with the gods above,
the cool grove and the light chorus of the Nymphs
with the Satyrs divides me from the people,
if neither Euterpe withholds flutes nor
Polyhymnia refuses to stretch out on Lesbian lyre.
For if you insert me among the lyric poets,
I shall stroke the stars with my high head.

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