Sunday, March 6, 2011

Horace, Ode 2.7

O saepe mecum tempus in ultimum
deducte Bruto militiae duce,
quis te redonavit Quiritem
dis patriis Italoque caelo,

Pompei, meorum prime sodalium,
cum quo morantem saepe diem mero
fregi, coronatus nitentis
malobathro Syrio capillos?

Tecum Philippos et celerem fugam
sensi relicta non bene parmula,
cum fracta virtus et minaces
turpe solum tetigere mento.

Sed me per hostis Mercurius celer
denso paventem sustulit aere;
te rursus in bellum resorbens
unda fretis tulit aestuosis.

Ergo obligatam redde Iovi dapem,
longaque fessum militia latus
depone sub lauru mea nec
parce cadis tibi destinatis.

Oblivioso levia Massico
ciboria exple, funde capacibus
unguenta de conchis. Quis udo
deproperare apio coronas

curatve myrto? Quem Venus arbitrum
dicet bibendi? Non ego sanius
bacchabor Edonis; recepto
dulce mihi furere est amico.

Oh Pompey, having been led often with me
into extreme peril with Brutus as leader of the military,
who returned you as a citizen to
your family gods and Italian sky,

first of my companions,
with whom I have often delayed the last day
with wine, crowned (as to my) hairs shining
with a Syrian plant?

With you I have experienced Philippi and a
swift escape with my little shield not well left behind,
when strength had been subdued and threatening people
touched the disgraceful ground with their chin.

But quick Mercury raised me, frightened,
through enemies in a dense air;
on the other hand, a wave swallowing you
brought you to war in a burning sea.

Therefore, render an owed feast to Jove,
and put down your side tired from long military
service under my laurel and do not
refrain from the jars intended for you.

Fill up the light cups with
Massican wine, pour oils into
the large shells. Who arranges to
hurry with the crowns with garland

or myrtle? Whom will Venus appoint
as master of drinking? I will not run wild
more safely than Thracians; it is sweet
for me to be wild with a recovered friend.

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