Page images
PDF
EPUB

Say, for all that Achæmenes boasted of treasure,
All the wealth which Mygdonia gave Phrygia in tribute,
All the stores of all Araby-say, wouldst thou barter
One lock of Licymnia's bright hair?—

When at moments she bends down her neck to thy kisses,
Or declines them with coy but not cruel denial;
Rather pleased if the prize be snatched off by the spoiler,
Nor slow in reprisal sometimes.

Num tu, quæ tenuit dives Achæmenes, Aut pinguis Phrygiæ Mygdonias opes Permutare velis crine Licymniæ,

Plenas aut Arabum domos?—

Dum flagrantia detorquet ad oscula
Cervicem, aut facili sævitia negat,
Quæ poscente magis gaudeat eripi,
Interdum rapere occupet.

ODE XIII.

TO A TREE.

Few of the odes are more remarkable than this for the wonderful ease with which Horace rises from humorous pleasantry into the higher regions of poetic imagination. His escape from the falling tree seems to have made a deep and lasting impression on him. The more probable date of

the poem is A.U.C. 728, or perhaps, 729.

Evil-omened the day whosoever first planted,
Sacrilegious his hand whosoever first raised thee,
To become the perdition of races unborn,

And a stain on the country, thou infamous tree.

Ah! I well may believe that the man was a monster,
Had at night stabbed his hearth-guest, and strangled his

father,

Dealt in poisons of Colchis-committed, in short,

Every crime the most fell which the thought can con

ceive;

He, the villain who, bent upon treason and murder, Stationed thee, dismal log, stationed thee in my meadow, With remorseless design coming down unawares

On the head of a lord who had done thee no wrong.

Who can hope to be safe? who sufficiently cautious?
Guard himself as he may, every moment's an ambush.
Thus the sailor of1 Carthage, alarmed at a squall
In the Euxine, beyond it no danger foresees.

Thus the soldier of Rome mails his breast to the Parthian,
And believes himself safe if secure from an arrow;

And the Parthian, in flying Rome's dungeon and chains,

Fondly thinks that in flight he escapes from the grave!

CARM. XIII.

Ille et nefasto te posuit die,

Quicunque primum, et sacrilega manu
Produxit, arbos, in nepotum

Perniciem opprobriumque pagi;

Illum et parentis crediderim sui
Fregisse cervicem, et penetralia
Sparsisse nocturno cruore

Hospitis; ille venena Colcha

Et quidquid usquam concipitur nefas
Tractavit, agro qui statuit meo
Te triste lignum, te caducum
In domini caput immerentis.

Quid quisque vitet, nunquam homini satis
Cautum est in horas: navita Bosporum
Poenus perhorrescit, neque ultra

1

Cæca timet aliunde fata;

Miles sagittas et celerem fugam
Parthi, catenas Parthus et Italum
Robur;2 sed improvisa leti

Vis rapuit rapietque gentes.

1 'Navita Bosporum

Poenus perhorrescit.'

See Munro, Introduction, xxii. 111, for accepting Lachmann's Thynus or Thonus for Pœnus-'Horace says that men only guard against dangers near at hand and expected. The Punic skipper has no special business in the straits of the Bosporus, all along the shore of which lived the Thyni, Thuni, or Thoni.'

* ' Italum robur.' Orelli gives the weight of his authority in favour of interpreting robur' as the Roman prison ('Tullianum '), an inner cell in which malefactors were placed, and in which the State captives, as Jugurtha, were also sometimes immured. Yonge adopts the same interpretation. Dillenburger translates it in the simple sense of the strength or power of Italy, which Macleane also favours.

Death has seized, and shall seize, when least looked for, its victims.

Ah! how near was I seeing dark Proserpine's kingdom, And the Judge of the Dead and the Seats of the Blest, Sappho wailing melodious of loves unreturned;1

Ay, and thee, too, with strains sounding larger, Alcæus,
To thy golden shell chanting of hardships in shipwreck,
And of hardships in exile, and hardships in war,

While the Shadows admiringly hearken to both;

Due to either is silence as hushed as in temples,
But more presses the phantom mob, shoulder on shoulder,
Drinking into rapt ears the grand song, as it swells

With the burthen of battles and tyrants o'erthrown.

No wonder, when spelled by the voice of the charmer, The dark hell-dog his hundred heads fawningly crouches, And the serpents that writhe interweaved in the locks Of the Furies, repose upon terrible brows;

And Prometheus himself and the Father of Pelops,
By the dulcet delight are beguiled from their torture,
While the hand of Orion the arrow lets fall,
And the spectres of lions unheeded flit on.

« PreviousContinue »