Читать книгу The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace - Гораций, Квинт Гораций Флакк - Страница 4

     Maecenas, born of monarch ancestors,

       The shield at once and glory of my life!

       There are who joy them in the Olympic strife

     And love the dust they gather in the course;

     The goal by hot wheels shunn'd, the famous prize,

       Exalt them to the gods that rule mankind;

       This joys, if rabbles fickle as the wind

     Through triple grade of honours bid him rise,

     That, if his granary has stored away

       Of Libya's thousand floors the yield entire;

       The man who digs his field as did his sire,

     With honest pride, no Attalus may sway

     By proffer'd wealth to tempt Myrtoan seas,

       The timorous captain of a Cyprian bark.

       The winds that make Icarian billows dark

     The merchant fears, and hugs the rural ease

     Of his own village home; but soon, ashamed

       Of penury, he refits his batter'd craft.

       There is, who thinks no scorn of Massic draught,

     Who robs the daylight of an hour unblamed,

     Now stretch'd beneath the arbute on the sward,

       Now by some gentle river's sacred spring;

       Some love the camp, the clarion's joyous ring,

     And battle, by the mother's soul abhorr'd.

     See, patient waiting in the clear keen air,

       The hunter, thoughtless of his delicate bride,

       Whether the trusty hounds a stag have eyed,

     Or the fierce Marsian boar has burst the snare.

     To me the artist's meed, the ivy wreath

       Is very heaven: me the sweet cool of woods,

       Where Satyrs frolic with the Nymphs, secludes

     From rabble rout, so but Euterpe's breath

     Fail not the flute, nor Polyhymnia fly

       Averse from stringing new the Lesbian lyre.

       O, write my name among that minstrel choir,

     And my proud head shall strike upon the sky!

     Enough of snow and hail at last

       The Sire has sent in vengeance down:

     His bolts, at His own temple cast,

         Appall'd the town,

     Appall'd the lands, lest Pyrrha's time

       Return, with all its monstrous sights,

     When Proteus led his flocks to climb

               The flatten'd heights,

     When fish were in the elm-tops caught,

       Where once the stock-dove wont to bide,

     And does were floating, all distraught,

               Adown the tide.

     Old Tiber, hurl'd in tumult back

       From mingling with the Etruscan main,

     Has threaten'd Numa's court with wrack

               And Vesta's fane.

     Roused by his Ilia's plaintive woes,

       He vows revenge for guiltless blood,

     And, spite of Jove, his banks o'erflows,

               Uxorious flood.

     Yes, Fame shall tell of civic steel

       That better Persian lives had spilt,

     To youths, whose minish'd numbers feel

               Their parents' guilt.

     What god shall Rome invoke to stay

       Her fall? Can suppliance overbear

     The ear of Vesta, turn'd away

               From chant and prayer?

     Who comes, commission'd to atone

       For crime like ours? at length appear,

     A cloud round thy bright shoulders thrown,

               Apollo seer!

     Or Venus, laughter-loving dame,

       Round whom gay Loves and Pleasures fly;

     Or thou, if slighted sons may claim

               A parent's eye,

     O weary—with thy long, long game,

       Who lov'st fierce shouts and helmets bright,

     And Moorish warrior's glance of flame

               Or e'er he smite!

     Or Maia's son, if now awhile

       In youthful guise we see thee here,

     Caesar's avenger—such the style

               Thou deign'st to bear;

     Late be thy journey home, and long

       Thy sojourn with Rome's family;

     Nor let thy wrath at our great wrong

               Lend wings to fly.

     Here take our homage, Chief and Sire;

       Here wreathe with bay thy conquering brow,

     And bid the prancing Mede retire,

               Our Caesar thou!

        Thus may Cyprus' heavenly queen,

     Thus Helen's brethren, stars of brightest sheen,

       Guide thee! May the Sire of wind

     Each truant gale, save only Zephyr, bind!

       So do thou, fair ship, that ow'st

     Virgil, thy precious freight, to Attic coast,

       Safe restore thy loan and whole,

     And save from death the partner of my soul!

       Oak and brass of triple fold

     Encompass'd sure that heart, which first made bold

       To the raging sea to trust

     A fragile bark, nor fear'd the Afric gust

       With its Northern mates at strife,

     Nor Hyads' frown, nor South-wind fury-rife,

       Mightiest power that Hadria knows,

     Wills he the waves to madden or compose.

       What had Death in store to awe

     Those eyes, that huge sea-beasts unmelting saw,