Читать книгу Echoes from the Sabine Farm - Гораций, Квинт Гораций Флакк - Страница 12

You, who have compassed land and sea,

Now all unburied lie;

All vain your store of human lore,

For you were doomed to die.

The sire of Pelops likewise fell,—

Jove's honored mortal guest;

So king and sage of every age

At last lie down to rest.

Plutonian shades enfold the ghost

Of that majestic one

Who taught as truth that he, forsooth,

Had once been Pentheus' son;

Believe who may, he's passed away,

And what he did is done.

A last night comes alike to all;

One path we all must tread,

Through sore disease or stormy seas

Or fields with corpses red.

Whate'er our deeds, that pathway leads

To regions of the dead.

The fickle twin Illyrian gales

Overwhelmed me on the wave;

But you that live, I pray you give

My bleaching bones a grave!

Oh, then when cruel tempests rage

You all unharmed shall be;

Jove's mighty hand shall guard by land

And Neptune's on the sea.

Perchance you fear to do what may

Bring evil to your race?

Oh, rather fear that like me here

You'll lack a burial place.

So, though you be in proper haste,

Bide long enough, I pray,

To give me, friend, what boon shall send

My soul upon its way!