Poems List

BkI:XXXVIII The Simple Myrtle

BkI:XXXVIII The Simple Myrtle

My child, how I hate Persian ostentation,
garlands twined around lime-tree bark displease me:
forget your chasing, to find all the places
where late roses fade.


You’re eager, take care, that nothing enhances
the simple myrtle: it’s not only you that
it graces, the servant, but me as I drink,
beneath the dark vine.
241

BkI:XXXVI Numida’s Back Again

BkI:XXXVI Numida’s Back Again

With music, and incense, and blood
of a bullock, delight in placating the gods
that guarded our Numida well,
who’s returned safe and sound, from the farthest West, now,


showering a host of kisses
on every dear friend, but on none of us more than
lovely Lamia, remembering
their boyhood spent under the self-same master,


their togas exchanged together.
Don’t allow this sweet day to lack a white marker,
no end to the wine jars at hand,
no rest for our feet in the Salian fashion,


Don’t let wine-heavy Damalis
conquer our Bassus in downing the Thracian draughts.
Don’t let our feast lack for roses,
or the long-lasting parsley, or the brief lilies:


we’ll all cast our decadent eyes
on Damalis, but Damalis won’t be parted
from that new lover of hers she’s
clasping, more tightly than the wandering ivy.
192

BkI:XXXIV Fortune’s Changes

BkI:XXXIV Fortune’s Changes

Once I wandered, an expert in crazy wisdom,
a scant and infrequent adorer of gods,
now I’m forced to set sail and return,
to go back to the paths I abandoned.

For Jupiter, Father of all of the gods,
who generally splits the clouds with his lightning,
flashing away, drove thundering horses,
and his swift chariot, through the clear sky,

till the dull earth, and the wandering rivers,
and Styx, and dread Taenarus’ hateful headland,
and Atlas’s mountain-summits shook.
The god has the power to replace the highest

with the lowest, bring down the famous, and raise
the obscure to the heights. And greedy Fortune
with her shrill whirring, carries away
the crown and delights in setting it, there.
222

BkI:XXXII To the Lyre

BkI:XXXII To the Lyre

I’m called on. O Lyre, if I’ve ever played
idle things with you in the shade, that will live,
for a year or more, come and utter a song
now, of Italy:

you were first tuned by Alcaeus of Lesbos,
a man daring in war, yet still, amongst arms,
or after he’d moored his storm-driven boat
on a watery shore,

he sang of the Muses, Bacchus, and Venus
that boy of hers, Cupid, that hangs around her,
and that beautiful Lycus, with his dark eyes
and lovely dark hair.

O tortoiseshell, Phoebus’s glory, welcome
at the feasts of Jupiter, the almighty,
O sweet comfort and balm of our troubles, heal,
if I call you true!
273

BkI:XXX Ode To Venus

BkI:XXX Ode To Venus

O Venus, the queen of Cnidos and Paphos,
spurn your beloved Cyprus, and summoned
by copious incense, come to the lovely shrine
of my Glycera.

And let that passionate boy of yours, Cupid,
and the Graces with loosened zones, and the Nymphs,
and Youth, less lovely without you, hasten here,
and Mercury too.
950

BkI:XXV A Prophecy of Age

BkI:XXV A Prophecy of Age

Now the young men come less often, violently
beating your shutters, with blow after blow, or
stealing away your sleep, while the door sits tight,
hugging the threshold,


yet was once known to move its hinges, more than
readily. You’ll hear, less and less often now:
‘Are you sleeping, Lydia, while your lover
dies in the long night?’


Old, in your turn, you’ll bemoan coarse adulterers,
as you tremble in some deserted alley,
while the Thracian wind rages, furiously,
through the moonless nights,


while flagrant desire, libidinous passion,
those powers that will spur on a mare in heat,
will storm all around your corrupted heart, ah,
and you’ll complain,


that the youths, filled with laughter, take more delight
in the green ivy, the dark of the myrtle,
leaving the withering leaves to this East wind,
winter’s accomplice.
247

BkI:XXVII Entanglement

BkI:XXVII Entanglement

To fight with wine-cups intended for pleasure
only suits Thracians: forget those barbarous
games, and keep modest Bacchus away
from all those bloodthirsty quarrels of yours.


The Persian scimitar’s quite out of keeping
with the wine and the lamplight: my friends restrain
all that impious clamour, and rest
on the couches, lean back on your elbows.


So you want me to drink up my share, as well,
of the heavy Falernian? Then let’s hear
Opuntian Megylla’s brother tell
by what wound, and what arrow, blessed, he dies.


Does your will waver? I’ll drink on no other
terms. Whatever the passion rules over you,
it’s not with a shameful fire it burns,
and you always sin with the noblest


of lovers. Whoever it is, ah, come now,
let it be heard by faithful ears – oh, you wretch!
What a Charybdis you’re swimming in,
my boy, you deserve a far better flame!


What magician, with Thessalian potions,
what enchantress, or what god could release you?
Caught by the triple-formed Chimaera,
even Pegasus could barely free you.
243

BkI:XXIV A Lament For Quintilius

BkI:XXIV A Lament For Quintilius

What limit, or restraint, should we show at the loss
of so dear a life? Melpomene, teach me, Muse,
a song of mourning, you, whom the Father granted
a clear voice, the sound of the lyre.

Does endless sleep lie heavy on Quintilius,
now? When will Honour, and unswerving Loyalty,
that is sister to Justice, and our naked Truth,
ever discover his equal?

Many are the good men who weep for his dying,
none of them, Virgil, weep more profusely than you.
Piously, you ask the gods for him, alas, in vain:
not so was he given to us.

Even if you played on the Thracian lyre, listened
to by the trees, more sweetly than Orpheus could,
would life then return, to that empty phantom,
once Mercury, with fearsome wand,

who won’t simply re-open the gates of Fate
at our bidding, has gathered him to the dark throng?
It is hard: but patience makes more tolerable
whatever wrong’s to be righted.
219

BkI:XXII Singing of Lalage (Integer Vitae)

BkI:XXII Singing of Lalage (Integer Vitae)

The man who is pure of life, and free of sin,
has no need, dear Fuscus, for Moorish javelins,
nor a bow and a quiver, fully loaded
with poisoned arrows,


whether his path’s through the sweltering Syrtes,
or through the inhospitable Caucasus,
or makes its way through those fabulous regions
Hydaspes waters.


While I was wandering, beyond the boundaries
of my farm, in the Sabine woods, and singing
free from care, lightly-defended, of my Lalage,
a wolf fled from me:


a monster not even warlike Apulia
nourishes deep in its far-flung oak forests,
or that Juba’s parched Numidian land breeds,
nursery of lions.


Set me down on the lifeless plains, where no trees
spring to life in the burning midsummer wind,
that wide stretch of the world that’s burdened by mists
and a gloomy sky:


set me down in a land denied habitation,
where the sun’s chariot rumbles too near the earth:
I’ll still be in love with my sweetly laughing,
sweet talking Lalage.
232

BkI:XVII The Delights of the Country

BkI:XVII The Delights of the Country

Swift Faunus, the god, will quite often exchange
Arcady for my sweet Mount Lucretilis,
and while he stays he protects my goats
from the midday heat and the driving rain.


The wandering wives of the rank he-goats search,
with impunity, through the safe woodland groves,
for the hidden arbutus, and thyme,
and their kids don’t fear green poisonous snakes,


or the wolf of Mars, my lovely Tyndaris,
once my Mount Ustica’s long sloping valleys,
and its smooth worn rocks, have re-echoed
to the music of sweet divine piping.


The gods protect me: my love and devotion,
and my Muse, are dear to the gods. Here the rich
wealth of the countryside’s beauties will
flow for you, now, from the horn of plenty.


Here you’ll escape from the heat of the dog-star,
in secluded valleys, sing of bright Circe,
labouring over the Teian lyre,
and of Penelope: both loved one man.


Here you’ll bring cups of innocent Lesbian
wine, under the shade, nor will Semele’s son,
that Bacchus, battle it out with Mars,
nor shall you fear the intemperate hands


of insolent Cyrus, jealously watching,
to possess you, girl, unequal to evil,
to tear off the garland that clings to
your hair, or tear off your innocent clothes.
222

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Identification and basic context

Horace, whose full name was Quintus Horatius Flaccus, was a celebrated Roman lyric poet. He was born in Venusia (modern Venosa), Italy, and died in Rome. His father, a freedman, ensured Horace received a high-quality education. Horace was a Roman citizen and wrote in Latin.

Childhood and education

Horace's father, despite being a freedman, invested heavily in his son's education, sending him to Rome for schooling and later to Athens to study philosophy. This education provided him with a broad understanding of Greek literature and philosophy, significantly shaping his intellectual and poetic development.

Literary trajectory

Horace's literary career began after his return to Rome. He gained patronage from influential figures like Maecenas, who became a close friend and supporter. This patronage allowed Horace to dedicate himself to poetry. His early works include the Epodes and Satires, followed by the more polished Odes and Epistles. He became a prominent voice in the Augustan literary circle.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Horace's major works include the Epodes, Satires (Sermones), Odes (Carmina), and Epistles (Epistulae), the latter including the Ars Poetica. His poetry explores themes of love, friendship, patriotism, the fleeting nature of life (carpe diem), moderation (aurea mediocritas), and the wisdom of a simple, virtuous life. He mastered various poetic forms, particularly the lyric ode, adapting Greek meters into Latin with great skill. His style is known for its clarity, precision, elegance, and wit. He often used irony and a conversational tone, especially in his Satires and Epistles. He is associated with the Golden Age of Latin literature.

Cultural and historical context

Horace lived during the tumultuous transition from the Roman Republic to the Roman Empire, under the reign of Augustus. He was part of a vibrant literary scene that included Virgil and Ovid. His poetry often reflects the political and social climate of his time, advocating for peace and stability while subtly commenting on public life. He was a beneficiary of the Augustan cultural revival.

Personal life

Horace's personal life was marked by his close friendship with Gaius Maecenas, a wealthy patron of the arts who provided him with a Sabine farm. This estate became a refuge and a source of inspiration for his poetry. While he served briefly as a military tribune, his primary focus remained on his literary pursuits. His personal beliefs often centered on Stoic and Epicurean philosophies, advocating for a balanced and content existence.

Recognition and reception

Horace was highly acclaimed during his lifetime and is considered one of the greatest Latin poets. His works were widely studied and admired by subsequent generations. He has consistently been recognized for his technical brilliance, wisdom, and enduring relevance.

Influences and legacy

Horace was deeply influenced by Greek poets like Sappho, Alcaeus, and Pindar. His legacy is immense; he profoundly influenced Western poetry, particularly lyric poetry and satire. Poets from the Renaissance to modern times have emulated his style, themes, and philosophical outlook. His Ars Poetica remains a foundational text in literary criticism.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Horace's poetry is often interpreted as a philosophical guide to living a good life, emphasizing moderation, self-sufficiency, and appreciating the present moment. His advice on poetry in the Ars Poetica has been subject to endless analysis and debate.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Despite his fame, Horace often expressed a desire for a quiet, unobtrusive life, valuing his independence and his Sabine farm above public recognition. He was known for his meticulous craftsmanship, revising his poems extensively.

Death and memory

Horace died shortly after his patron Maecenas. He was buried near Maecenas's tomb on the Esquiline Hill in Rome. His memory is preserved through his enduring literary works, which continue to be studied and appreciated worldwide.