Horácio

Horácio

65–8 · lived 0 years IT IT

Quintus Horatius Flaccus, commonly known as Horace, was a prominent Roman lyric poet during the time of Augustus. He is regarded as one of the greatest Roman lyric poets. His works, including Odes, Epodes, Satires, and Epistles, offer a vivid portrayal of Roman society and human nature. Horace's poetry is characterized by its technical mastery, elegant style, and philosophical depth, often exploring themes of moderation, the passage of time, and the pursuit of a happy life. His influence on Western literature is profound and enduring, shaping poetic traditions for centuries.

n. 0065-12-08, Venosa · m. 0008-11-27, Roma

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BkIV:XII Spring

BkIV:XII Spring

Now Spring’s companions, the Thracian northerlies,
that quieten the ocean, are swelling the canvas:
now fields are unfrozen, and rivers stop roaring
with their volumes of winter snow.


The sad swallow, tearfully mourning Itys, builds
her nest, she’s the House of Cecrops’ eternal shame,
avenging the barbarous lust of Tereus
with too savage a cruelty.


The shepherds, with indolent sheep, in the soft grass,
sing their songs to the sound of the pipes, and delight
great god, Pan, who is pleased with the flocks, and is pleased
by the dark hills of Arcady.


And, Virgil, the season has brought its thirst to us:
but if you’re eager to sip at a grape that was pressed
at Cales, you follower of noble youth, then
earn your wine with a gift of nard.


One small onyx box of nard elicits a jar
that’s lying there now in Sulpicius’ cellar,
sufficient for granting fresh hope, and effective
at washing away bitter care.


If you’re in a rush for pleasures like this, come quick
with your purchase: since I refuse to consider
dipping a gift-less you, in my wine, as if I’m
rich, my house filled with everything.


But abolish delay, and desire for profit,
and, remembering death’s sombre flames, while you can,
mix a little brief foolishness with your wisdom:
it’s sweet sometimes to play the fool.
Read full poem
Bio

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.

Poems

52

BkII:IV Loving A Servant Girl

BkII:IV Loving A Servant Girl

Phocian Xanthis, don’t be ashamed of love
for your serving-girl. Once before, Briseis
the Trojan slave with her snow-white skin stirred
angry Achilles:

and captive Tecmessa’s loveliness troubled
her master Ajax, the son of Telamon:
and Agamemnon, in his mid-triumph, burned
for a stolen girl,

while the barbarian armies, defeated
in Greek victory, and the loss of Hector,
handed Troy to the weary Thessalians,
an easier prey.

You don’t know your blond Phyllis hasn’t parents
who are wealthy, and might grace their son-in-law.
Surely she’s royally born, and grieves at her
cruel household gods.

Believe that the girl you love’s not one who comes
from the wicked masses, that one so faithful
so averse to gain, couldn’t be the child of
a shameful mother.

I’m unbiased in praising her arms and face,
and shapely ankles: reject all suspicion
of one whose swiftly vanishing life has known
its fortieth year.
259

BkII:II Money

BkII:II Money

Crispus, silver concealed in the greedy earth
has no colour, and you are an enemy
to all such metal unless, indeed, it gleams
from sensible use.

Proculeius will be famous in distant
ages for his generous feelings towards
his brothers: enduring fame will carry him
on its tireless wings.

You may rule a wider kingdom by taming
a greedy spirit, than by joining Spain
to far-off Libya, while Carthaginians
on both sides, serve one.

A fatal dropsy grows worse with indulgence,
the patient can’t rid himself of thirst unless
his veins are free of illness, and his pale flesh
of watery languor.

Though Phraates is back on the Armenian
throne, Virtue, differing from the rabble, excludes
him from the blessed, and instructs the people
not to misuse words,

instead conferring power, and security
of rule, and lasting laurels, on him alone
who can pass by enormous piles of treasure
without looking back.
259

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.
204

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.
254

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.
237

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!
286

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.
258

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.
965

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.
238

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.
261

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