| ODES - II.13 | ODES - II.13 |
| Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus) | trans. Colin Sydenham |
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Ille et nefasto te posuit die quicumque 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 numquam homini satis cautum est in horas: navita Bosphorum Poenus perhorrescit neque ultra caeca timet aliunde fata; miles sagittas et celerem fugam Parthi, catenas Parthus et Italum robur; sed improvisa leti vis rapuit rapietque gentis. quam paene furvae regna Proserpinae et iudicantem vidimus Aeacum sedesque descriptas piorum et Aeoliis fidibus querentem Sappho puellis de popularibus, et te sonantem plenius aureo, Alcaee, plectro dura navis, dura fugae mala, dura belli! utrumque sacro digna silentio mirantur umbrae dicere; sed magis pugnas et exactos tyrannos densum umeris bibit aure vulgus. quid mirum, ubi illis carminibus stupens demittit atras belua centiceps auris et intorti capillis Eumenidum recreantur angues? quin et Prometheus et Pelopis parens dulci laborem decipitur sono, nec curat Orion leones aut timidos agitare lyncas. |
It was a godless man who planted you upon a lawless day, pernicious tree, bequeathing ruin to his offspring, infamy to this locality; I swear he was the sort of ruffian to break his mother's neck, or stain at night with blood of some defenceless guest his household shrine; a criminal who might traffic in poisons and all other kinds of vice was he who placed you, fateful tree, in my domain, to fall upon your owner passing inoffensively. Watch as he will, a man can't be on guard at every moment; sailors dread the straits of Bosphorus, unmindful of the hidden fate that round the headland waits; the soldier fears the backward arrow of the Parthian, the Parthian fears to go in chains to Rome, but what is always fatal is the unexpected blow. How near I came to seeing that dark realm of Proserpine, and Aeacus unfolding judgment, the region of the blessed, and Sappho in Aeolian lyrics scolding her countrywomen, and, Alcaeus, you, with golden touch and in robuster style portraying the relentless hardships faced in warfare, naval life, exile. They both command a wondering silence from the listening shades, but most the triumph-song of strife and tyranny expelled is drunk in by the densely pressing throng; - no wonder when that magic sound can charm the hundred-headed hound to droop his ears bewitched, and all the snakes to sway in pleasure twined among the Furies' hairs; the music even cheats the torment of Prometheus, lending him a breathing space, and rests the wary lynx and lion while Orion pauses in the chase. |
Transl. copyright © Colin Sydenham 2006