Horace: Epode 1.7 "Rome's Sons March to Civil War" (From Latin)

Well, I was going to get back to translating Latin poetry eventually wasn't I? Translating the already-overtranslated poets of Graeco-Roman antiquity is for me like eating McDonalds: probably not the best use of my time, but still enjoyable. 

Rome's Sons March to Civil War

By Horace (Epode 1.7)

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

What crime are you boys off to now? What are you 
Doing, with blades again in hand? 

Has not enough of Latin blood already

Gushed over sea and land?

Was it so Rome could bring the lording towers

of jumped-up Carthage down in flames,

Was it to take the last free Briton down 

the Sacred Way in slavers' chains?

No. It was this town answering Persia's prayers,

Disemboweling herself alone.

Not even wolves or lions can do this

violence against their own. 

Does blind rage goad you? Or some nastier power

Like guilt? Give me reply. 

Silence. A ghastly pallor dyes their cheeks. 

Their shattered brains in stupor lie. 

And so it goes: cruel fate and fratricide

Drive Romans on in crime,

Ever since blameless Remus' blood was spilled

and brought a curse on all their line.

The Original:

Quō, quō, scelestī, ruitis? aut cūr dexterīs

aptantur ēnsēs conditī?

parumne campīs atque Neptūnō super

fūsum est Latīnī sanguinis?

nōn ut superbās invidae Carthāginis

Rōmānus arcēs ūreret,

intāctus aut Britannus ut dēscenderet

Sacrā catēnātus Viā,

sed ut secundum vōta Parthōrum suā

urbs haec perīret dexterā.

neque hic lupīs mōs nec fuit leōnibus,

numquam nisī in dispār ferīs.

furorne caecus an rapit vīs ācrior

an culpa? respōnsum date!

tacent, et albus ōra pallor īnficit,

mentēsque perculsae stupent.

sīc est: acerba fāta Rōmānōs agunt

scelusque frāternae necis,

ut immerentis flūxit in terram Remī

sacer nepōtibus cruor.

Horace: Ode 2.1 "To Pollio, On His History of the Civil Wars" (From Latin)

To Pollio, On His History of the Civil Wars
By Horace
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Of all that civil unrest since Metellus,　
the phases, causes and the crimes of war, 　
　of Fortune's games, of great men's grave
　　friendships, of weapons smeared with gore
not yet atoned for – you are writing now 　
a work where every turned phrase is a roll     　
　of dangerous dice. Let not the ash 
　　deceive: you tread on blazing coal.  
Let your stern Muse not leave the tragic stage    　　
for long. Soon, when you've set affairs of state　　
　in order, you will heed the theater's          　　
　　calling again. Pollio the great
bastion of law to grieved defendants, famous    　　
for counseling the Senate council, crowned 　　
　with deathless military honor
　　for victory on Illyrian ground.　　
Even now I hear the war-horns' baleful roar　
in your raucous music, and the bugles' blare.　　
　I see the flash of swords strike panicked 
　　horses and the horsemen's eyes with fear. 
I see the great commanders filthy with  　
the glorious dirt of war, I hear the whole　
　world fall at Rome's feet notwithstanding
　　defiant Cato's dogged soul.
The gods allied with Africa who, helpless　
to help, left unavenged that country's shores, 　
　now sacrifice to dead Jugurtha　
　　the grandsons of his conquerors. 
What field has Latin blood not fertilized,　
its graves attesting the unholiest  　
　of wars, and that the ears of Persia
　　ring with the ruin of the West? 
What churning sea, what river does not know　
those acrid wars' taste? What sea has the slaughter　
　of Rome's own sons not dyed? What beach
　　has our gushed blood not washed like water? 
But stay amusing, sassy muse. Enough          　
drumming up death-songs from Simonides.    　　
　 Let's flee to one of Venus' grottos
　　to strum a lighter tune than these.  

Notes:

Stanza 1: 
Roman dates were customarily kept according to the names of the two consuls who took office in that year (though, in this case, only one is given.) Metellus Celer was consul in 60 BC, the year the general and politician Pompey along with Marcus Licinius Crassus and a rising politician by the name of Julius Caesar, struck up the informal political alliance normally referred to as the First Triumvirate. It ushered in a period of political deterioration that led to the end of the Roman Republic as a viable political entity. Horace here refers to the problems of rivalry and civil war between the participants in this alliance and those of the Second Triumvirate, which two decades later brought together Octavian (later to be the emperor named Augustus), Mark Antony and Marcus Aemilius Lepidus. 

Stanza 3:
Gaius Asinius Pollio (76 BC - 4 AD) served under Julius Caesar and then under Antony. In 40 BC he brought the embittered and estranged erstwhile partners of the Second Triumvirate, Antony and Octavian, together in the Treaty of Brundisium. In 39 BC he was honored with triumphal laurels for his victory over the Parthini, an Illyrian tribe allied with Marcus Junius Brutus, adversary to Octavian and assassin of Julius Caesar. The momentous work to which Horace refers here is Pollio's history of the political turmoil from 60 to 42 BC, which at the time was very fresh in people's minds and therefore, Horace would have us believe, dangerous to write about. 

Stanza 6:
Marcus Porcius Cato Uticensis (95– 46 BC), ruler of the North African city of Utica and great grandson of Cato the Censor, was a dogged defender of the republic who, after defeat at the battle of Thapsus, committed suicide rather than legitimate the Empire's dictatorship by accepting a pardon from Julius Caesar.

Stanza 7:
Allusion to the sack of the African city of Carthage in 146 BC. Jugurtha, king of Numidia, was defeated and executed in Rome in 104 BC. 

Stanza 10:
Simonides of Ceos, major Greek lyric poet of the 6th and 5th centuries BC, famed for his evocative elegies on fallen warriors. 


The Original:

Mōtum ex Metellō cōnsule cīvicum　

bellīque causās et vitia et modōs　

　lūdumque Fōrtūnae gravisque

　　prīncipum amīcitiās et arma

nōndum expiātīs ūncta cruōribus,　　

perīculōsae plēnum opus āleae,　　

　trāctās et incēdis per ignīs

　　suppositōs cinerī dolōsō.

Paulum sevērae Mūsa tragoediae　

dēsit theātrīs; mox, ubi pūblicās　

　rēs ōrdināris, grande mūnus

　　Cēcropiō repetēs cothurnō,

īnsigne maestīs praesidium reīs　

et cōnsulentī, Pōlliō, cūriae,　

　cui laurus aeternōs honōrēs

　　Delmaticō peperit triumphō.

Iam nunc minācī murmure cornuum

perstringis aurīs, iam lituī strepunt,　

　iam fulgor armōrum fugācis

　　terret equōs equitumque vultūs.

Vidēre magnōs iam videor ducēs　

nōn indecōrō pulvere sordidōs　

　et cūncta terrārum subācta

　　praeter atrōcem animum Catōnis.

Iūnō et deōrum quisquis amīcior　

Āfrīs inultā cesserat impotēns　

　tellūre, victōrum nepōtēs

　　rettulit īnferiās Iugurthae.

Quis nōn Latīnō sanguine pinguior　

campus sepulchrīs impia proelia　

　testātur audītumque Mēdīs

　　Hesperiae sonitum ruīnae?

Quī gurges aut quae flūmina lūgubris　

ignāra bellī? Quod mare Dauniae　

　nōn dēcolōrāvēre caedēs?

　　Quae caret ōra cruōre nostrō?

Sed nē relīctīs, Mūsa procāx, iocīs　

Cēae retrāctēs mūnera nēniae,　

　mēcum Diōnaeō sub antrō

　　quaere modōs leviōre plēctrō.

Horace: Ode 1.9 To Thaliarchus in Winter (From Latin)

To Thaliarchus In Winter
By Horace
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Latin

See how Soracte¹ shines in the height of snowfall,　
See how the toiling forests can hardly bear　
　their cold loads, how the streams stand frozen,
　　stilled with sharp ice in bewintering air.
Thaw off this cold. Throw logs on the hearth in warm　
welcome, and be more generous with the pure  　 
　wine drawn from that old Sabine² cask,        
　　dear Thaliarchus, good host and sure 
friend. Let the gods take care of the rest. Once they've　
brought all the winds that brawl on the boiling sea    　  
　to heel, then nothing shakes the ancient
　　alder and beautiful cypress tree.
Ask not of what tomorrow will bring. Each day　
fortune allows you, count as a blessed gain.　
　Young man, enjoy the sweet delights of 
　　loving and dancing. Do not abstain
while your green youth is free of old peevish gray.　　
Now is the time for Campus³ and plaza too,　
　for nights of sighs and whispered nothings    
　　when you and her keep a rendezvous,
Time for the lovely laugh from a secret corner　
giving away the girl where she hides at last,　
　for the love-bracelet from a hand whose
　　fingers pretend to resist your grasp. 

Notes:

1- Mount Soracte, a mountain north of Rome and visible from the city streets.

2 - Sabine wine, originating in an area near Horace's own farm. Not an especially expensive vintage.

3 - "Campus" i.e. the Campus Martius or Field of Mars.


Original:

Vidēs ut altā stet nive candidum　
Sōracte, nec iam sustineant onus　
　silvae labōrantēs, gelūque
　　flūmina cōnstiterint acūtō.
Dissolve frīgus, ligna super focō              　
largē repōnēns atque benignius　
　dēprōme quadrīmum Sabīnā,
　　ō Thaliarche, merum diōtā:
permitte dīvīs cētera, quī simul　
strāvēre ventōs aequore fervidō                  　    
　dēproeliantīs, nec cupressī
　　nec veterēs agitantur ōrnī.
Quid sit futūrum crās fuge quaerere et　
quem Fōrs diērum cumque dabit lucrō　
　appōne, nec dulcīs amōrēs                          
　　sperne puer neque tū chorēās,
dōnec virentī cānitiēs abest　
mōrōsa.  Nunc et campus et āreae　
　lēnēsque sub noctem susurrī
　　compositā repetantur hōrā,          
nunc et latentis prōditor intumō　
grātus puellae rīsus ab angulō　
　pignusque dēreptum lacertīs
　　aut digitō male pertinācī.

Horace: Ode 3.30 (From Latin)

Ode 3.30: My Monument
By Horace
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

I've raised a monument to outlast bronze,
Whose heights no dynast's pyramid can exceed,
Which neither North Wind's bluster nor the gnaw
Of rain, nor countless years in slow stampede,
Nor eras' flight can level to the ground.
I'll not all die. Much of me will go long
Past Queen Funeria's reach. I in renown 
Of latter days shall grow ever fresh and young.
While yet the pontiff with the quiet virgin
Ascends to the Temple of Jove on that great hill,
I, born where the Aufidus river in violence surges
And droughted Daunus ruled a wild people, will 
Be named: the mighty leader from low birth
Who first led Greek song to Italic measure.
Now, Muse, take on the pridefulness I've earned,
And lay the laureate's wreathe on me with pleasure.

The Original:

Carmen XXX, Liber III
Quintus Horatius Flaccus

Exēgī monumentum aere perennius,
rēgālīque sitū pȳramidum altius,
quod nōn imber edāx nōn Aquilō impotēns
possit dīruere aut innumerābilis
annōrum seriēs et fuga temporum.
Nōn omnis moriar. Multaque pars meī
vītābit Libitīnam, ūsque ego posterā
crēscam laude recēns, dum Capitōlium
scandet cum tacitā virgine pontifex
dīcar, quā violēns obstrepit Aufidus
et quā pauper aquae Daunus agrestium
rēgnāvit populōrum, ex humilī potēns
prīnceps Aeolium carmen ad Ītalōs
dēdūxisse modōs. Sūme superbiam
quaesītam meritīs et mihi Delphicā
laurō cinge volēns, Melpomenē, comam.

Horace: Ode for Miranda (From Latin)

Ode for Miranda
By Horace (Ode 1.11)
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Don't ask (we're not to know) what end, Miranda,
the gods intend for you, for me; nor squander
your mind with horoscopes. Do better: let
what will be, be. Jove may grant winters yet
or deem this year's your last that wears the wide
Tyrrhenian sea out on the brawny side
of cliffs. Be wise: have wine and prune the bough
of long hopes to short minutes. Even now
as we speak here, devouring time speeds on.
Harvest this day and take no stock in dawn.

Many thanks to: Geoffrey Brock for giving a draft a well-needed thrashing, to Jean Migrenne for fixing an embarrassing problem of geography and to David Wray for advice on prosody.

The Original:

Tū nē quaesieris (scīre nefās) quem mihi quem tibi
fīnem dī dederint, Leuconoē, nec Babylōniōs
temptāris numerōs. Ut melius, quidquid erit, patī!
Seu plūrēs hiemēs, seu tribuit Iuppiter ultimam,
quae nunc oppositīs dēbilitat pūmicibus mare
Tyrrhēnum: sapiās, vīna liquēs et spatiō brevī
spem longam resecēs. Dum loquimur, fūgerit invida
aetās: carpe diem, quam minimum crēdula posterō. 

Horace: Ode 1.38 (from Latin)

Warning: I may have let the footnotes get out of hand in this one

Ode 1.38
By Horace
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Latin

My boy: I hate the filigree of Persia.¹
Linden-sewn garlands chafe me with their glamor.²
Cease and desist your search for the decaying
Last rose of summer.³
I wouldn't want you tangling or defiling
Uncontrived myrtle. ⁴Myrtle's shade is proper
For you who pour, and for me as I drink in
Shade of the arbor.

Notes:
¹- For Horace, to call something Persian was to call it unmanly and over-lavish. All through Horace's lifetime the Romans had been fighting a protracted war with the Persian Parthian Empire. In the finest tradition of enemy-stereotyping, Roman society concocted for itself the notion that Persians were excessively fond of finery and were therefore weak, effete and unmanly. (I guess lavishness and luxury make your dick shrink. No wonder male porn stars are paid so much less than their female counterparts.)

²-The soft layer between the outer bark and inner wood of the linden tree was used to make matting and string for garlands. Garlands made in this manner were called "coronae sutiles" (sewn garlands.)

³- In the Mediterranean, roses bloom in late spring and early summer. At any other time of the year, they would be considered a luxury. The precise flower referred to here is likely the Damask Rose, famed for its beauty and fragrance. This flower, which has never been found growing wild, was probably introduced to Europe from the Middle East. DNA analysis by Japanese scientists in 2000 revealed that the Damask Rose is a cultivated hybrid of Rosa gallica, Rosa moschata and Rosa fedtschenkoana. The only area where all three of these parent species grow naturally is northern Persia, bringing the whole thing full circle. The use of flowers and floral symbolism figured prominently in ancient Iranian religions. In Zoroastrianism, a different flower or herb was associated with each of the deities to be honored. Pungent herbs such as myrtle and basil were associated with male deities, whereas the rose was associated with Daena, a female deity. Naturally, most of this wouldn't have been in Horace's head. But does suggest, from a Roman standpoint, an exoticism we aren't used to associating with roses.

O, and one more thing (because it's my favorite etymology in a European language, not because it is key to appreciating the poem.) The Latin word Rosa is a borrowing, mediated through Oscan, from Attic Greek ῥόδον rhódon, from proto-greek *ϝρόδιον wǔródion, borrowed from none other than Old Persian wurdi and there the etymological trail gets murky. A Proto-Indo-European *ṷr̥dho "thorn, bramble" can be reconstructed, but a good case can be made for a Semitic source too, a not uncommon situation since words of this type are easily borrowed (just imagine a historical linguist 3000 years from now trying to use fragmentary textual data to figure out which language was the source of the word "Coca cola.") In any event, whatever its ultimate origin, the word's cognates in various languages and language families suggest that it is clearly a long-time resident of the near east. c.f. Arabic وردة warda, Hebrew ורד wered (proto-Hebrew *ward), Armenian Վարդ vard, etc. My own view is that the Semitic words, like the Greek one, are also borrowings from Old Persian. 

⁴-Myrtle, an evergreen shrub with a pungent scent, was sacred to Aphrodite, and had a very conjugal flavor. For example: on their wedding day, brides wore myrtle garlands and bathed in water scented with fermented myrtle-berries (presumably because a girl isn't a woman until she has suffered through her first yeast infection.) Anyway, to me, this suggests that drink-pouring isn't the only service Horace would like from the lovely boy.

The story of why it's sacred to Aphrodite is worth telling, if only because it reads like a sexually frustrated fever dream. Myrrha, a Cyprian princess, fell in love with her father and, conspired to seduce him in disguise. When he realized he had been tricked into screwing his own daughter, he got a good wrath going and, as if to prove just how dysfunctional mythical families can truly get, his first response was to grab his sword and try to chop her to bits- thus making every Freudian's day. She, realizing that this wasn't the way she meant for him to split her, made a run for it. Before he could finally hack her up, Aphrodite decided that she was done laughing, and turned Myrrha into a myrtle tree, whence the name. But, since Myrrha was already pregnant when she went all treelike, and because Greek myths simply cannot end without breaking my bizarro-meter, Myrrha-turned-tree split open at the trunk nine months later and gave birth to a baby named Adonis. Yes, really. I wonder if this counts as the first C-section.

The Original:

Persicōs ōdī, puer, apparātus;
displicent nexae philyrā corōnae;
mitte sectārī rosa quō locōrum
sēra morētur.
Simplicī myrtō nihil allabōrēs
sēdulus cūrō: neque tē ministrum
dēdecet myrtus neque mē sub artā
vīte bibentem.