Odes, Book 4, Ode 1

Horace returns to lyric poetry

by Horace

It is about ten years after Horace signed off his first three books of Odes in Greek lyric metres with a poem declaring that his task was done. Now there is a fourth book, of which this is the first poem. Horace says he is reluctant, and no longer the right age – he would have been fifty a couple of years before this Ode was written – to write this sort of poetry. The elegant set-piece on the praise of Venus and the compliment to Paulus Maximus, a powerful public figure who was Consul in 11 BCE, are framed by an opening and a conclusion which purport to tell us how the ageing Horace now feels about love. The beginning suggests that he would rather it were over and done with, but the ending, with its dream-sequence of longing for a beloved who seems now attainable, now elusive, contradicts this. Whether the poem expresses the middle-aged Horace’s true feelings, or whether it is no more than a characteristically skilled literary fiction, we don’t know, but it is a powerful piece.

See the illustrated blog post with a mosaic of Ganymede from Sousse in North Africa here.

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Intermissa, Venus, diu
rursus bella moves? parce, precor precor.
non sum qualis eram bonae
sub regno Cinarae. desine, dulcium

mater saeva Cupidinum,
circa lustra decem flectere mollibus
iam durum imperiis: abi,
quo blandae iuvenum te revocant preces.

tempestivius in domum
Pauli purpureis ales oloribus
comissabere Maximi,
si torrere iecur quaeris idoneum;

namque et nobilis et decens
et pro sollicitis non tacitus reis
et centum puer artium
late signa feret militiae tuae

et, quandoque potentior
largi muneribus riserit aemuli,
Albanos prope te lacus
ponet marmoream sub trabe citrea.

illic plurima naribus
duces tura lyraeque et Berecyntiae
delectabere tibiae
mixtis carminibus non sine fistula;

illic bis pueri die
numen cum teneris virginibus tuum
laudantes pede candido
in morem Salium ter quatient humum.

me nec femina nec puer
iam nec spes animi credula mutui
nec certare iuvat mero
nec vincire novis tempora floribus.

sed cur heu, Ligurine, cur
manat rara meas lacrima per genas?
cur facunda parum decoro
inter verba cadit lingua silentio?

nocturnis ego somniis
iam captum teneo, iam volucrem sequor
te per gramina Martii
campi, te per aquas, dure, volubilis.

Are you stirring up those wars again, Venus, suspended so long ago? Spare me, I pray, I pray!
I am not now what I was under the reign of gentle Cinara. Sweet Cupids’

savage mother, don’t try to soften me, toughened now and around my fifties,
with your tender commands: go back to where the tempting prayers of the young are calling you.

It would be more fitting for you, winged with your gleaming swans, to lead the revels into the house
of Paulus Maximus, if you are looking for a suitable liver to roast

– such a noble and presentable young man, with endless accomplishments and forever ready to speak up in court for his anxious clients, and as your soldier he will bear your standard far and wide.

Say perhaps one day he has bested a competitor in love, with a dismissive smile at the rich inducements the rival can offer: he will set you up in marble by the Alban lakes in a shrine under a citrus-wood lintel.

There you will breathe no end of incense and take delight in songs accompanied
by the lyre and the Berecyntian flute, and the Pan-pipes too;

there twice a day, in praise of your divine power, boys, dancing with tender maidens, will pound the floor
with their flashing feet to the four-beat rhythm of the Salic dance.

As for me, I take no pleasure now in woman or boy, in the fallacious hope of requited love,
in toasts and drinking-games, or in binding my temples with fresh flowers.

Ah, but why, Ligurinus, why is this unaccustomed tear rolling down my cheeks? Why even as I speak
does this clever tongue of mine lapse into such clumsy silence?

In my sleep at night it’s now you that I now catch and hold; now you, receding fast, that I follow over the grass of the Campus Martius, you, my cruel one, that I follow through the swirling waters.

`

More Poems by Horace

  1. Horace’s Cleopatra ode
  2. Lalage is too young
  3. The consolations of wine
  4. Licymnia
  5. A prayer to Mercury
  6. Pyrrha
  7. Augustus, master of the world
  8. Don’t trust Barine
  9. Horace’s wine
  10. Lovely mother, lovelier daughter
  11. A prayer to Venus
  12. Mourning for a good man
  13. The fleeting years slip by
  14. The Golden Mean
  15. What Roman youth should be
  16. Iccius goes soldiering
  17. Some advice for Dellius
  18. A plea for burial
  19. A garland from the Muses
  20. Pollio’s histories of civil war
  21. Poscimur
  22. Horace the peacemaker
  23. Awe for the Gods
  24. Lydia’s tragedy
  25. A Prayer to the poetry-God
  26. Horace rests from his labours
  27. Celebrating Neptune’s feast day
  28. Housman and Horace
  29. Jealousy
  30. Tibur or Tarentum: a poet’s dilemma?
  31. Carpe diem, Sestius
  32. Horace’s Chloe
  33. Wealth should be used, not hoarded
  34. Diana and Apollo: a hymn
  35. Horace’s limitations
  36. An invitation to Maecenas
  37. Curse you, tree!
  38. Horace welcomes his army comrade
  39. Fortuna
  40. Pindar and Augustus
  41. Numida’s back
  42. Give me comfort, not riches
  43. O Fons Bandusiae
  44. Courage and decadence: the Regulus ode
  45. Valgius and Mystes
  46. A Farewell to arms
  47. The tug-of-war for Nearchus
  48. Here’s to Murena!
  49. Don’t worry, be happy
  50. Nereus prophesies the Trojan War
  51. The pleasures and dangers of wine
  52. Horace, the wolf and the upright life
  53. Rome: disaster and salvation
  54. Luxury versus the simple life
  55. Horace’s reverence to Bacchus
  56. Love a slave-girl? Oh, Xanthias!
  57. The country is best
  58. Soracte
  59. Glycera
  60. Stormy seas
  61. Postumus, the years slip by
  62. Gathering rosebuds: carpe diem
  63. Horace’s monument
  64. Last love
  65. Horace’s first Ode
  66. Diffugere nives
  67. The final ode
  68. Unrequited love
  69. A change of mind
  70. Horace’s prayer to a wine-jar