Odes, 1.31

A Prayer to the poetry-God

The setting is the new temple dedicated to Apollo in Rome on 9October 28 BCE. Horace passes up the opportunity to make his poem one of praise to Augustus, who according to ancient sources vowed the temple during the civil wars, in favour of a very personal reflection on the things that matter to him, and a prayer for them to Apollo as the patron God of the arts. He prays for a long life, provided that it can be a healthy one, with his faculties unimpaired and, most importantly, retaining the ability to write his poetry.

The metre is Alcaics.

See the illustrated blog post here.

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Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinem
vates? quid orat de patera novum
fundens liquorem? non opimae
Sardiniae segetes feracis,

non aestuosae grata Calabriae
armenta, non aurum aut ebur Indicum,
non rura, quae Liris quieta
mordet aqua taciturnus amnis.

premant Calenam falce quibus dedit
fortuna vitem, dives ut aureis
mercator exsiccet culillis
vina Syra reparata merce,

dis carus ipsis, quippe ter et quater
anno revisens aequor Atlanticum
inpune. me pascunt olivae,
me cichorea levesque malvae.

frui paratis et valido mihi,
Latoe, dones et precor integra
cum mente nec turpem senectam
degere nec cithara carentem.

What does the poet ask of Apollo on the dedication of his temple? What does he pray for as he pours the new wine from the libation cup? Not the fruitful cornfields of fertile Sardinia, not the fine herds of sultry Calabria, not gold or Indian ivory, not the fields that the quiet river Liris nibbles at with its gentle waters. Let those to whom fortune has given vines prune them with the Calabrian hook, and let the rich trader drain from golden goblets his wine paid for by his Syrian merchandise; why, he must be dear to the Gods themselves, revisiting the Atlantic Ocean three and even four times a year with impunity! Me? My nourishment is olives, endive and digestible salads of mallow. Apollo, Latona’s son, may you grant me to enjoy what I have to hand in bodily health and, I pray, in soundness of mind, and to pass an old age which is honourable – and does not lack for the lyre.

More Poems by Horace

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