Odes 1.35

Fortuna

by Horace

Both the language and content of this ode pose difficulties for the modern reader, but they do not obscure either its chilling message or the passion with which Horace expresses it: this is no mere literary exercise. The historical context is one of the obscurities, as Augustus never campaigned against the Britons, though the historian Cassius Dio says that at various times he expressed an intention to. What is clear is that the real subject is not so much a forthcoming campaign as the long period of civil war that Rome suffered before the advent of Augustus’s supremacy, and the fear that it could recur.

The Goddess to whom the poem is addressed is nowhere named, as though to do so would tempt fate, but she is Fortune. She is a terrifying figure: she rules everyone and everywhere, civilised and barbarous, rich and poor. Her decisions can abruptly switch triumph and disaster: they are unpredictable but final, enforced by Necessity, who goes before her like a Lictor, carrying the tools that can set them in stone.

A conventional ending might have come with the wish that Fortune may preserve Augustus and Rome’s troops recently levied for a campaign in the East. But there are two more anguished stanzas recalling the sacrileges and crimes perpetrated by Romans on Romans in the civil wars, which seem very recent here still. The implication is that, if it came, ill-fortune would not be undeserved. Although the final sentiment that the ode expresses is hope (that Rome will turn its violence onto its enemies, and away from itself), the impression left is that the City remains at a dark moment of danger and uncertainty.

The metre is Alcaics.

See the illustrated blog post here.

To listen, press play:

To scroll the original and English translation of the poem at the same time - tap inside one box to select it and then scroll.

O diva, gratum quae regis Antium,
praesens vel imo tollere de gradu
mortale corpus vel superbos
vertere funeribus triumphos:

te pauper ambit sollicita prece
ruris colonus, te dominam aequoris
quicumque Bithyna lacessit
Carpathium pelagus carina;

te Dacus asper, te profugi Scythae
urbesque gentesque et Latium ferox
regumque matres barbarorum et
purpurei metuunt tyranni,

iniurioso ne pede proruas
stantem columnam neu populus frequens
ad arma, cessantis ad arma
concitet imperiumque frangat;

te semper anteit saeva Necessitas,
clavos trabalis et cuneos manu
gestans aena nec severus
uncus abest liquidumque plumbum;

te Spes et albo rara Fides colit
velata panno nec comitem abnegat,
utcumque mutata potentis
veste domos inimica linquis,

at volgus infidum et meretrix retro
periura cedit, diffugiunt cadis
cum faece siccatis amici,
ferre iugum pariter dolosi:

serves iturum Caesarem in ultimos
orbis Britannos et iuvenum recens
examen Eois timendum
partibus Oceanoque rubro.

heu heu, cicatricum et sceleris pudet
fratrumque. quid nos dura refugimus
aetas? quid intactum nefasti
liquimus? unde manum iuventus

metu deorum continuit? quibus
pepercit aris? o utinam nova
incude diffingas retusum in
Massagetas Arabasque ferrum.

O Goddess, ruler of fair Antium, ready and able either to raise frail humanity from the humblest station or to turn proud triumphs into burial rites, it is to you that the poor farmer comes with anxious prayer, you, the mistress of the seas, to whom all that challenge the ocean in their ships of Bithynian timber pray; it is you that the cruel Dacian, theĀ  retreating Scythians, the nations and races, warlike Latium, you that the mothers of barbarian kings all fear, and tyrants in their purple too, afraid that with a kick you might topple and destroy the pillar of their reign; and that the people, that constant presence, might shatter their rule, flocking to arms themselves and calling the hesitant to arms as well. Before you always goes Necessity, with great beam-nails and wedges in her brazen hands, along with immoveable clamps and molten lead; it is you that Hope and scarce Fidelity look to as well, heads veiled with ragged white, nor do they deny your company when you change your dress, and as an enemy desert the homes of powerful men; the faithless rabble and venal Perjury back away, and friends scatter once they have drained the wine-jars to the dregs, too wily to bear their share of the yoke. Preserve Caesar as he prepares to depart for the land of the Britons at the ends of the earth, and preserve the fresh levies of our fighting men that eastern regions and the Red Sea would do well to fear. Alas, alas, the scars and crimes inflicted by brother on brother shame us. What has our cruel generation shrunk from? What evil have we left untouched? Where have our soldiers stayed their hand out of fear of the Gods? What altars have they spared? Oh, if only you would take a new anvil to reforge our blunted steel, and turn it on the Scythians and Arabs!

`
Privacy Overview

This website uses cookies so that we can provide you with the best user experience possible. Cookie information is stored in your browser and performs functions such as recognising you when you return to our website and helping our team to understand which sections of the website you find most interesting and useful.