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