Odes, 1.1

Horace’s first Ode

by Horace

In this, the first poem in his first book of Odes, Horace does two things for the first, but by no means the last, time. First, he compliments his great friend and patron Maecenas, who was one of the Emperor Augustus’s right-hand men. At the other end of the poem, after listing diverse things that matter most to different people, he says what matters most to him: being recognised as the peer in Latin of the great Greek lyric poets of the past. It is his masterly adaptation of those Greek poets’ themes, and of the intricate metres in which they wrote, that marks Horace out as a great innovator, and one of the very greatest Latin writers.

This first Ode is a good illustration of how very different English and Latin are as languages to write poetry in. The translation cannot get near to the economy of the original: in Latin, one of Horace’s lines uses just under five words on average; the translation needs nine. We cannot replicate in English the concision of Horace’s Latin, the much greater flexibility of its word-order, the intricacy and elegance of its wordplay or the musicality and rhythmical quality of its metre. This is why it is worth listening to the original – which would have been composed with performance in mind – and not just relying on a translation, whether literal or literary, to explain what it is “about”.

North Africa provided a large share of Rome’s corn supply, hence the “African” threshing-floors; and Attalus was a King of Pergamon in the second century BCE who was famous for extreme luxury (and who left his kingdom to Rome in his will). Lesbos is mentioned because at least two of the most important Greek lyric poets that Horace took as his models – Alcaeus and Sappho – came from the island. Euterpe and Polyhymnia are Muses.

Metre: Asclepiad.

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.

Maecenas atavis edite regibus,
o et praesidium et dulce decus meum:
sunt quos curriculo pulverem Olympicum
collegisse iuvat metaque fervidis
evitata rotis palmaque nobilis.
terrarum dominos evehit ad deos
hunc, si mobilium turba Quiritium
certat tergeminis tollere honoribus,
illum, si proprio condidit horreo
quidquid de Libycis verritur areis.
gaudentem patrios findere sarculo
agros Attalicis condicionibus
numquam demoveas, ut trabe Cypria
Myrtoum pavidus nauta secet mare.
luctantem Icariis fluctibus Africum
mercator metuens otium et oppidi
laudat rura sui; mox reficit rates
quassas indocilis pauperiem pati.
est qui nec veteris pocula Massici
nec partem solido demere de die
spernit, nunc viridi membra sub arbuto
stratus, nunc ad aquae lene caput sacrae.
multos castra iuvant et lituo tubae
permixtus sonitus bellaque matribus
detestata. manet sub Iove frigido
venator tenerae coniugis inmemor,
seu visa est catulis cerva fidelibus
seu rupit teretes Marsus aper plagas.
me doctarum hederae praemia frontium
dis miscent superis, me gelidum nemus
Nympharumque leves cum Satyris chori
secernunt populo, si neque tibias
Euterpe cohibet nec Polyhymnia
Lesboum refugit tendere barbiton.
quodsi me lyricis vatibus inseres,
sublimi feriam sidera vertice.

Maecenas, sprung from regal ancestry, my bulwark and my pride, some delight in being covered in Olympic dust in a chariot, in avoiding the turning-post with their fiery wheels and in the victor’s noble palm. It lifts one man to the level of the Gods if the throng of fickle voters vie to exalt him through the triple course of public honours, another if he has stored in his own granary crops gathered from the threshing-floors of Africa. Even with offers generous as those of King Attalus, you will never divert a man who loves to till the fields of his fathers with the hoe into cleaving the Aegean, a frightened sailor in a ship of Cypriot timber. The merchant, when scared by the southerly battling the waters where Icarus fell, praises leisure and the fields of his home town, but soon he finds that he can’t do without money and refits his battered ships. Some don’t say no to cups of vintage Massic wine and taking time out of the working day, stretching themselves  under the green arbutus, or by the gentle source of a sacred stream. Many get their pleasure from soldiering, the bugle mingling with the sound of the trumpet, and the wars that mothers loathe. The hunter forgets his sweet wife and stays out under the cold sky if a deer has been sighted by his faithful hounds, or a boar of the hill country has torn through his ring of nets. Me? The ivy garland, prize of learned poets’ brows, unites me with the Gods above; the cool grove and the nimble dances of nymphs with Satyrs set me apart from the crowd, if Euterpe does not stint the music of the pipes and  Polyhymnia is prepared to tune the Lesbian lyre. Count me among the bards of lyric poetry, and I will bang my head upon the stars!

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More Poems by Horace

  1. Numida’s back
  2. Don’t trust Barine
  3. A divine inspiration
  4. New temples, new morals
  5. Augustus, master of the world
  6. The country is best
  7. Love lost and found
  8. Diana and Apollo: a hymn
  9. Horace returns to lyric poetry
  10. Diffugere nives
  11. Last love
  12. Tibur or Tarentum: a poet’s dilemma?
  13. Lydia’s tragedy
  14. Europa’s lament
  15. Horace’s wine
  16. Horace’s monument
  17. Gathering rosebuds: carpe diem
  18. An invocation to the lyre
  19. An invitation to Maecenas
  20. Horace’s Chloe
  21. Horace’s prayer to a wine-jar
  22. Horace, the wolf and the upright life
  23. Gyges’s constancy
  24. Pyrrha
  25. What Roman youth should be
  26. Soracte
  27. Luxury versus the simple life
  28. Nereus prophesies the Trojan War
  29. Celebrating Neptune’s feast day
  30. The pleasures and dangers of wine
  31. Horace’s Cleopatra ode
  32. Stormy seas
  33. Pindar and Augustus
  34. Glycera
  35. Be your age, Chloris!
  36. Housman and Horace
  37. A Prayer to the poetry-God
  38. A prayer to Venus
  39. Here’s to Murena!
  40. A garland from the Muses
  41. Rome: disaster and salvation
  42. Courage and decadence: the Regulus ode
  43. Awe for the Gods
  44. Lalage is too young
  45. Unrequited love
  46. Neobule
  47. The fleeting years slip by
  48. Locked out
  49. A day off for rain
  50. Romulus becomes a God
  51. Carpe diem, Sestius
  52. The final ode
  53. Lovely mother, lovelier daughter
  54. The lust for money versus the simple life
  55. Postumus, the years slip by
  56. Leave the cares of state, Maecenas
  57. Late stirrings
  58. A change of mind
  59. Relief from care
  60. A prayer to Mercury
  61. Mourning for a good man
  62. Don’t worry, be happy
  63. Some advice for Dellius
  64. Pollio’s histories of civil war
  65. Horace rests from his labours
  66. Wealth should be used, not hoarded
  67. Licymnia
  68. An oath to Maecenas
  69. Fortuna
  70. Jupiter’s authority, and Caesar’s
  71. A call for a moral renaissance
  72. Curse you, tree!
  73. Iccius goes soldiering
  74. Roman values for the new age
  75. Poscimur
  76. Horace welcomes his army comrade
  77. The tug-of-war for Nearchus
  78. A Farewell to arms
  79. The Golden Mean
  80. Romulus in Heaven
  81. Caesar’s safe return
  82. Give me comfort, not riches
  83. Horace the peacemaker
  84. A dedication to Diana
  85. Horace’s limitations
  86. Love a slave-girl? Oh, Xanthias!
  87. A plea for burial
  88. Jealousy
  89. The consolations of wine
  90. A country sacrifice
  91. A prayer to Faunus
  92. O Fons Bandusiae
  93. Valgius and Mystes
  94. Horace the swan
  95. Horace’s reverence to Bacchus
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