Ode 2.1

Pollio’s histories of civil war

by Horace

Horace opens his second book of odes with an address to Gaius Asinius Pollio, a political and military heavyweight who held the consulship in 40 BCE and celebrated a triumph in 39 BCE for a successful campaign against a people called the Parthini as Proconsul of Macedonia. He is believed to have held no further military or civil office, but remained a major public figure. He was a patron of Virgil, who praises him in the Eclogues, had a high reputation as a tragic playwright in the Greek tradition, and was a pioneer in organising public recitations of his writings. When this ode was written, he was taking up a work on the history of the civil wars as a continuation of the Histories of the historian Sallust, who had died with them incomplete in 35 BCE. (Neither work survives, bar some fragments of Sallust.) The wars are a subject on which Horace was passionate: his work often expresses a horror for them too vivid not to be sincere, a feeling no doubt shared by many war-weary Romans of the time.

The reference to Africa relates to the battle of Thapsus, a civil-war victory of Julius Caesar in 46 BCE. The closing sentiment of the poem – that the subject under discussion is too exalted for Horace’s lyric pen to cope with – is one that recurs several times in the odes. Often, as here, it is disingenuous, as Horace has just precisely demonstrated that epic themes are well within his range. Simonides of Ceos wrote the epitaph for the 300 Spartans who died fighting the Persians at Thermopylae in 480 BCE: “Stranger, go tell the Spartans that we lie here obedient to their word.”

The metre is Alcaics.

See the illustrated blog post here.

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

Motum ex Metello consule civicum
bellique causas et vitia et modos
ludumque Fortunae gravisque
principum amicitias et arma

nondum expiatis uncta cruoribus,
periculosae plenum opus aleae,
tractas et incedis per ignis
suppositos cineri doloso.

paulum severae musa tragoediae
desit theatris: mox ubi publicas
res ordinaris, grande munus
Cecropio repetes cothurno,

insigne maestis praesidium reis
et consulenti, Pollio, curiae,
cui laurus aeternos honores
Delmatico peperit triumpho.

iam nunc minaci murmure cornuum
perstringis auris, iam litui strepunt,
iam fulgor armorum fugacis
terret equos equitumque voltus.

audire magnos iam videor duces,
non indecoro pulvere sordidos
et cuncta terrarum subacta
praeter atrocem animum Catonis.

Iuno et deorum quisquis amicior
Afris inulta cesserat inpotens
tellure victorum nepotes
rettulit inferias Iugurthae.

quis non Latino sanguine pinguior
campus sepulcris inpia proelia
testatur auditumque Medis
Hesperiae sonitum ruinae?

qui gurges aut quae flumina lugubris
ignara belli? quod mare Dauniae
non decoloravere caedes?
quae caret ora cruore nostro?

sed ne relictis, Musa procax, iocis
Ceae retractes munera neniae,
mecum Dionaeo sub antro
quaere modos leviore plectro.

The civil upheaval from the year of Metellus’s consulship, the causes and vices of war  and how it unfolded, the play of Fortune, the alliance of the foremost Romans – so perilous for the city; war fought with weapons primed with still-unexpiated blood, and deeds which were fraught with chance and danger: these are your subject, and in adopting it you are walking through fires which still lie beneath the deceptive ash. For a short while, let the Muse of tragedy forsake the theatres: in due course, when you have set the affairs of the state in order, you will resume your great work, achieved through the dramatic art of Attica, and once again be the foremost protector of anxious litigants in the court, and of the Senate, Pollio, as it solicits your advice, you for whom the laurel bore undying honours with your Triumph over the Dalmatians. Already, you grate on our ears with the menacing call of battle-horns, already trumpets are braying, already the flash of arms plants terror in horses as they fly and in the faces of their riders. Already I seem to hear the speeches of the generals, stained with the dust that brings them honour, and all the affairs of the world brought to subjection, save only the spirit of intransigent Cato. Juno, and other friendly Gods to Africa, who had been forced to leave the field with it unavenged, delivered the descendants of the victors back to Jugurtha as a sacrifice to his shade. What field of ours, made more fertile with Italian blood, does not bear witness with the tombs that it bears to the sacrilege of war, and the crash, audible even to the distant Persians, of the ruin of our western land? What streams, what rivers, have not learned from experience the misery of war? What sea has the gore of our countrymen not stained? What shore does not have Roman blood on it? But wait, my forward Muse, do not leave your playful songs to take up a task which belongs with Simonides and his dirges: come, and in Venus’s grotto seek out melodies with me on a gentler instrument.

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