Hello again, dear readers! Here we are transitioning from some of the lengthier poems to the more compact ones. Don't worry though, because there is still a lot of great stuff. Just a note, I'm going to start putting my commentaries after the poems, so you can get the full, fresh experience and then afterwords hear my ramblings about it. Enjoy!
The Latin:
Soluitur acris hiems grata uice ueris et Fauoni
trahuntque siccas machinae carinas,
ac neque iam stabulis gaudet pecus aut arator igni
nec prata canis albicant pruinis.
Iam Cytherea choros ducit Venus imminente luna
iunctaeque Nymphis Gratiae decentes
alterno terram quatiunt pede, dum grauis Cyclopum
Volcanus ardens uisit officinas.
Nunc decet aut uiridi nitidum caput impedire myrto
aut flore, terrae quem ferunt solutae;
nunc et in umbrosis Fauno decet immolare lucis,
seu poscat agna siue malit haedo.
Pallida Mors aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas
regumque turris. O beate Sesti,
uitae summa breuis spem nos uetat inchoare longam.
Iam te premet nox fabulaeque Manes
et domus exilis Plutonia, quo simul mearis,
nec regna uini sortiere talis
nec tenerum Lycidan mirabere, quo calet iuuentus
nunc omnis et mox uirgines tepebunt.
The Translation:
The bitter winter is unbound by dear spring and the western winds
And machines haul the boats ashore.
And the herds are no longer satisfied with their stables, nor the plowman with his fire
Nor are the meadows whitened by ashen frost.
Now Cytherean Venus leads the dances, moon overhead
And Nymphs fittingly join hands with the Graces
And they beat the earth with rhythmic feet, while stern Vulcan
Visits the Cyclopes at their weighty office.
Now it is fitting to grace the gleaming brow with verdant myrtle
Or flowers, which the unbound lands bear
Now it is fitting to sacrifice to Faunus in shady groves,
Whether he asks for a ewe, or if he prefers a goat kid.
Pale death beats his foot equally on the hovels of paupers
And regal palaces. Blessed Sestus,
The short sum of life prohibits us from drafting long hopes.
Already, night and fabled shades and the poor Plutonian house
To which you already travel, press upon you,
Neither to be elected master of wine with dice,
Nor to admire tender Lycida, for whom every boy is now hot
And soon girls will grow hot too.
Ode 1.4 is an interesting poem, I've always thought. The transition around line thirteen is really abrupt, switching from a celebration of spring to a somber meditation on mortality (Horace likes these). However, at a second look, you can see an interesting trend, because the first half of the poem kind of has a cycle of life hidden away. In the first four lines, there is birth: the farmers and cattle leave from the safety of their shelters, just like an infant leaves the womb. The next two lines are childhood and youth: Venus, the Nymphs and the Graces have the same carefree love as is reported to occur in youth (for my own part, I would say that poets tend to forget that being young actually kind of sucks). Next, with Vulcan and the Cyclopes and crowns of myrtle and flowers, we have hard work, and high praise, the meat and drink of adulthood. Finally you descend into the dark home of Faunus, a wild and frightful God, and here there is death. I don't know the official academic position on this, but I think that the narrative of spring is a bit more allegorical than literal, especially since half of the poem is about death. The latter half is very much like Ode 1.11 (The famous Carpe Diem poem, which we will get to later. I have some problems with the way it's been interpreted), except while 1.11 is more uplifting, the tone of this one is more so of "yeah but at the end of the day, you're still dead." Horace is super uplifting like that.
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