Right Back at You :: AVDIVERE LYCE :: IV:13

This ode, although in Book IV, is thought to be a continuation of the ode in the last posting, where the poet suffers the cruelty of Lyce. Now the poet is happy to tell all who will hear how Lyce has succumbed to another cruelty—the cruelty of time. She now has to contend with a beauty named Chia. (Lyce must look ghastly in her jewels and purple-dyed clothes from the island of Cos.) Besides everyone knows how old she is: it's all in the official registers, the fasti. She must have hated the gorgeous Cinara, but when the fates cut short her thread of life, Lyce must have rejoiced.

This poem is a good place to pause and take note of an oddity of grammar: audivere "they have heard" instead of the usual "audierunt." Audivere is just a footnote in the primers, nothing to worry about, except the form does pop up now and then, as it does in this ode. That's the thing about learning a language:  everything is important. There are no footnotes, really. Being competent means knowing it all. I am always surprised at people who say, for example, that Spanish is easy while French is hard. It's all hard. Sure, Spanish might be more welcoming than say, Chinese, but after a while, the playing field evens out; the goal of competency is just as difficult to reach in one language as it is in another. People always ask me how many languages I know. The best, most honest way I can answer is to say: I've studied x languages and leave it at that.

My translation:  

they've heard! 

the gods have heard my prayers, Lyce—

you've turned old—yet you want to play around

and look pretty, but you drink shamelessly, 

and drunk, do harass with quavering songs, 

cold Cupid, watching from the lovely eyes 

of the blossoming, the lyre-skilled Chia.

cruelly, he flies over the arid oaks, 

fleeing you, for foul are your lurid teeth, 

your wrinkles and your hoary head. neither

purple from Cos nor precious stones will return

the years that winged time once locked in the fasti.

where's her love or color, or elegance

what do you have of her who once breathed love, 

and swept me away. glad you were to be 

a star, after Cinara, whom the fates 

gave little time, but Lyce, the old crow, 

they've kept so long that the ardent young men 

can see, laughing, a torch reduced to 

ashes.

[copyright 2009 James Rumford]

Prose:

Di mea vota audivere, Lyce, di audivere: anus fis et tamen vis formosa videri ludisque et bibis inpudens et pota cantu tremulo Cupidinem lentum sollicitas.

Ille in genis pulchris Chiae virentis et doctae psallere excubat 

Inportunus enim quercus aridas transvolat et te refugit quia dentes luridi, quia rugae et capitis nives te turpant.

Nec iam tibi purpurae Coae nec lapides cari referunt tempora, quae dies volucris semel condita fastis notis inclusit.

Quo venus fugit, heu, quove color, quo motus decens?

Quid illius, illius habes, quae amores spirabat, quae me surpuerat mihi felix nota post Cinaram et facies artium gratarum?

Sed fata annos brevis Cinarae dederunt, servatura diu Lycen parem cornicis vetulae temporibus, ut iuvenes fervidi possent—non sine risu multo— facem in cineres dilapsam visere. 

En français: http://agoraclass.fltr.ucl.ac.be/concordances/Horace_odesIV/ligne05.cfm?numligne=102&mot=te#debut

Commentarii: http://www.horatius.ru/index.xps?2.1.413

Horaci verba:

Audiuere, Lyce, di mea uota, di
audiuere, Lyce: fis anus, et tamen
     uis formosa uideri
     ludisque et bibis impudens

et cantu tremulo pota Cupidinem               5
lentum sollicitas. Ille uirentis et
     doctae psallere Chiae
     pulchris excubat in genis.

Importunus enim transuolat aridas
quercus et refugit te quia luridi               10
     dentes, te quia rugae
     turpant et capitis niues.

Nec Coae referunt iam tibi purpurae
nec cari lapides tempora, quae semel
     notis condita fastis               15
     inclusit uolucris dies.

Quo fugit Venus, heu, quoue color, decens
quo motus? Quid habes illius, illius,
     quae spirabat amores,
     quae me surpuerat mihi,               20

felix post Cinaram notaque et artium
gratarum facies? Sed Cinarae breuis
     annos fata dederunt,
     seruatura diu parem

cornicis uetulae temporibus Lycen,               25
possent ut iuuenes uisere feruidi
     multo non sine risu
     dilapsam in cineres facem.

I hear you knocking Extremum Tanaïn si biberes III:10

At the door of the beloved. In Latin poetry, what a bad place to be! She won't let you in no matter how much you cry out, no matter what humiliation you must suffer. Your only recourse is to threaten to leave, perhaps shout nasty things you'll later regret.

In Persian poetry, on the other hand, standing in front of the locked door is exactly where you want to be! The درگاه [dargah] doorway is where you can cry out to show your pain, and grovel in the dust to show your unworthiness. There you can wait long hours, hoping for a sign of the beloved, hoping that s/he might come out or better yet, let you in. At the very least, all you know is that you've made it this far on your spiritual journey.

Pick amost any Persian poem and you will find some reference to the doorway—the doorway that frightens and beckons, worries and entices, but forever remains the obstacle to true union.  Here is a poem [which my friend Brandon Stone and I read just yesterday] written by Araqi [Fakhr-al-Din Iraqi], a thirteenth-century poet, who knew Rumi and whose poetry is similar in style to his but, in my opinion, less preacherly:

ای یـار بـیا و یــاری کـن  *  رنجه شو و غمگساری ای کن

آخـر سگـک در تو بــودم  *  یادم کن و حق گزاری ای کن

ای نیک ز من همـه بد آمد  *  نیکی کن و بردباری ای کن

بر عاشق خود مگیر خرده  *  ای دوست برزگواری ای کن

ای دل چو ترا فتاده این کار  *  رو بر در یار زاری ای کن

ای بخت بموی بر عراقی  *  و ای دیده تو نیز یاری ای کن

Beloved, come, help a bit, try to share a little sorrow.

Me, a dog at last at your door, think of me, be fair a bit. 

Good one, all the bad came from me, be kind, a little patient 

Don't fault me for loving you. Lover, be generous a bit.

Heart, this befell you so go, cry a little at the friend's door

Fortune, weep for Araqi, and, eye, you, too, help a bit.

[translation © 2009 by James Rumford] 

Closed-door poetry is known as paraclausithyron [παρακλαυσιθυρον], a Graeco-Latin hybred composed of para (beside) clausi (shut), and thyron (door). The image of a locked door was a favorite one of the ancient world and occurs today in literature and song. A twist on this theme was the song "I Hear You Knocking," written by Bartholomew and King in the mid fifties, which gives us the point of view of the lover behind the door. 

There is apparently a sequel to this poem in the Book IV, which I will get to next. Meanwhile, be introduced to the notions of 

  —the wild people of Russia who must drink from the River Don,

  —a grove of trees planted in a courtyard large enough to hold them, 

  —the two-headed god Janus of doors and the New Year, 

  —a pulley rope that symbolizes as it snaps under the weight of its load a fall from virtue, 

 —Penelope, the faithful wife of Odysseus, who keeps her suitors at bay during his long absence, and 

 —Piera, a valley north of Mt. Olympus, 

Even if you drank from the far-off Don, 

and were married to a savage, Lyce,

you would cry for me stretched out here to live  

before your harsh door thrown to the north winds.

Do you see how the Janus doors cry out, 

how the trees planted between the pretty 

rooves roar in the wind, how Juppiter from

the pure blue sky glazes the fallen snow?

Lay aside your pride, hateful to Venus, 

let not the pulley rope run backwards. 

Your Etruscan father didn't beget you, 

a difficult Penelope for suitors.

Oh, whatever! Neither gifts nor prayers, 

nor the violet pallor of lovers, 

your man love-sick for a Piera whore, 

would curve you over, spare your supplicants, 

you no more supple than the rigid oak, 

no mind more gentle than a Moorish snake's.

My body is not going to suffer

this threshold and heaven's rain forever.

[translation ©  2009 by James Rumford]

Prose Rendition:

Si Tanaïn extremum biberes, Lyce, viro saevo nupta, me tamen porrectum ante fores asperas plorares, incolis Aquilonibus obicere.

Audis, quo ianua strepitu, quo ventis inter tecta pulchra nemus satum remugiat et ut Iuppiter numine puro nives positas glaciet!

Superbiam—ingratam Veneri—pone ne rota funis currente retro eat; Tyrrhenus parens te Penelopen difficilem procis non genuit.

O quamvis neque munera—nec preces—nec tinctus violâ pallor amantium—nec vir saucius  paelice Pieria—te curvat, supplicibus tuis parcas—nec aesculo rigida mollior—nec animum anguibus Mauris mitior.

Hoc latus liminis aut aquae caelestis semper patiens non erit. 

En français: http://agoraclass.fltr.ucl.ac.be/concordances/Horace_odesIII/ligne05.cfm?numligne=90&mot=te#debut

Commentarii: http://www.horatius.ru/index.xps?2.1.310

Horaci verba:

Extremum Tanain si biberes, Lyce,
saeuo nupta uiro, me tamen asperas
porrectum ante foris obicere incolis
     plorares Aquilonibus.

Audis quo strepitu ianua, quo nemus               5
inter pulchra satum tecta remugiat
uentis, et positas ut glaciet niues
     puro numine Iuppiter?

Ingratam Veneri pone superbiam,
ne currente retro funis eat rota:               10
non te Penelopen difficilem procis
     Tyrrhenus genuit parens.

O quamuis neque te munera nec preces
nec tinctus uiola pallor amantium
nec uir Pieria paelice saucius               15
     curuat, supplicibus tuis

parcas, nec rigida mollior aesculo
nec Mauris animum mitior anguibus:
non hoc semper erit liminis aut aquae
     caelestis patiens latus.               20

Loser Girls — Miserarum III:12

Maybe I haven't read this ode right, but it sounds like a love song from the 50s and 60s, chiding the girls who aren't in love cause they don't know the joy and heartache of falling for a guy who's the equivalent of the captain of the football team, which in this case is a wrestler with oiled arms.  Did I forget to mention the mean 'ole father figure? He's there in this poem, as daddy's brother, who in Roman times, put wayward girls back on the straight and narrow by giving them verbera linguae, lashes of the tongue.  It's a fun poem. Play some "Johnny Angel" type song and enjoy this hit about the girl Neobule from the 30s . . . . BC.

The following is more an impression than a translation:

Oh, ohhh, loser girls,

not playing with love

not washing your heartaches away 

with wine

Oh, oh, loser girls

not dying inside every time

the old man starts 

yelling

Oh, ohhh, Neobule,

The angel boy of Venus 

steals you away 

from your wool basket and weaving

and your devotion 

to the home ec

goddess 

Minerva

Oh, ohhh, Neobule,

This hunk of Liparae 

from Hebrus 

washes his oiled arms

in the waves of the Tiber,

rides better than Bellerophon,

and never loses a fight 

or a race.

He digs throwing 

the javelin at fleeing deer in the open

with herds astir

and is fast at catching

the boar hiding 

in the thick 

underbrush. 

                                              translation © 2009 by James Rumford

Prose:

Est neque dare ludum amori miserarum neque mala vino dulci lavere aut verbera linguae patruae metuentis examinari. [Here is the prose rendition given in the Acronis Commentarium: Neobule, miserarum est nec dare ludum amori nec lauere mala dulci uino aut exanimari metuentis uerbera patruae linguae.]

Puer ales Cytherae tibi qualum, tibi studium telasque Minervae operosae aufert, Neobule.

Nitor Hebri Liparaeï, simul umeros unctos in undis Tiburnis lavit, eques Bellerophonte ipso melior neque pugno pede segni victus.

Idem catus iaculari per apertum cervos fugientis grege agitato et celer fruticeto arte aprum latitantem excipere. [In prose according to Acronis Commentarium: ales puer Cythereae et nitor Liparei Hebri, simul ut lauit unctos humeros in Tiberinis undis, eques melior ipso Bellorophonte, neque uictus pugno neque segni pede, idem catus iaculari ceruos fugientes per apertum agitato grege, et celer excipere aprum latitantem arto fruticeto, aufert tibi qualum et aufert tibi studium operosae Mineruae.]

En français: http://agoraclass.fltr.ucl.ac.be/concordances/horace_OdesIII/ligne05.cfm?numligne=106&mot=Miserarum#debut

Commentarii: http://www.horatius.ru/index.xps?2.1.312

Original Ode:

Miserarum est neque amori dare ludum neque dulci
     mala uino lauere aut exanimari
     metuentis patruae uerbera linguae.

Tibi qualum Cythereae puer ales, tibi telas
     operosaeque Mineruae studium aufert,               5
     Neobule, Liparaei nitor Hebri,

simul unctos Tiberinis umeros lauit in undis,
     eques ipso melior Bellerophonte,
     neque pugno neque segni pede uictus;

catus idem per apertum fugientis agitato               10
     grege ceruos iaculari et celer arto
     latitantem fruticeto excipere aprum.

Party On! Quantum Distet III:19

In 1903,  to introduce this poem, Clement Lawrence Smith painted a winter scene in the Appenine district of Paeligni with a cozy fire and warm wine to toast perhaps a friend named Murena, who has just been elected to the Augurate.  Ninety years later, Daniel H. Garrison, decided to entice his readers with what was to come: hard drinking and "hot sex," as he put it. Somewhere in between, I suppose, lies the real point of this ode.

What that point is has eluded scholars for centuries. The poem seems to be disjointed. Horace first chides someone, perhaps Telephus, for being a bore and not getting the drinking started. Then Horace talks about the right proportion of water to wine and how the Graces won't abide by too much drinking. By this time Horace is too drunk to care. "Hey, who stopped the music?" he yells. "What about the flowers? Who gives a damn if the neighbors hear? You know, Telephus, you're so damn handsome. Rhode has a thing for you, and me, well, I'm so in love with...."

What a change from the last few poems! And it is perhaps this change that makes me think something very odd: What if this poem is Horace talking about himself? What if he thinks of himself sometimes as a bore who can go on about ancient things like Inachus [the first king of Argos] and Codrus [the last king of Athens] and the Aeci [a clan of heros of the Trojan War], sometimes a connoisseur who likes a good jar of wine from Chios, sometimes a loud-mouthed drunk with a thing for the ladies? If so, this poem makes perfect sense to me only beause it seems so honest, so like the talk of a drunk. 

Then again, as scholars today like to point out, you can't infer too much from his poetry. Horace wrote in imitation of Greek poetry. He made up things just to fill out the meter. He played around with verity, moulding and shaping it as a sculptor would clay. Horace then is a mystery. Maybe it is for this reason that I will keep reading.

You do go on about how much before 

Inachus is King Codrus, unafraid 

to die for country, about the Aeci

and the warring in sacred Ilium.

About the price we're to pay for a jar 

of Chian, who's to warm up the water, 

who'll offer his house, what time I'll be shed 

of this Paelignian cold, you are mute. 

A toast! The new moon! Quick! A toast!  Midnight!

A toast, boy, to the Augur Murena!

At three or nine cyathi let the cups 

be mixed to your liking. The drunk poet

who loves the odd-numbered Muses will ask 

for three times three cyathi. Above three 

one of the Graces, fearing a quarrel,

will say no—along with her nude sisters.

It's crazy being drunk. Why have the notes

from the Berecyntine flute stopped? Why is 

the syrinx hanging silent with the lyre?

I hate stingy right hands. Scatter roses. 

So. Jealous Lycus hears the crazy yelling, 

along with the neighbor lady—no match 

for old Lycus. Gorgeous with your thick hair, 

Telephus, like the pure evening star,

you luscious ripe Rhodé is asking for;

me, my hidden love burns for Glycera.

                                                                                 translation © 2009 James Rumford

My Prose Rendition:

Narras quantum ab Inacho distet Codrus pro patria non timidus mori et genus Aeaci et bella pugnata sub Ilio sacro.

Taces quo pretio cadum Chium mercemur, quis aquam ignibus temperet, quo praebente domum et quota frigoribus Paelignis caream.

Da propere! Lunae novae.

Da! Mediae noctis.

Da, puer, Murenae auguris!

Tribus cyathis aut novem commodis pocula miscentur.

Vates attonitus qui Musas imparis amat, ternos cyathos ter petet.

Gratia iuncta sororibus nudis rixarum metuens tris supra prohibet tangere.

Insanire iuvat. 

Cur flamina tibiae Berecyntiae cessant?

Cur fistula cum lyra tacita pendet?

Ego dexteras parcentis odi; rosas sparge; Lycus invidus strepitum dementem audiat, et vicina Lyco seni non habilis.

Rhode tempestiva te, Telephe, nitidum coma spissa, te Vespero puro similem, petit.

Amor lentus Glycerae meae me torret.

En langue française:  http://agoraclass.fltr.ucl.ac.be/concordances/Horace_odesIII/ligne05.cfm?numligne=140&mot=te#debut

Commentarii: http://www.horatius.ru/index.xps?2.1.319

    Quantum distet ab Inacho
Codrus, pro patria non timidus mori,
     narras, et genus Aeaci,
et pugnata sacro bella sub Ilio.
     Quo Chium pretio cadum               5
mercemur, quis aquam temperet ignibus,
     quo praebente domum et quota
Paelignis caream frigoribus, taces.
     Da lunae propere nouae,
da noctis mediae, da, puer, auguris               10
     Murenae. Tribus aut nouem
miscentur cyathis pocula commodis?
     Qui Musas amat imparis,
ternos ter cyathos attonitus petet
uates, tris prohibet supra               15
rixarum metuens tangere Gratia
     nudis iuncta sororibus.
Insanire iuuat... Cur Berecyntiae
     cessant flamina tibiae?
Cur pendet tacita fistula cum lyra?               20
     Parcentis ego dexteras
odi: sparge rosas; audiat inuidus
     dementem strepitum Lycus,
et uicina seni non habilis Lyco.
     Spissa te nitidum coma,               25
puro te similem, Telephe, Vespero
     tempestiua petit Rhode:
me lentus Glycerae torret amor meae.

I owe it all to you—Quem tu Melpomene—IV:3

Poets aren't always boxers or charioteers or decorated warriors standing on the capitol steps. They are sometimes, probably more often than not in the popular mind, those who are formed, invented, moulded by some idyllic place, who hear songs in the village stream and write down the words of the wind in sighing trees. To Horace, poets can be as celebrated heros, and like heros, pay homage to their guardian angel, which in the case of poets is the muse, which in this poem is the muse Melpomene [Μελπομενη from μελπομεναι, to sing to the lyre] of Piera, a valley just north of Mt. Olympus.  It is to her that Horace owes his fame and fortune, as we have already seen in ode III:30 (posted August 27, 2009).

At that time, I was concerned with grammar and word order. I still am. But now that I am able to carry that heavy load a bit easier, I find I have other concerns: do I like Horace? Is he really someone I would like to have dinner with? In III:30, I felt that I was embarking on an adventure to meet one of the greatest poets of all time. But as the months passed, I got to know a man who was self-centered, egotistical, and as I saw in ode III:2, a wee-bit fascist. 

In today's ode, I find him tumidus, puffed up.  He seems to delight in the fact that his status has raised him beyond the reach of Envy's biting tooth. Now, that's real boasting ! — as Daniel Garrison explains in his Horace, Epodes and Odes, a New Annotated Latin Edition [pg. 348]: ". . . since the time of Pindar, an oblique way of claiming success as a poet was to claim that one was being attacked by envious rivals. An even bigger boast would be that one was becoming too big for the dente invido." 

Maybe I can get past Horace's ego and his contempt for those who do not share his views. Maybe I should go beyond the man and think about the art. Is that possible? I don't like what you've said, Horace, but I love the way you've said it? Clearly, I need to do more thinking.

Once you look with kind light on him at birth, 

Melpomene, no Isthmius games 

will praise his fighting, no spirited horse 

will carry him to victory 

in an Achaean chariot, no wars 

will parade him before the capitol 

a leader crowned by Delian laural 

because he's crushed the bloated threats 

of potentates, but him the stream flowing 

by fertile Tivoli, him the thick tuft 

of forest trees will turn nobly famous 

by Aeolian poetry.

The descendants of Rome, first of cities, 

deem me a place in the pleasant choir of 

poets; already am I less bitten 

by the tooth of jealousy.

The gold lyre, its sweet sound you temper, 

Pieri, you could give, if you wanted, 

the sound of swans even to silent fish—

all that you have given is this: 

that I am pointed out by passersby 

as the player of the Roman lyre, 

that I breathe and please, and if I do please, 

that, too, is all because of you.

                                                                                                          ©2009 by James Rumford 

My Prose rendition:

Melpomene, 

tu quem nascentem lumine placido semel videris, 

labor Isthmius illum pugilem non clarabit,

equus impiger victorem curru Archaïco non ducet,

neque res bellica ducem ornatum foliis Deliis, 

quod minas tumidas regum contuderit, 

Capitolio ostendet:

sed quae aquae Tibur fertile praefluunt

et nobilem comae spissae nemorem carmine Aeolio fingent. 

Suboles Romae, principis urbium, dignatur

me inter choros amabilis vatum ponere

et iam minus dente invido mordeor.

O Pieri, quae aureae testudinis strepitum dulcem temperas,

o donatura quoque sonum cycni piscibus mutis,

si libeat,

hoc totum muneris tui est,

quod fidicen lyrae Romanae digito praetereuntium monstror;

quod spiro et placeo, 

si placeo,

tuum est.

Traduction en français: http://agoraclass.fltr.ucl.ac.be/concordances/horace_OdesIV/ligne05.cfm?numligne=23&mot=Melpomene#debut

Commentarii: http://www.horatius.ru/index.xps?2.1.403

Horace's ode:

     Quem tu, Melpomene, semel
nascentem placido lumine uideris,
     illum non labor Isthmius
clarabit pugilem, non equus impiger
     curru ducet Achaico               5
uictorem, neque res bellica Deliis
     ornatum foliis ducem,
quod regum tumidas contuderit minas,
     ostendet Capitolio;
sed quae Tibur aquae fertile praefluunt               10
     et spissae nemorum comae
fingent Aeolio carmine nobilem.
     Romae principis urbium
dignatur suboles inter amabilis
     uatum ponere me choros,               15
et iam dente minus mordeor inuido.
     O testudinis aureae
dulcem quae strepitum, Pieri, temperas,
     o mutis quoque piscibus
donatura cycni, si libeat, sonum,               20
     totum muneris hoc tui est,
quod monstror digito praetereuntium
     Romanae fidicen lyrae;
quod spiro et placeo, si placeo, tuum est.

Pro Patria Mori III:2

I have waited for the line dulce & decorum est pro patria mori [sweet and right it is to die for one's country] to appear and it has in this poem. It is often quoted, most famously in Wilfred Owen's 1917/18 anti-war poem, of which the last stanza is quoted here:

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace 
Behind the wagon that we flung him in, 
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, 
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; 
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood 
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, 
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud 
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, 
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest 
To children ardent for some desperate glory, 
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est 
Pro patria mori.

              —Wilfred Owen (March 18, 1893—November 4, 1918, Battle of the Sambre)

Nineteenth-century boys were brought up on Horace and taught that it was right to die for one's country, but, I think not in the way that Horace meant for them to die—ignominiously. 

In 1914 no one was prepared for a twentieth-century war, in which dying for one's country had nothing to do with one's personal standing, with heroic bravery, with a moral framework that sought immortality through battle and heroic deeds. It had more to do with being part of the state's war machine. After Verdun, after Gallipoli, after the fields of Europe were sown with horror, there was no immortality—just blood and gore and red poppies as far as the eye could see. 

By 1918 there were too many dead, some so dismembered that they became faceless and nameless and their bodies were dumped into huge ossuaries. The unknown soldier became a reality. What an impossibility in Horace's world! What a horrific thought! To the ancient peoples personal honor and glory in battle were everything! How hollow Horace's words must have sounded in 1920, when personhood died and was buried in the tomb of the unknown soldier in Paris, when anomie—the anomie of our modern world—was glorified with a monument. 

In this ode, we learn more of Horace's political views—of his contempt for the common man and the electoral process that existed in Rome two thousand years ago, his desire to see the emperor deified, his likening virtue to a winged beast rising above the unwashed masses. Finally, in a rather sour look at the last lines of the poem, I learn that, since Diespiter (Jupiter) lumps the innocent with the guilty, vengeance is the only tool for real justice. A real right-wing talk radio rant. My! How clear the reception after twenty centuries!

But this poem has many meanings. For a different interpretation, take a look at Robert Haas' retelling with references to the last nine years of war and deception. See: http://berkeley.edu/news/berkeleyan/2007/11/08_hass.shtml

Here is my translation:

let the sound lad learn cheerfully to suffer the

hardships of harsh service. let the fearsome 

knight vex the Persians with his lance. let him 

make stirring deeds of his life beneath God's 

sky. him the warring tyrant's wife will see

from enemy walls and with her virgin 

daughter gasp  "oh!" fearing her royal mate, 

untried in battle, will rile that raging 

lion and by gory anger be snatched 

away amidst the carnage. it is sweet 

and right to die for home and fatherland. 

Death chases fleeing men and spares not the 

limbs nor timid backs of pacifist boys.

being a real man means: ignore the sordid 

setbacks of the elections: let shine

unblemished honor by not taking up 

or laying down the axes* and bending  [*of state]

in the wind to the whim of the people.

being a real man opens heaven to 

the undeserved to die, attempts the path 

to others denied, scorns the unwashed and 

and on fleeing wings the miasmic ground.

there is safe reward for lasting silence. 

I will stop all who divulge the sacred 

mysteries of God-Ceres from sharing 

the same roof and sailing on some flimsy 

boat with me. often Father-God ignored 

joins holy man to sinner, yet rarely 

does limping Vengeance abandon the chase.

                                   © 2009 James Rumford

Une traduction en langue française: http://agoraclass.fltr.ucl.ac.be/concordances/horace_OdesIII/ligne05.cfm?numligne=17&mot=tuta#debut

Commentarii: http://www.horatius.ru/index.xps?2.1.302

My prose rendition:

Puer robustus militia acri condiscat amice pauperiem angustiam pati et eques metuendus Parthos ferocis hasta vexat, vitamque sub divo et in rebus trepidis aget!

Matrona tyranni bellantis illum ex moenibus hosticis perspiciens et virgo adulta supiret, "Eheu," ne lacessat sponsus regius, rudis agminum, lionem asperum tactu, quem ira cruenta per medias caedes rapit.

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, et mors fugacem virum persequitur, nec poplitibus timidove tergo iuventae imbellis parcit.

Virtus, repulsae sordidae nescia, honoribus intaminatus fulget, nec sumit aut ponit secures arbitrio aurae popularis.

Virtus, caelum immeritis mori recludens, via negata iter temptat, et coetusque vulgaris humum udam pinnâ fugiente spernit.

Et est merces tuta silentio fideli. 

Vetabo qui sacrum Cereris arcanae volgarit sub isdem trabibus sit, phaselon fragilemque mecum solvat; saepe Diespiter neglectus integrum incesto addidit, raro poena scelestum antecedentem pede claudo deseruit.

Horace's words:

Angustam amice pauperiem pati
robustus acri militia puer
     condiscat et Parthos ferocis
     uexet eques metuendus hasta

uitamque sub diuo et trepidis agat               5
in rebus. Illum ex moenibus hosticis
     matrona bellantis tyranni
     prospiciens et adulta uirgo

suspiret, eheu, ne rudis agminum
sponsus lacessat regius asperum               10
     tactu leonem, quem cruenta
     per medias rapit ira caedes.

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori:
mors et fugacem persequitur uirum
     nec parcit inbellis iuuentae
     poplitibus timidoue tergo.               15

Virtus, repulsae nescia sordidae,
intaminatis fulget honoribus
     nec sumit aut ponit securis
     arbitrio popularis aurae.               20

Virtus, recludens inmeritis mori
caelum, negata temptat iter uia
     coetusque uolgaris et udam
     spernit humum fugiente pinna.

Est et fideli tuta silentio               25
merces: uetabo, qui Cereris sacrum
     uolgarit arcanae, sub isdem
     sit trabibus fragilemque mecum

soluat phaselon; saepe Diespiter
neglectus incesto addidit integrum,               30
     raro antecedentem scelestum
     deseruit pede Poena claudo.