Friday, April 30, 2010

Eating Little Fish :: Septimi :: II:6

This poem was not all that hard to disentangle, but it took some effort to put the nouns with their adjectives, the subjects with their verbs, and to realize that lasso in line 6 meant 'to tired me.'  I am reminded of the poem Su Dongpo 苏东坡wrote after struggling all night to read a bit of the poet Meng Jiao孟郊:


At first it's like eating little fish
Not worth all the effort
Then after a bit more of a struggle dealing with really difficult Chinese characters, Su Dongpo gives up, saying:


What bitterness to my two ears!
Listening to this cold insect's chirp
So I'll put [his poems] aside
And drink my jade-colored wine


Septimus, come with me to Cadiz,
to the Cantabers who haven't been taught 
to bear our yoke, to barbarous Sidra, 
where ever seethe the Moorish waves.

What if Tibur, founded by a farmer 
from Argos, were my place when I am old
big enough for this soul tired of the sea 
and the roads and the soldiering?

But, if the Fates unfairly block me, I
would seek out the sweet Galaesi River
for the skin-covered sheep and the fields once
ruled by the Spartan Phalanthus.

That corner of the earth does smile to me 
above all others, where the honey is 
not less than that from Hymettus and the 
olives match those of green Venafro.

A long spring time, where Juppiter offers 
warm winters and where Mount Aulon, friend of 
fertile Bacchus, doesn't envy the grapes 
from Falernus, not in the least.

That place and its mountain top so favored
calls to you and me; there you will sprinkle 
the still warm ashes of your poet friend 
with tears natural and fitting.
translation ©2010 by James Rumford


Cantaber: rebellious tribe of northwestern Spain
Syrtis [Σύρτις]: the Gulf of Sidra [خلیج سرت ].
Tibur: modern Tivoli near Rome
Argive [ργαιός]: of Argos, a Greek.
Parcae: the Fates
Galaesus [Γαλαῖσος]: the Galeso River near Tarento.
skin-covered sheep: apparently they covered the sheep with skins to protect their wool.
Phalant[h]us [Φάλαντος]: a Spartan who founded Tarentum; Phalanthum: Tarento.
Venafrum: modern Venafro, celebrated for its olive oil
Hymettus [Ὑμηττός], a mountain near Athens famed for its thyme honey, even today.
Aulon: a mountain in Calabria where grapes are grown 
Falernus: wine country in Campania.

in prose:

[O] Septimi, [o] aditure mecum Gades et Cantabrum ‹iuga nostra ferre indoctum› et Syrtes barbaras, ‹ubi unda Maura semper aestuat›, utinam Tibur ‹colono Argeo positum› sedes senectae meae sit! Modus maris et viarum militiaeque lasso sit! 
Unde, si Parcae iniquae prohibent, flumen dulce Galaesi ‹ovibus pellitis› et ‹rura Phalantho Laconi regnata› petam. Ille angulus terrarum mihi praeter omnes ridet, ubi mella Hymetto non decedunt, bacaque Venafro viridi certat, ubi Iuppiter ver longum brumasque tepidas praebet et Aulon, ‹Baccho amicus›, uvis Falernis minimum invidet. Ille locus et arces beatae te (Septimium) mecum postulant. Ibi tu favillam calentem ‹vatis amici› lacrima debita sparges.   [revised March 27, 2015]


Septimī, Gādıs aditūre mēcum et
Cantabrum indoctum iuga ferre nostra et
barbarās Syrtıs, ubi Maura semper
   aestuat unda,
Tībur Argēō positum colōnō
sit meae sēdēs utinam senectae,
sit modus lassō maris et viārum
unde sī Parcae prohibent inīquae,
dulce pellītīs ovibus Galaesī
flūmen et regnāta petam Lacōnī
   rūra Phalanthō.
ille terrārum mihi praeter omnıs
angulus rīdēt, ubi nōn Hymettō
mella dēcēdunt viridīque certat
   bāca Venafrō,
vēr ubī longum tepidāsque praebet
Iuppiter brūmās et amīcus Aulon
fertilī Bacchō minimum Falernīs
   invidet ūvīs.
ille tē mēcum locus et beātae
postulant arcēs; ibi tū calentem
dēbitā spargēs lacrimā favillam

   vātis amīcī.

:: Latin books by James Rumford ::

For all 102 odes purchase Carpe Diem, Horace De-Poetizedfor $11.50 at 

For a Latin translation of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer at $12, click here: 

To find out more about Carpe Diem go to the blog of March 26, 2015; 
for more about Pericla Thomae Sawyer, go to the blog of November 22, 2016.

Monday, April 26, 2010

Just Relax :: Quid Bellicosus Cantaber :: II:11

This ode is addressed to Hirpinus Quinctus, about whom nothing is known.
It tells him to stop worrying about the Cantabers, a rebellious people on the Iberian peninsula, and the Scyths, northern neighbors of the Persians. Instead, he should give himself over to Euhius (Bacchus) and drink wine.

In my translation, I have gone against the meanings scholars usually give to some words and passages:  

Scholars usually translate temere in line 14 as 'without purpose, heedlessly, rashly,' but I thought  'alone,' another of temere's many meanings, fit better.

Quis puer (line 18) and quis (line 21) are both ways of addressing underlings: you who, boy! and you who! Most commentators and translators take these last lines to be just that: Horace addressing his houseboy, or Horace addressing Hirpinus Quinctus.  Even so, I thought that there might be another meaning, perhaps a double meaning; so I wrote:

What boy will be the first 
to put out the cup of fiery Falernian 
with the water flowing by? 
Who will entice Lyda,
the retired whore, 
from the house? 
Come, play the ivory lyre. 
She'll hurry, 
tying up her uncombed hair 
into a Spartan knot.

Perhaps Horace wants to contrast youth, symbolized by puer with himself, a middle-aged man. Perhaps extinguishing a cup of ardentis Falerni (ardent Falernian wine) with praetereunte lympha (flowing water) has a sexual connotation. 

Then there is the command to get the devium scortum (discreet hooker) to come out. I have gone against the earliest commentator, Porphyrio, who says that devium means 'not on the street,' (which, in effect, turns devium scortum into an oxymoron: a non-street streetwalker). My take is to translate devium as 'retired,' thus reinforcing the theme of this ode: the passing of days and the loss of youth. To me, Horace is asking: Who [in their right mind] would entice the retired hooker Lyda from her house? To me, this interpretation reinforces line 7: pellente lascivos amores (repelling lascivious loves).

Of course, after only nine months studying Horace, all I have to say is: how reckless of me to go against two thousand years of scholarship!

Hirpinus Quinctus, 
put off wondering 
what the warring Cantabers and Scyths 
beyond the Adriatic think, 
and don't fret over life,
for it demands little. 
Beardless youth and beauty 
are driven back 
with the dried grey hair 
that repulses 
naughty love 
and easy sleep.
Not forever do flowers 
have spring's beauty
nor does the ruddy moon 
shine with the same face. 
Why tire little minds 
with eternal thoughts? 
Why don't we lie alone, 
while we still can,
under a tall plane tree 
or that pine there,  
smeared with Assyrian nard, 
white hair smelling of roses,
and drink? 
Euhius drives off gnawing cares. 
What boy will be the first 
to put out the cup of fiery Falernian 
with the water flowing by? 
Who will entice Lyda,
the retired whore, 
from the house? 
Come, play the ivory lyre. 
She'll hurry 
tying up her uncombed hair 
into a Spartan knot.
translation © 2010 by James Rumford

Now compare what Hafiz has to say on the subject of time passing as he jumps from image to image, symbol to symbol  in this ghazzal.

[A few notes before reading: Jamshid, Bahman, Qobad, Kavus and Kai were all Persian kings. Shireen and Farhad were lovers in the epic poem Khosraw and Shireen. Mossalla is a garden and the Roknabad is a river in Shiraz, where Hafiz lived and, some say, never left.]

What's the use of hiding wine and pleasure? 
I'm with the bums; so che sarà sarà
Don't think of fate; untie the heart-knot 
Which no engineer's thinking can undo.
Don't be surprised at fortune's reversals. 
It knows a thousand thousand such stories.
Take the cup with due respect for it's made
From Jamshid's skull and Bahman's and Qobad's.
Who's aware of where Kavus and Kai went, 
How Persepolis was scattered in the wind?
I still see the desire for Shireen's lips,
When tulips grow from grieving Farhad's eyes.
Perhaps the tulip knew time's perfidy;
It blooms, it dies, ne'er putting down the cup.
Come! Come! Let's get wasted on wine a while.
Perhaps we'll find some treasure in this hell.
They won't let me leave—the Mossalla
breezes and the waters of Roknabad.
Drink like Hafiz but to the harp's lament
Its silk glad-binding the joys of the heart.
translation©2010 by James Rumford

شـراب و عیــــش نهان چیست کار بــی بنیاد  *  زدیم بر صف رندان و هر چــه بــادا باد
گـــــره ز دل بگــــشا وز سپهر یاد مکــــن  *  که فکر هیچ مهنـــدس چنیــن گـــره نگــشاد
ز انـــقلاب زمـــانــــه عجب مدار کـه چـــرخ  *  از این فــــســـانه هزاران هــــزار دارد یاد
قدح بــه شرط ادب گیر زان که ترکیبش  *  زکاســه ی سر جمشیـــد و بهمن است و قــباد
که آگه است که کاووس و کی کجا رفتند  *  که واقف است که چون رفت تخت جم بر باد
ز حسرت لــب شیریـــن هــنــوز می بـــینم  *  کــــه لاله می دمــــد از خــون دیده ی فــرهاد
مگر کـــه لالـــه بـــدانـــست بی وفای دهر  *  کـــه تا بزاد و بـــشد جام می ز کــف نـــنهاد
بیــا بیــا کـــه زمانی ز مـــی خــراب شویم  *  مــگـــر رسیم به گــنجی در این خـــراب آباد
نـــمـــی دهنـــد اجـــازات مـــرا بـه سیر و سفر  *  نـــسیم بـــاد مـــصلا و آب رکـــن آبــاد
قدخ مگیر چو حافظ مگر به نالـــه ی چـــنگ  *  کـــه بستـــه اند بر ابریشم طـــرب دل شـاد 

in prose:

[O] Hirpine Quincti, remittas quaerere quid Cantaber bellicosus et Scythes, objecto Hadria divisus, cogitet, nec in usum aevi ‹pauca poscentis› trepides. 
Iuventas levis et decor retro fugi[un]t, canitie arida amores lascivos somnumque facilem pellente. Honor idem non est semper floribus vernis neque luna rubens uno vultu nitet. 
Quid animum minorem consiliis aeternis fatigas? Cur non, vel sub platano alta vel hac pinu, [nos], sic temere iacentes et capillos canos rosa odorati nardoque Assyria uncti, dum licet, potamus? 

Euhius curas edaces dissipat. Quis puer ocius pocula Falerni ardentis lympha praetereunte restinguet? Quis scortum devium, Lyden, domo eliciet? Dic [Lydi], “Age,” [ut] cum lyra eburna maturet, comam incomptam in nodo more Lacaenae religata.

[revised March 27, 2015]

original ode:

Quid bellicōsus Cantaber et Scythēs,
Hirpīne Quīnctī, cogitet Hādriā
   dīvīsus obiectō, remittās
        quaerere nec trepidēs in ūsum
poscentis aevī pauca: fugit retrō
lēvis iuventās et decor, āridā
   pellente lascīvōs amōrēs
        cānitiē facilemque somnum.
nōn semper īdem flōribus est honor
vernīs neque ūnō lūna rubēns nitet
   vultū: quid aeternīs minōrem
        consiliīs animum fatīgās?
cūr nōn sub altā vel platanō vel hāc
pīnū iacentēs sīc temere et rosā
   cānōs odōrātī capillōs,
        dum licet, Assyriāque nardō
pōtāmus unctī? dissipat Euhius
cūrās edācıs. quis puer ōcius
   restinguet ardentis Falernī
        pōcula praetereunte lymphā?
quis dēvium scortum ēliciet domō
Lȳden? eburnā dīc, age, cum lyrā
   mātūret, in comptum[incomptam] Lacaenae

        mōre comam[comās] religāta nōdō[nōdum].

:: Latin books by James Rumford ::

For all 102 odes purchase Carpe Diem, Horace De-Poetizedfor $11.50 at 

For a Latin translation of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer at $12, click here: 

To find out more about Carpe Diem go to the blog of March 26, 2015; 
for more about Pericla Thomae Sawyer, go to the blog of November 22, 2016.

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Passive Agressive :: Nolis Longa :: II:12

This poem is a recusatio, a word we rarely use in English except in legalese: the judge recuses himself. In Latin poetry recusatio was a clever way for the poet to refuse the invitation to write about a subject he didn't think appropriate or worthy of his skills or beyond his abilities.

In today's ode, Horace doesn't want to write about the Empire for some reason or another, claiming that poetry is for love and beauty and sex. He chooses some woman named Licymnia and sings  of her beauty. Much better, Horace thinks, than using poetry to echo the shouts of the crowd when they see the head of some savage chieftain dragged through the streets of Rome.

Who this Licymnia was no one knows.  Some think it was a code name for Maecenas' wife.  Since the ode is addressed to Maecenas, this seems likely, but more likely, as others point out, is that Licymnia was a fictitious character because no one in his right mind would write, "Mycenas, I'm not going to write about what you write about. Instead, I'm going to write about your wife!"

Recusatio as a form of poetry seems odd to us these days, but in a more repressed society, perhaps this is the only way to say what was really on one's mind. The faint attack using one's wit is better than a direct thrust of words that might cause irreparable damage. Recusatio began with Callimachus, a noted Greek poet and librarian of the fourth century before Christ, who refused to write lyric poetry for his patron and figured out a very literary and sophisticated way to tell him so. 

Emily Kratzer at UCLA writes in her paper "The Didactic Role of Recusatio and the Horatian Persona," that Horace refused to write about a lot of things because only he knew what was best for poets to sing about. He was the poet of good taste.

Along with Horace's use of recusatio comes arrogance, I believe, and it is this smell of arrogance that I catch a whiff of every now and then from  reading Horace. Horace tells us that he will last a thousand years. He and the rest of the great poets will sing to the dead in the underworld and their power is enough to quiet the cerberus. He alone could write of Cleopatra as having the highest moral values while the rest of Rome reviled her. He alone could say that he had communed with the gods, and that they had saved him for great things.

A few notes:

Numantia [Spanish: Numancia], an ancient Celtiberian settlement in the north-central Spanish province of Soria. In 134 BC, Scipio Aemilianus lay siege to the city. Most of the inhabitants committed suicide rather than surrender. Today Numanicia has been turned into a tourist site complete with a reconstructed Celtiberian town and fortifications.

Lapithae [Λαπίθαι], uncivilized mountain people of Thessaly who fought with the centaurs at the wedding of their king Pirithoüs.

Hylaeus [Ὺλαῖος], a centaur.

Achaemenes [Άχαιμένης, هخامنشی], the ancestor of the old Persian kings and used poetically to mean fabulous wealth from Asia.

Mygdon  [Μύγδων],  a mythical king of ancient Phrygia (now central Turkey). 


You wouldn't wish long Numantia wars
nor cruel Hannibals nor Sicilian Seas 
purple with Punic blood to be fitted 
to the soft rhythms of the cithara,

nor wild Lipithae and Hylaeus on 
too much wine, and Tellurian giants
tamed by Hercules' hand, when danger
shook the gleaming house of old Saturn.

But you, Maecenas, can tell better in 
prose the histories of the battles of 
the emperor and of the necks of once 
threatening kings dragged through the city streets.

For me: the Muse wants to sing me sweet 
songs of the lady Licymnia, about 
her eyes flashing with the light of truth and
her heart loyal to love well returned;

about her who did not disgrace the group 
dancing nor telling jokes nor locking arms
playing with the elegant maidens on 
the thronged festival day of Diana.

Wouldn't you switch what rich Achaemenes
had or the Mygdonian wealth of fat 
Phrygia or the Arabs' stuffed houses 
for just one lock of Licymnia's hair,

when on fire she turns her neck for kisses
or with easy cruelty tells you no, 
kisses when begged she loves to be stolen, 
kisses she sometimes steels right from the start?
 translation © 2010 by James Rumford

in prose:

Nolis bella longa Numantiae ferae nec Hannibalem durum nec mare purpureum Siculum sanguine Poeno modis mollibus citharae aptari nec Lapithas saevos et Hylaeum nimium mero iuvenesque Telluris manu Herculea domitos, unde domus fulgens Saturni veteris [ob] periculum contremuit. 
Tuque proelia Caesaris ‹collaque regum minacium per vias ducta› historiis pedestribus melius dices, Maecenas. 
Me, musa me voluit dicere: cantus dulces dominae Licymniae, oculos lucidum fulgentes et pectus amoribus mutuis bene fidum. Quam nec dedecuit choris pedem ferre, nec [dedecuit] ioco certare, nec [dedecuit] ludentem bracchia virginibus nitidis [in] die sacro Dianae celebris dare. 
Num tu velis quae Achaemenes dives tenuit aut opes Mygdonias Phrygiae pinguis aut domos plenas Arabum [cum] crine Licyminiae permutare, cum [ea] ad oscula flagrantia cervicem detorquet aut [cum] saevitia facili negat [oscula] quae gaudeat eripi magis poscente, [negat quae] occupet interdum rapere?  [revised March 27, 2015]


Nōlis longa ferae bella Numantiae,
nec dūrum Hannibalem nec Siculum mare
Poenō purpureum sanguine mollibus
   aptārī citharae mōdīs,
nec saevōs Lapithās et nimium merō
Hȳlaeum domitōsque Herculeā manū
Tellūris iuvenēs, unde perīculum
   fulgēns contremuit domus
Sāturnī veteris; tūque pedestribus
dīcēs historiīs proelia Caesarīs,
Maecēnās, melius ductaque per viās
   rēgum colla minācium.
mē dulcēs dominae Mūsa Licymniae
cantūs, mē voluit dīcere lūcidum
fulgentıs oculōs et bene mūtuīs
   fīdum pectus amōribus;
quam nec ferre pedem dēdecuit chorīs
nec certāre iocō nec dare bracchia
lūdentem nitidīs virginibus sacrō
   Dīānae celebris diē.
num tū quae tenuit dīves Achaemenēs
aut pinguis Phrygiae Mygdoniās opēs
permūtāre velis crīne Licȳmniae,
   plēnās aut Arabum domōs
cum flāgrantia dētorquet ad oscula
cervīcem aut facilī saevitiā negat
quae poscente magis gaudeat ēripī,
   interdum rapere occupet?

:: Latin books by James Rumford ::

For all 102 odes purchase Carpe Diem, Horace De-Poetizedfor $11.50 at 

For a Latin translation of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer at $12, click here: 

To find out more about Carpe Diem go to the blog of March 26, 2015; 
for more about Pericla Thomae Sawyer, go to the blog of November 22, 2016.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

The Dead Poets Society :: Ille et Nefasto :: II:13

Horace, almost killed by a falling tree, imagines what he would have seen in the underworld had he died: the poetess Sappho and Alcaeus singing their songs to the dead, beguiling them into forgetting their miseries and causing even the cerberus to take notice and the snakes entwined in the hair of the furies to start writhing. 

I get the impression that Horace is talking about a real dead poets' society—not like the one in the  script for the 1989 film written by Tom Schulman—but about the umbrae [shades] of poets strumming their lyres in the underworld.  A pretty fantastic poem, but all part of Horace's belief in the power of poetry to transcend everything, even death.

So, I suppose that Horace is down there now with his buddies.  I wonder if he has anything to do with the Persian poets of his era. Those guys lost out big time. Their poetry didn't survive the Islamic invasions of the seventh century, when Iran's past was obliterated in one fell swoop of the sword, only to survive, much transformed, in the poems of Ferdowsi and Gorgani. Horace's poetry would have suffered a similar fate, had Europe's history been slightly different.  

As it is, the centuries are not kind to poets. Languages die, and when they do, their poetry lags not far behind. Today Latin is on the brink of collapse and Horace is almost forgotten. Look at the Ancient Greek poet Sappho. All that remains of her much admired work are but a few tattered lines. 

A few notes: 

Colchis [Κολχίς], either a country on the eastern shore of the Black Sea or Medea, or as Horace used it, a barbarian.
Robur is an oak and was also the name of a prison in Rome built by Servius Tullius.
Aeacusακός] a mythical king, grandfather of Ajax and Achilles, and after his death judge in Hades.
Sappho [Σαπφώ], the poetess from the Island of Lesbo has an irregular accusative form: Sapphō
The furies were either known as Eumenides [Εύμενιδες ] 'the gracious ones' or the Erinyes [Έρινύες ] 'the angry ones.' They wore a wreath of snakes and their eyes dripped blood. They were female gods of vengeance for those who had died unjustly. They were also symbols of regeneration and the potency of creation. Perhaps Horace is alluding to this in his use of recreantur.
Pelops [Πέλοψ] was a mythical king of Phrygia. When he was a boy, his father Tantalus killed him and served him up to the gods to eat. Hermes restored Pelops to life, and replaced his shoulder, which Demeter had unfortunately eaten, with an ivory one. 

Whoever first planted you that cursed day
and with unholy hand raised you, tree, to 
the curse of grandsons and 
to the shame of the countyside,

I fancy that one snapped his father's neck, 
in the dead of night spattered the house shrine
with the blood of some guest, 
he into Colcha poisons,

and every thinkable evil, he who 
put you—sad piece of wood—in my field, 
to crash down upon the 
blameless head of your master.

What one avoids is never precaution 
enough: the Punic sailor is frightened 
of the Bosphorus, yet 
does not fear blind fate elsewhere,

like soldiers of arrows and the Persian's 
swift flight, like Persians of our chains and the
Robur; death's unforeseen
strength has snatched and will snatch all.

How I almost saw the kingdoms of dark 
Proserpina, Aeacus in judgment,
the seats saved for the good,
on her Aeolian lyre 

Sappho moaning about the Lesbos girls, 
and you, Alcaeus, on your golden lute 
singing of the hardships
of sea, evil exile, war!

The dead are stunned into awed silence at what 
both say, but the crowd shoulder to shoulder
drinks in more the battles 
and the oustings of tyrants.

No wonder to these songs, the centiceps
monster turns its black ears and the entwined
snakes in the hair of the 
Eumenides are revived. 

The sweet sound even distracts Pelop's  
father and Prometheus from their woes; 
Orion scorns the lions,
the hunt for the timid lynx.
                                                    translation © 2010 by James Rumford

in prose:

Et ille quicumque primum die nefasto te, [o] Arbos, posuit, et manu sacrilega in perniciem nepotum opprobriumque pagi produxit. 
Crediderim illum et ‹cervicem parentis sui fregisse› et ‹penetralia cruore nocturno hospitis sparsisse›. Ille venena Colcha tractavit et quidquid nefas [quod] usquam concipitur. [Ille] qui te, lignum triste, [in] agro meo statuit—te, in caput domini immerentis caducum.
 Quid quisque in horas vitet, cautum homini numquam satis est. 
‹Navita Poenus› Bosphorum perhorrescit, neque fata caeca aliunde ultra timet. Miles sagittas et fugam celerem Parthi [timet]. Parthus catenas et robur Ītalum [timet]. Sed vis improvisa leti gentes rapuit rapietque. 
Quam paene regna Proserpinae furvae et Aeacum iudicantem vidimus!—sedesque discriptas piorum [vidimus] et Sappho fidibus Aeoliis de puellis popularibus querentem et te, [o] Alcaee, plectro aureo dura navis, dura mala fugae, dura belli plenius sonantem. 
Umbraeque utrum ‹digna silentio sacro› mirantur dicere, sed vulgus, umeris densum, ‹pugnas et tyrannos exactos› magis aure bibit. Quid mirum! Ubi illis carminibus stupens, belua centiceps aures atras demittit et angues intorti [in] capillis Eumenidum recreantur? Quin et Prometheus et parens Pelopis laborem sono dulci decipitur, nec Orion curat leones aut lyncas timidos agitare.

 [revised March 27, 2015]


Ille et nefastō tē posuit diē,
quīcumque prīmum, et sacrilegā manū
   prōduxit, arbōs, in nepōtum
        perniciem opprobriumque pāgī;
illum et parentis crēdiderim suī
frēgisse cervīcem et penetrālia
   sparsisse nocturnō cruōre
        hospitis, ille venēna Colcha
et quidquid usquam concipitur nefas
tractāvit, agrō quī statuit meō
   tē, triste lignum, tē, cadūcum
        in dominī caput immerentis.
quid quisque vītet, nunquam hominī satis
cautum est in hōrās: nāvita Bosphōrum
   Poenus perhorrescit neque ultrā
        caeca timēt aliunde fāta,
mīles sagittās et celerem fugam
Parthī, catēnās Parthus et ītalum
   rōbur; sed imprōvīsa lētī
        vīs rapuit rapietque gentıs.
quam paene furvae regna Proserpinae
et iūdicantem vīdimus Aeacum
   sēdesque discrīptās piōrum et
        Aeoliīs fidibus querentem
Sapphō puellīs dē populāribus
et tē sonantem plēnius aureō,
   Alcæe, plectrō dūra nāvīs,
        dūra fugae mala, dūra bellī.
utrumque sacrō digna silentiō
mīrantur umbrae dīcere, sed magis
   pugnās et exactōs tyrannōs
        densum umerīs bibit aure vulgus.
quid mīrum, ubī illīs carminibus stupēns
dēmittit ātrās bēlǔǎ centiceps
   aurıs et intortī capillīs
        Eumenidum recreantur anguēs?
quīn et Promētheus et Pelopis parēns
dulcī labōrum dēcipitur sonō
   nec cūrat ōrīōn leōnēs
        aut timidōs agitāre lyncās.

:: Latin books by James Rumford ::

For all 102 odes purchase Carpe Diem, Horace De-Poetizedfor $11.50 at 

For a Latin translation of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer at $12, click here: 

To find out more about Carpe Diem go to the blog of March 26, 2015; 
for more about Pericla Thomae Sawyer, go to the blog of November 22, 2016.