Translated by Hugh Macnaghten (1926).

Licinius, if you think with me,
You’ll steer not always out to sea,
Nor hug the treacherous shore, for fear
A storm be near.

The man who loves the golden mean,
A house not weatherproof nor clean
Shuns, and is safe: shuns, wise withal,
The envied hall.

The giant pine feels most of all
The many winds, high towers that fall
Fall heaviest, the lightning seeks
The mountain peeks.

Well-schooled the mind, when troubles press,
Expects a change; in happiness,
Knows it may come. God summons here
The winter drear,

Then drives it hence. What’s ill to-day
May turn to good. ‘Tis Phoebus’ way
Sometimes to wake the Muse, not bend
His bows sans end.

In straits of fortune steel your heart
And smile. ‘Tis also wisdom’s part,
Lest that good wind become a gale,
To shorten sail.

Translated by Alexander William Mair (1929).

Ah! in the voyage of life, my friend,
Be wise nor tempt the open ocean
Too boldly nor, to shun the wind,
Hug thou the shore with dangerous caution.
The Golden Mean who still prefers
Doth neither in a cabin smother
Nor, in a palace dwelling, stirs
The envy of a humbler brother.
Upon the soaring pine-tree wreaks
The storm its fury, sorer tumbles
The high-built tower, the mountain peaks
Most suffer when the thunder rumbles.
When Fortune frowns, the prudent man
Still nurses hope; when Fortune flatters,
He fears lest blessing change to ban;
And when the bitter rainstorm patters,
He knows that that same God who sent
To-day the tempest for our sorrow,
Shall when it pleases him relent,
The sun may shine again to-morrow,
And not for evermore in ire
With bended bow Apollo scourges,
But takes anon his golden lyre
And the dumb strings to music urges.
When things are dark, the wise man shows
Neath Fortune’s blows a front unbending,
And when the wind too favouring blows
He shortens sail with timely tending.

Translated by J. S. Blake-Reed (1942).

Wisely your bark, Licinius, steer
Not where the deepest ocean rolls;
Nor, over-cautious, sail too near
The treacherous shoals.

Whoe’er the golden mean pursues,
To live secure from envy’s eye
Nor sordid hut for home will choose
Nor palace high.

The tallest pines the tempest’s might
Assails; high towers with heavier crash
Will fall; the loftiest hills invite
The lightning flash.

Caution in weal and hope in ill
The steadfast bosom still will learn;
Jove sends the gloomy winters, — still
The springs return.

Dark days a brighter dawn succeeds;
Ofttimes Apollo tunes his lyre,
Unbends his bow and jocund leads
The Muses’ choir.

Undaunted still by want or grief,
When Fortune with too prosperous gale
Your bark impels, be wise and reef
Your swelling sail.

J. S. Blake-Reed, 1942, Twentyfive Odes of Horace (PDF Book)
J. S. Blake-Reed, 1944, More Odes of Horace (PDF Book)
Harold Baily Dixon, 1910, Translations from The Odes of Horace (PDF Book)
Gardner Wade Earle, 1949, Moments With (and Without) Horace (PDF Book)
L. E. Gielgud, 1951, Horace in Modern Dress (PDF Book)
Edward Marsh, 1941, The Odes of Horace (PDF Book)

From The Princess by Alfred Lord Tennyson.

And then we strolled
For half the day through stately theatres
Benched crescent-wise. In each we sat, we heard
The grave Professor. On the lecture slate
The circle rounded under female hands
With flawless demonstration: followed then
A classic lecture, rich in sentiment,
With scraps of thunderous Epic lilted out
By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies
And quoted odes, and jewels five-words-long
That on the stretched forefinger of all Time
Sparkle for ever: then we dipt in all
That treats of whatsoever is, the state,
The total chronicles of man, the mind,
The morals, something of the frame, the rock,
The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, the flower,
Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest,
And whatsoever can be taught and known;
Till like three horses that have broken fence,
And glutted all night long breast-deep in corn,
We issued gorged with knowledge…

By Alexander William Mair (1875-1928), Professor of Greek at the University of Edinburgh.

Horace’s Aequam Memento (II.3)

A level head neath Fortune’s slings,
A humble heart when Fortune’s pleasant,
Seek still, for in the end of things
One doom awaits us, peer and peasant,
Alike if you should never smile,
Or if, on holiday unbending,
You picnic on the grass awhile
And take the best of Heaven’s sending.
Wherefore do pine and poplar pale
Unite to frame a shade inviting?
Why hastes the rivulet down the dale
Impatient, eye and ear delighting?
Bring wine and unguent, nor forget
To bring the, ah! too fleeting, roses,
So long as means and youth permit
Nor yet the Book of Fate forecloses.
One day you’ll leave both house and lands,
Your villa by the Tiber yellow,
The wealth you’ve piled with eager hands —
Your heir will be the lucky fellow!
Whether you’re rich, of ancient race,
Or poor, the humblest in the city,
It matters not: we fly apace,
Victims of Death who knows no pity.
One way we all are driven, of all
The lots are shaken for the Ferry,
And soon or late ‘twill be our call
To step aboard old Charon’s wherry.

Horace’s Vides Ut Alta (I.9)

Deep lies the snow on Benachie,
Beneath their load the trees are bent,
The sea-ward streams forget the sea,
In winter’s icy clutches pent.

Heap high the logs to thaw the air:
Let fireside warmth mend outer cold:
Bring ben the bottle — see it bear
No lying legend, “Very Old.”

Lippen the lave to One above
Who lulls the wild winds’ angry clash
To zephyr airs that hardly move
The cypress or the aged ash.

Seek not to probe To-morrow’s fate,
But count To-day for happy chance,
And timely, ere it be too late,
Enjoy the daffing and the dance.

Soon on your brow, that now is brent,
Will prints of crusty age be seen;
Golf, shoot, or fish — then, well content,
Hie to the trysting-tree at e’en.

The tell-tale laugh will guide you where
She hides who, willing, still says “won’t” —
So angry if a kiss you dare,
But aiblins angrier if you don’t.

A Translation and Four Paraphrases by Eugene Field (Echoes from the Sabine Farm, 1891).

To Chloe

Chloe, you shun me like a hind
That, seeking vainly for her mother,
Hears danger in each breath of wind,
And wildly darts this way and t’ other;

Whether the breezes sway the wood
Or lizards scuttle through the brambles,
She starts, and off, as though pursued,
The foolish, frightened creature scrambles.

But, Chloe, you’re no infant thing
That should esteem a man an ogre;
Let go your mother’s apron-string,
And pin your faith upon a toga!

A Paraphrase

How happens it, my cruel miss,
You’re always giving me the mitten?
You seem to have forgotten this:
That you no longer are a kitten!

A woman that has reached the years
Of that which people call discretion
Should put aside all childish fears
And see in courtship no transgression.

A mother’s solace may be sweet,
But Hymen’s tenderness is sweeter;
And though all virile love be meet,
You’ll find the poet’s love is metre.

Another Paraphrase

Since Chloe is so monstrous fair,
With such an eye and such an air,
What wonder that the world complains
When she each am’rous suit disdains?

Close to her mother’s side she clings,
And mocks the death her folly brings
To gentle swains that feel the smarts
Her eyes inflict upon their hearts.

Whilst thus the years of youth go by,
Shall Colin languish, Strephon die?
Nay, cruel nymph! come, choose a mate,
And choose him ere it be too late!

A Third Paraphrase

Why, Mistress Chloe, do you bother
With prattlings and with vain ado
Your worthy and industrious mother,
Eschewing them that come to woo?

Oh, that the awful truth might quicken
This stern conviction to your breast:
You are no longer now a chicken
Too young to quit the parent nest.

So put aside your froward carriage,
And fix your thoughts, whilst yet there’s time,
Upon the righteousness of marriage
With some such godly man as I’m.

A Fourth Paraphrase

Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken,
Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken ;
Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hiding
Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding.
Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder
For to beare swete company with some oder;
Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth,
But that ben not farre enow, God knoweth;
Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes
That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hadys;
But all that do with gode men wed full quicklye
When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly.

Tr. by Caro Morgan, 1926. Included in Horace’s Diffugere Nives: A Collection of Translations.

The snows are fled, and over her bare breast Earth draws
A new green veil.
Within their banks, the streams glide past the leaf-tipped shaws,
As the floods fail;
The half-awakened flowers with the Zephyrs dance,
And seem to say,
Mortals, hope not, for you but once the hours do glance
From life’s bright day.
In Spring’s faint footsteps Summer rushes madly on,
And hears behind
Fruit-laden Autumn, scattering gifts from Winter won,
Cold, dark, and blind.
Though the swift moons restore each season in its turn,
Yet we, when gone,
With age, great wealth and courage cast into the urn,
Remain undone.
If added to this day the morrow’s hours will be,
No man can say;
So spend for thine own soul, from him who follows thee,
What thou best may.
When Death’s grim lips have passed on thee their sentence stern,
From that dread day
Not piety, nor birth, nor eloquence, will earn
An hour’s delay.
E’en her loved voice, who best on earth thy pain could calm,
Will plead in vain,
Nor shall the willing strength of Friendship’s ready arm
Break through Death’s chain.

From Gardner Wade Earle, 1949, Moments With (and Without) Horace (PDF Book).

Ode I.11, A Moment With Horace

Ask not what ends the gods have set for thee
Or me. Do not inquire the horoscope
From those who read the charts of famed Chaldee.

How better to accept today, and hope
This season may not be the last we hear
Wild Tuscan waves break on the coastal slope.

Show wisdom. Care for things that now appear —
There’s wine to filter; grain is ripe to cut —
Leave far-flung plans and take what’s lying near.

Yea, even while we speak, the door has shut
Upon a portion of the passing flow
Of that most precious gift to cherish, but

The present tense of Time is never slow!

Same Ode, Without Horace

When you have paid to get your horoscope
And wasted dough for “readings from the sky”
You’re simply clinchin’ that you are a dope.

There’s only one thing sure as babies cry —
And that’s today. You better take it now —
It may be all there is before y’ die.

Quit thinkin’ what you’ll do next year, and how.
The wine needs strainin’ and the oats are waitin’
And stuff you’ll use for this and next year’s chow.

And while I’m gabbin’ here and disputatin’,
You know what’s goin’ on for you and me?
The only thing we got ain’t hesitatin’ —

Our Time is flittin’ like a busy bee!

Translated by Edward Marsh, 1941:

You shun me, Chloe, like a fawn
That on the wild untrodden screes
Seeks her shy mother, startled if a breeze
Rustles among the trees;
For if the first faint shivering dawn
Of earliest spring
Sets the young leaves a-whispering,
Or the green lizards shake
A bramble in the brake,
She stands with knocking heart and trembling kees.

Yet no fierce tiger I, dear child,
No lion from the Libyan wild
In hot pursuit to seize
And crunch you — quit at last your mother’s side!
‘Tis time you were a bride.

Translated by J. S. Blake-Reed, 1944:

Even as the frightened fawn that flees
With fluttering heart and trembling knees,
O’er pathless hills and in the trees
The breeze doth hear, —

Seeking her anxious dam, doth quake
When winds of spring the branches shake
Or darting lizards stir the brake
And checks in fear; —

So, Chloe, you my footsteps fly;
But leave your mother; be not shy;
No ravening beast of prey am I
To eat you, dear.

“…the man of the Renaissance who made him most truly a friend, perhaps the most Horatian of all the literary figures that we know, was Montaigne. He quotes him, perhaps, no more than he quotes other great Classical writers, but it was from Horace that he received the stimulus to write about himself, and blessed like him with a country estate and a love of good literature, he achieved the same calm, sane, detached outlook on life, and the self-knowledge that can be derived from the observation of others.” (L. P. Wilkinson, 1945, Horace and His Lyric Poetry)

(“Rudely Imitated” by Abraham Cowley, 1656)

I

Hence, ye Profane; I hate ye all;
Both the Great Vulgar, and the small.
To Virgin Minds, which yet their Native whiteness hold,
Not yet Discolour’d with the Love of Gold
(That Jaundice of the Soul,
Which makes it look so Gilded and so Foul),
To you, ye very Few, these truths I tell;
The Muse inspires my Song, Hark, and observe it well.

II

We look on Men, and wonder at such odds
‘Twixt things that were the same by Birth;
We look on Kings as Giants of the Earth,
These Giants are but Pigmeys to the Gods.
The humblest Bush and proudest Oak
Are but of equal proof against the Thunder-stroke.
Beauty and Strength, and Wit, and Wealth, and Power
Have their short flourishing hour,
And love to see themselves, and smile,
And joy in their Preeminence a while;
Even so in the same Land,
Poor Weeds, rich Corn, gay Flowers together stand;
Alas, Death Mowes down all with an impartial Hand.

III

And all you Men, whom Greatness does so please,
Ye feast, I fear, like Damocles.
If you your eyes could upwards move,
(But you, I fear, think nothing is above)
You would perceive by what a little thread
The Sword still hangs over your head.
No Tide of Wine would drown your cares,
No Mirth or Musick over-noise your fears;
The fear of Death would you so watchful keep,
As not t’ admit the Image of it, sleep.

IV

Sleep is a God too proud to wait in Palaces;
And yet so humble, too, as not to scorn
The meanest Country Cottages;
His Poppey grows among the Corn.
The Halcyon sleep will never build his nest
In any stormy breast.
’Tis not enough that he does find
Clouds and Darkness in their mind;
Darkness but half his work will do,
’Tis not enough; he must find Quiet too.

V

The man who, in all wishes he does make,
Does only Nature’s Counsel take,
That wise and happy man will never fear
The evil Aspects of the Year,
Nor tremble, though two Comets should appear.
He does not look in Almanacks to see,
Whether he Fortunate shall be;
Let Mars and Saturn in th’ Heavens conjoin,
And what they please against the World design,
So Jupiter within him shine.

VI

If of their pleasures and desires no end be found;
God to their Cares and Fears will set no bound.
What would content you? Who can tell?
Ye fear so much to lose what you have got
As if ye lik’d it well.
Ye strive for more, as if ye lik’d it not.
Go, level Hills, and fill up Seas,
Spare nought that may your wanton Fancy please;
But trust Me, when you ‘have done all this,
Much will be Missing still, and much will be Amiss.