Poetry 6: Horace really hates that one tree

Having been unable to post for a few days because of Secret Reasons, I'm going to provide two poems today, both by the same poet. Horace, a Roman poet known for his elegance of style and decorous thoughts, has also a few poems which demonstrate petty vindictiveness, and they are a hoot. This one is about a tree that fell on his head, and how much he really hates that tree.

He hates that tree a lot.

Horace, ‘A narrow escape from death’

ille et nefasto te posuit die
quicumque primum, et sacrilega manu
produxit, arbos, in nepotum
perniciem opprobriumque pagi;

illum et parentis crediderim sui
fregisse cervicem et penetralia
sparsisse nocturno cruore
hospitis; ille venena Colcha

et quidquid usquam concipitur nefas
tractavit, agro qui statuit meo
te triste lignum, te caducum
in domini caput immerentis.

qui quisque vitet numquam homini satis
cautum est in horas: navita Bosphorum
Poenus perhorrescit neque ultra
caeca timet aliunde fata;

miles sagittas et celerem fugam
Parthi, catenas Parthus et Italum
robur; sed improvisa leti
vis rapuit rapietque gentis.

quam paene furvae regan Proserpinae
et iudicante, vidimus Aeacum
sedesque discriptas piorum et
Aeoliis fidibus querentum

Sappho puellis de popularibus,
et te sonantem plenius aureo,
Alcaee, plectro dura navis,
dura fugae mala, dura belli!

utrumque sacro digna silentio
mirantur umbrae dicere; sed magis
pugnas et exactos tyrannos
densum umeris bibit aure vulgus.

quid mirum, ubi illis carminibus stupens
demittit atras belua centiceps
auris et intorti capillis
Eumenidum recreantur angues?

qquin et Prometheus et Pelopis parens
dulci laborem decipitur sono,
nec curat Orion leones
aut timidos agitare lyncas.


Whoever it was that planted you in the first place did so on an evil day, and with an unholy hand he raised you, Tree, to bring harm to his descendants and disgrace to the district. I could believe that he strangled his father and spattered the inmost shrine at dead of night with the blood of a guest; he dabbled in Colchian poisons and every enormity conceived throughout the world, that wretch who set you up on my estate, you damned piece of lumber, yes you, to fall down on your innocent owner’s head.

A man can never take sufficient precautions from our to hour against what he should avoid. The Punic sailor trembles at the Bosphorus, and, beyond that, does not expect an unseen death from any other quarter. The soldier dreads the Parthians’ arrows and their quick retreat; the Parthian fears Italy’s chains and dungeon; but it is the unexpected death blow that has carried off, and will continue to carry off, the tribes of men.

How close I came to seeing the kingdom of dusky Proserpine, Aecus sitting in judgement, and, set apart, the abodes of the righteous, and Sappho complaining on her Aeolian strings about the girls of her city, and you, Alcaeus, with your golden plectrum singing in more resonant tones about the harshness of life at sea, the bitter harshness of exile, the harshness of war! The ghosts marvel at both as they sing of things that demand a reverent silence; but the crowd, packed shoulder to shoulder, drink in more eagerly with their ears tales of battles and banished tyrants. What wonder, when, entranced by those songs, the hundred-headed beast relaxes his black ears, and the snakes entwined in the Furies’ hair sink to rest? Why, even Prometheus and Pelops’ father are beguiled of their pain by the pleasant sound, and Orion has no interest in hunting lions or timid lynxes.

Poetry 6: Horace really hates that one tree

Having been unable to post for a few days because of Secret Reasons, I'm going to provide two poems today, both by the same poet. Horace, a Roman poet known for his elegance of style and decorous thoughts, has also a few poems which demonstrate petty vindictiveness, and they are a hoot. This one is about a tree that fell on his head, and how much he really hates that tree.

He hates that tree a lot.

Horace, ‘A narrow escape from death’

ille et nefasto te posuit die
quicumque primum, et sacrilega manu
produxit, arbos, in nepotum
perniciem opprobriumque pagi;

illum et parentis crediderim sui
fregisse cervicem et penetralia
sparsisse nocturno cruore
hospitis; ille venena Colcha

et quidquid usquam concipitur nefas
tractavit, agro qui statuit meo
te triste lignum, te caducum
in domini caput immerentis.

qui quisque vitet numquam homini satis
cautum est in horas: navita Bosphorum
Poenus perhorrescit neque ultra
caeca timet aliunde fata;

miles sagittas et celerem fugam
Parthi, catenas Parthus et Italum
robur; sed improvisa leti
vis rapuit rapietque gentis.

quam paene furvae regan Proserpinae
et iudicante, vidimus Aeacum
sedesque discriptas piorum et
Aeoliis fidibus querentum

Sappho puellis de popularibus,
et te sonantem plenius aureo,
Alcaee, plectro dura navis,
dura fugae mala, dura belli!

utrumque sacro digna silentio
mirantur umbrae dicere; sed magis
pugnas et exactos tyrannos
densum umeris bibit aure vulgus.

quid mirum, ubi illis carminibus stupens
demittit atras belua centiceps
auris et intorti capillis
Eumenidum recreantur angues?

qquin et Prometheus et Pelopis parens
dulci laborem decipitur sono,
nec curat Orion leones
aut timidos agitare lyncas.


Whoever it was that planted you in the first place did so on an evil day, and with an unholy hand he raised you, Tree, to bring harm to his descendants and disgrace to the district. I could believe that he strangled his father and spattered the inmost shrine at dead of night with the blood of a guest; he dabbled in Colchian poisons and every enormity conceived throughout the world, that wretch who set you up on my estate, you damned piece of lumber, yes you, to fall down on your innocent owner’s head.

A man can never take sufficient precautions from our to hour against what he should avoid. The Punic sailor trembles at the Bosphorus, and, beyond that, does not expect an unseen death from any other quarter. The soldier dreads the Parthians’ arrows and their quick retreat; the Parthian fears Italy’s chains and dungeon; but it is the unexpected death blow that has carried off, and will continue to carry off, the tribes of men.

How close I came to seeing the kingdom of dusky Proserpine, Aecus sitting in judgement, and, set apart, the abodes of the righteous, and Sappho complaining on her Aeolian strings about the girls of her city, and you, Alcaeus, with your golden plectrum singing in more resonant tones about the harshness of life at sea, the bitter harshness of exile, the harshness of war! The ghosts marvel at both as they sing of things that demand a reverent silence; but the crowd, packed shoulder to shoulder, drink in more eagerly with their ears tales of battles and banished tyrants. What wonder, when, entranced by those songs, the hundred-headed beast relaxes his black ears, and the snakes entwined in the Furies’ hair sink to rest? Why, even Prometheus and Pelops’ father are beguiled of their pain by the pleasant sound, and Orion has no interest in hunting lions or timid lynxes.

Poetry 7: Horace really hates that one tree, and has a party to show it!

It gets better! One year later, Horace has a party in honour of how much he hates that one tree.

I love Roman poets.

Horace, ‘A happy anniversary’

Martiis caelebs quid agam Kalendis
quid velint flores et acreaa turis
plena miraris positusque carbo in
caespite vivo,

docte sermons utriusque linguae?
voveram dulcis epulas et album
Libero caprum prope funeratus
Arboris ictu.

hic dies anno redeunte festus
corticem adstrictum pice dimovebit
amphorae fumum bibere institutae
consule Tullo.

sume, Maecenas, cyathos amici
sospitis centum et vigils lucernas
perfer in lucem: procul omnis esto
clamor et ira.

mitte civilis super urbe curas;
occidit Daci Cotisonis agmen,
Medus infestus sibi luctuosis
dissidet armis,

servit Hispanae vetus hostis orae
Cantaber sera domitus catena,
iam Scythae laxo meditantur arcu
cedere campis.

neglegens ne qua populus laboret
parce privatus nimium cavere,
dona praesentis cape laetus horae et
linque severa.

What is a bachelor like myself doing on the first of March? What do the flowers mean, and the casket full of incense, and the charcoal laid on the alter of fresh-cut turf? Are you, learned as you are in the discourses of both languages, wondering about this? Well, I vowed to the god of Freedom a delicious meal, including a white goat, on the occasion when I was almost sent to my grave by the blow of a tree. As the year comes round, this festal day will remove the cork, with its seal of pitch, from a jar that was first taught to drink the smoke in Tullus’ consulship.

So quaff a hundred ladles, Maecenas, in honour of your friend’s escape, and keep the lamp burning until daylight. Away with all shouting and quarrelling. Cast aside your worries for the capital and its citizens. The Dacian Cotiso’s army has fallen, our enemy, the Medes, are torn apart by a war that brings grief only to themselves. The Cantabrian, our ancient foe from the coast of Spain, is our slave, tamed and in fetters at long last; now the Scythians have unstrung their bows and prepare to withdraw from their plains. Don’t worry in case the people are in any trouble; you are a private citizen, so try not to be over-anxious; gladly accept the gifts of the present hour, and let serious things go hang.

Trans. by Niall Rudd

Poetry 7: Horace really hates that one tree, and has a party to show it!

It gets better! One year later, Horace has a party in honour of how much he hates that one tree.

I love Roman poets.

Horace, ‘A happy anniversary’

Martiis caelebs quid agam Kalendis
quid velint flores et acreaa turis
plena miraris positusque carbo in
caespite vivo,

docte sermons utriusque linguae?
voveram dulcis epulas et album
Libero caprum prope funeratus
Arboris ictu.

hic dies anno redeunte festus
corticem adstrictum pice dimovebit
amphorae fumum bibere institutae
consule Tullo.

sume, Maecenas, cyathos amici
sospitis centum et vigils lucernas
perfer in lucem: procul omnis esto
clamor et ira.

mitte civilis super urbe curas;
occidit Daci Cotisonis agmen,
Medus infestus sibi luctuosis
dissidet armis,

servit Hispanae vetus hostis orae
Cantaber sera domitus catena,
iam Scythae laxo meditantur arcu
cedere campis.

neglegens ne qua populus laboret
parce privatus nimium cavere,
dona praesentis cape laetus horae et
linque severa.

What is a bachelor like myself doing on the first of March? What do the flowers mean, and the casket full of incense, and the charcoal laid on the alter of fresh-cut turf? Are you, learned as you are in the discourses of both languages, wondering about this? Well, I vowed to the god of Freedom a delicious meal, including a white goat, on the occasion when I was almost sent to my grave by the blow of a tree. As the year comes round, this festal day will remove the cork, with its seal of pitch, from a jar that was first taught to drink the smoke in Tullus’ consulship.

So quaff a hundred ladles, Maecenas, in honour of your friend’s escape, and keep the lamp burning until daylight. Away with all shouting and quarrelling. Cast aside your worries for the capital and its citizens. The Dacian Cotiso’s army has fallen, our enemy, the Medes, are torn apart by a war that brings grief only to themselves. The Cantabrian, our ancient foe from the coast of Spain, is our slave, tamed and in fetters at long last; now the Scythians have unstrung their bows and prepare to withdraw from their plains. Don’t worry in case the people are in any trouble; you are a private citizen, so try not to be over-anxious; gladly accept the gifts of the present hour, and let serious things go hang.

Trans. by Niall Rudd