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wildestrangerIt 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
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
