Horace, Ode 1.9
by Michael Gilleland
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Horace, Ode 1.9by Michael Gilleland |
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Synopsis (by C.H. Moore):
"The world is bound in the fetters of snow and ice.
Heap high the fire to break the cold.
Leave all else to the gods; whate'er to-morrow's
fate may give, count as pure gain.
To-day is thine for love and dance, while thou art young."
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Vides ut alta stet niue candidum Soracte, nec iam sustineant onus siluae laborantes, geluque flumina constiterint acuto. |
You see how [Mount] Soracte stands out white with deep snow, and the struggling trees can no longer sustain the burden, and the rivers are frozen with sharp ice. |
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Dissolue frigus ligna super foco large reponens, atque benignius deprome quadrimum Sabina, o Thaliarche, merum diota. |
Dispel the cold by liberally piling logs on the fireplace, and draw out more generously, o Thaliarchus, four-year-old unmixed wine from the two-handled Sabine jar. |
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Permitte diuis cetera; qui simul strauere uentos aequore feruido deproeliantis, nec cupressi nec ueteres agitantur orni. |
Entrust everything else to the gods; as soon as they have stilled the winds battling on the heaving sea, neither the cypress trees nor the ancient ash trees are shaken. |
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Quid sit futurum cras fuge quaerere, et quem fors dierum cumque dabit lucro adpone, nec dulcis amores sperne puer neque tu choreas, |
Leave off asking what tomorrow will bring, and whatever days fortune will give, count them as profit, and while you're young don't scorn sweet love affairs and dances, |
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donec uirenti canities abest morosa. nunc et campus et areae lenesque sub noctem susurri composita repetantur hora; |
so long as crabbed old age is far from your vigor. Now let the playing field and the public squares and soft whisperings at nightfall (the appointed hour) be your pursuits; |
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nunc et latentis proditor intimo gratus puellae risus ab angulo pignusque dereptum lacertis aut digito male pertinaci. |
now too the sweet laughter of a girl hiding in a secret corner, which gives her away, and a pledge snatched from her wrists or her feebly resisting finger. |
1 The scene (winter without, wine within) recalls:
2 Mount Soracte, located about 20 miles from Rome, is 2,267 feet (691 meters) high. Photographs (without snow) are available on the World Wide Web by Bill Thayer and Carlo Portone. There is good information (in Italian) on the geology of Mount Soracte by Adriano Nardi and Luca Martellini. French landscape painter Jean Baptiste Camille Corot (1796-1875) painted Roman Countryside with Mount Soracte. Eduard Frankel, Horace (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1957), p. 176, writes wistfully:
Odes i.9, Vides ut alta stet nive candidum Soracte, is dear to many of us primarily because it reminds us of days when, either from a terrazzo on the roof of one of the tall and weathered houses off the Corso or from the height of the Gianicolo, we gazed at the queer silhouette which the isolated sharp peak of Monte Soratte forms against the northern horizon.More recently, Nicholas Horsfall, in his commentary on book 7 of Vergil's Aeneid (Leiden: Brill, 2000), p. 453 (on 7.696), gives a more prosaic assessment: "Its (now rare) visibility from the Gianicolo is a sure measure of the level of pollution."
4 Cf. Livy 5.13: "The year [399 BC] was memorable for a cold and snowy winter, to the point that roads were impassable and boats couldn't sail on the river Tiber" (insignis annus hieme gelida ac niuosa fuit, adeo ut uiae clausae, Tiberis innauigabilis fuerit).
7 Theocritus (tr. C.H. Moore) twice mentions wine of the same age:
8 The name Thaliarchus does occur (rarely) in ancient Greece, but Horace probably uses it here with an eye towards its etymology. It comes from the Greek words thalia (merriment) and archo (rule), and recalls the Greek noun symposiarchos (master of the drinking party, in Latin magister bibendi).
Plato (Greater Hippias 288 D) mentions two-handled pots that hold six choes (about 18 quarts).
11 Here are some details on the trees mentioned by Horace in this passage.
13 Don't ask what tomorrow will bring.
14 Count each day given to you as profit.
15 Youth, not old age, is the proper time for love.
16 It's a mistake to think of modern dancing with mixed couples. Horace probably means young men dancing in a ring. This may be a Greek touch. The stern Romans didn't look very favorably on dancing.
20 The girl wants to be caught.
23 The pledge is either a bracelet (snatched from her wrist) or a ring (snatched from her finger). American writer Kenneth Rexroth wrote a poem entitled Under Soracte, which describes how he once overheard lovemaking (with a tinkling bracelet) in the stacks of a library.
Thou seest the Hills candied with Snow Which groaning Woods scarce undergo, And a stiff Ice those Veins Congeals which Branch the Plains. Dissolve the Frost with Logs pil'd up To th' Mantle-Tree; let the great Cup Out of a larger Sluice Pour the reviving Juice. Trust Jove with other things; when he The fighting Winds takes up at Sea, Nor speared Cypress shakes, Nor aged Elm-Tree quakes. Upon to Morrow reckon not, Then if it comes 'tis clearly got: Nor being young despise Or Dancings, or Loves Joyes. Till testy Age gray Hairs shall snow Upon thy Head, lose Mask, nor Show: Soft whispers now delight At a set hour by Night: And Maids that gigle to discover Where they are hidden to a Lover; And Bracelets or some toy Snatcht from the willing Coy.
Behold yon Mountains hoary height, Made higher with new Mounts of snow: Again behold the Winter's weight Oppress the lab'ring Woods below; And Streams, with Icy fetters bound, Benum'd and crampt to solid Ground. With well-heap'd logs dissolve the cold And feed the genial hearth with fires; Produce the Wine, that makes us bold, And sprightly Wit and Love inspires: For what hereafter shall betide, God, if 'tis worth his care, provide. Let him alone, with what he made, To toss and turn the World below; At his command the storms invade, The winds by his Commission blow, Till with a nod he bids 'em cease, And then the Calm returns, and all is peace. To morrow and her works defie, Lay hold upon the present hour, And snatch the pleasures passing by, To put them out of Fortune's pow'r; Nor love nor love's delights disdain; Whate're thou get'st to day is gain. Secure those golden early joyes That Youth unsowr'd with sorrow bears, E're with'ring time the taste destroyes With sickness and unwieldy years! For active sports, for pleasing rest, This is the time to be possest; The best is but in season best. The pointed hour of promis'd Bliss, The pleasing whisper in the dark, The half unwilling willing kiss, The laugh that guides thee to the mark, When the kind Nymph wou'd coyness feign, And hides but to be found again; These, these are the joyes the Gods for Youth ordain.
Scottish poet Allan Ramsay (1686-1758) imitated Horace's ode in his poem "An Ode to the Ph--" (1721). I've glossed some unfamiliar or dialect words, with much help from Andy Eagle's fine Online Scots Dictionary, available at http://www.scots-online.org/. I'm also greatly indebted to David Appleton, who generously supplied notes from R. L. Mackie's A book of Scottish verse (London: Oxford University Press, 1934; reprint 1960) [M], and Chambers's Scots dictionary compiled by Alexander Warrack (Edinburgh: Chambers, 1911; reprint 1965) [W], as well as from his own personal knowledge [A]. What is hidden in Ramsay's title? I thought "the PH" might be the Pentland Hills, but why the dash after PH?
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Look up to Pentland's tow'ring tap, Buried beneath great wreaths of snaw, O'er ilka cleugh, ilk scar, and slap, As high as ony Roman wa'. Driving their ba's frae whins or tee, There's no nae gowfer to be seen, Nor dousser fouk wysing a-jee The byast bouls on Tamson's green. Then fling on coals, and ripe the ribs, And beek the house baith but and ben, That mutchkin stoup it hauds but dribs, Then let's get in the tappit hen. Good claret best keeps out the cauld, And drives away the winter soon; It makes a man baith gash and bauld, And heaves his saul beyond the moon. Leave to the gods your ilka care, If that they think us worth their while They can a rowth of blessings spare, Which will our fasheous fears beguile. For what they have a mind to do, That will they do, should we gang wud; If they command the storms to blaw, Then upo' sight the hailstanes thud. But soon as e'er they cry -- "Be quiet," The blatt'ring winds dare nae mair move, But cour into their caves, and wait The high command of supreme Jove. Let neist day come as it thinks fit, The present minute's only ours; On pleasure let's employ our wit, And laugh at fortune's feckless powers. Be sure ye dinna quat the grip Of ilka joy when ye are young, Before auld age your vitals nip, And lay ye twafald o'er a rung. Sweet youth's a blyth and heartsome time; Then, lads and lasses, while it's May, Gae pou the gowan in its prime Before it wither and decay. Watch the saft minutes of delyte When Jenny speaks beneath her breath, And kisses, laying a' the wyte On you, if she keap ony skaith. "Haith, ye're ill-bred," she'll smiling say, "Ye'll worry me, ye greedy rook;" Syne frae your arms she'll rin away, And hide hersell in some dark nook. Her laugh will lead you to the place Where lies the happiness you want, And plainly tells you to your face Nineteen nay says are ha'f a grant. Now to her heaving bosom cling, And sweetly toolie for a kiss, Frae her fair finger whop a ring, As taiken of a future bliss. These bennisons, I'm very sure, Are of the gods' indulgent grant; Then, surly carles, whisht, -- forbear To plague us with your whining cant. |
tap=top snaw=snow Over every cliff, each scar, and narrow pass, ony=any, wa'=wall [A] ba's frae whins=balls from furze no nae gowfer=not a single golfer dousser fouk wysing a-jee=gentler folk coaxing to one side byast bouls=biassed bowls (balls yes, but for playing the game of bowls; they swing off the straight precisely because they are biassed) [A] ripe the ribs=poke [M] the bars of the grate [W] beek=warm, baith but and ben=both kitchen and parlor mutchkin stoup=pint pot, hauds=holds, dribs=drops tappit hen=quart pot cauld=cold baith=both, gash=talkative [M], talkative; affable [W], bauld=bold saul=soul ilka=every a rowth=an abundance [M, who prints routh] fasheous=troublesome gang wud=go mad blaw=blow upo'=upon, hailstanes=hailstones "quiet" would have been pronounced quate, so the rhyme works in Scots [A] blatt'ring=rattling, nae mair=no more cour=crouch down neist=next feckless=feeble dinna quat=do not quit, grip=embrace [W] ilka=every auld=old twafald o'er a rung=doubled over a staff [M] blyth=blithe Gae pou the gowan=Go pluck the daisy saft=soft, delyte=delight a' the wyte=all the blame [M] keap ony skaith=catch any harm [M, who prints kepp], encounter any loss [W] Haith=In faith rook=a term of contempt, derived from "a thin, lean animal" [M], rascal [A] Syne frae=Then from, rin=run hersell=herself nay says=denials [M], refusals [W], ha'f=half toolie=fight Frae=From, whop=whip taiken=token bennisons=blessings carles=old men, whisht=hush |
In the penultimate line, [A] points out that "the rhythm is such that 'carles' essentially has two syllables, being pronounced close to carrulls."
See'st thou yon mountain laden with deep snow,
The groves beneath their fleecy burden bow,
The streams congeal'd forget to flow;
Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile
Of fuel upon the hearth;
Broach the best cask, and make old Winter smile
With seasonable mirth.
This be our part -- let heaven dispose the rest;
If Jove command, the winds shall sleep
That now wage war upon the foamy deep,
And gentle gales spring from the balmy west.
E'en let us shift to-morrow as we may,
When to-morrow's past away,
We at least shall have to say,
We have liv'd another day;
Your auburn locks will soon be silver'd o'er,
Old age is at our heels, and youth returns no more.
See! Thaliarchus, how the snow Has silvered o’er yon mountains brow; The forests groan beneath their load, And icy chains have bound the flood. Pile high the logs, the cheerful fire Shall chase the whipping frosty air, Do you too with a generous soul, Bid wine as generous fill the bowl, Be it our task to banish sorrow, The gods are mindful of tomorrow: Since when their voice has lull’d the storm, By which the lofty woods were torn; Not e’en an aspin moves its leaves, The troubled sea no longer heaves. Seize then seize each fleeting joy, Nor let tomorrow’s cares annoy; Look on the present hour as gain, And banish each intruding pain; Nor should you now neglect to prove, Whilst youth invites the joys of love; Nor yet forget the jocund dance, And frequent pose the warlike lance; Be mindful at th’appointed hour, At beauty’s shrine your vows to pow’r; The laugh the hidden maid betrays, And bids you seize, (a lawful prize,) Her glove or bracelet, tho’ she feign, She would the welcome toy, retain.
It is the day when he was born, A bitter day that early sank Behind a purple-frosty bank Of vapour, leaving night forlorn. The time admits not flowers or leaves To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies The blast of North and East, and ice Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves, And bristles all the brakes and thorns To yon hard crescent, as she hangs Above the wood which grides and clangs Its leafless ribs and iron horns Together, in the drifts that pass To darken on the rolling brine That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine, Arrange the board and brim the glass; Bring in great logs and let them lie, To make a solid core of heat; Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat Of all things ev'n as he were by; We keep the day. With festal cheer, With books and music, surely we Will drink to him, whate'er he be, And sing the songs he loved to hear.
Behold Soracte, white with snow, Its laden woods are bending low, Keen frost arrests the river's flow; Melt, Thaliarchus, melt the cold. Heap freely logs upon the fire. Nay, more and better I desire, And from the Sabine jar require Its wine, that reckons four years old. The rest is Heav'n's: which can at will Bid all the battling winds be still Upon the seething main; until Nor veteran ash nor cypress quake. Pry not, the morrow's chance to learn: Set down to gain whatever turn The wheel may take. Youth must not spurn Sweet loves, nor yet the dance forsake, While grudging Age thy prime shall spare. The Plain, the Squares, be now thy care, And lounges, dear at nightfall, where By concert love may whisper 'Hist!' From inner nook a winsome smile Betrays the girl that sculks the while, And keepsakes, deftly filched by guile From yielding finger, or from wrist.
See, how it stands, one pile of snow, Soracte! 'neath the pressure yield Its groaning woods; the torrents' flow With clear sharp ice is all congeal'd. Heap high the logs, and melt the cold, Good Thaliarch; draw the wine we ask, That mellower vintage, four-year-old, From out the cellar'd Sabine cask. The future trust with Jove; when He Has still'd the warring tempests' roar On the vex'd deep, the cypress-tree And aged ash are rock'd no more. O, ask not what the morn will bring, But count as gain each day that chance May give you; sport in life's young spring, Nor scorn sweet love, nor merry dance, While years are green, while sullen eld Is distant. Now the walk, the game, The whisper'd talk at sunset held, Each in its hour, prefer their claim. Sweet too the laugh, whose feign'd alarm The hiding-place of beauty tells, The token, ravish'd from the arm Or finger, that but ill rebels.
One dazzling mass of solid snow Soracte stands; the bent woods fret Beneath their load; and, sharpest-set With frost, the streams have ceased to flow. Pile on great faggots and break up The ice: let influence more benign Enter with four-years-treasured wine, Fetched in the ponderous Sabine cup: Leave to the Gods all else. When they Have once bid rest the winds that war Over the passionate seas, no more Grey ash and cypress rock and sway. Ask not what future suns shall bring, Count to-day gain, whate'er it chance To be: nor, young man, scorn the dance, Nor deem sweet Love an idle thing, Ere Time thy April youth hath changed To sourness. Park and public walk Attract thee now, and whispered talk At twilight meetings pre-arranged; Hear now the pretty laugh that tells In what dim corner lurks thy love; And snatch a bracelet or a glove From wrist or hand that scarce rebels.
Some forty years ago I actually went so far as to publish under strict anonymity an imitation of Horace's Ad Thaliarchum -- itself an imitation -- prefacing it, however, with an appeal for mercy.I cannot locate the rest of Gildersleeve's translation."Forgive, Alcaeus, if I have borrowed rhyme, A Northern sleighbell fastened to Pegasus, To mark thy music by its tinkle, Hater of Myrsilus, bard of Lesbos."As for the rhymed Alcaics one will more than suffice:"The rain it raineth: deep is the snow without. The wind it plaineth: now for a drinking bout. Pile high the fuel, fierce and cruel Rages the rainy and windy duel."About that time some Boanerges of a critic uttered his voice and I abandoned my scheme.
In Echoes from the Sabine Farm (NY: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1920), there are two versions of Horace's Soracte Ode under the title "A Roman Winter-Piece", one (a rather free imitation) by American poet and journalist Eugene Field (1850-1895) and the other (a closer translation) by his brother Roswell Martin Field.
Here is the imitation by Eugene Field:
See, Thaliarch mine, how, white with snow, Soracte mocks the sullen sky; How, groaning loud, the woods are bowed, And chained with frost the rivers lie. Pile, pile the logs upon the hearth; We'll melt away the envious cold: And, better yet, swet friend, we'll wet Our whistles with some four-year-old. Commit all else unto the gods, Who, when it pleaseth them, shall bring To fretful deeps and wooded steeps The mild, persuasive grace of Spring. Let not To-morrow, but To-day, Your ever active thoughts engage; Frisk, dance, and sing, and have your fling, Unharmed, unawed of crabbed Age. Let's steal content from Winter's wrath, And glory in the artful theft, That years from now folks shall allow 'T was cold indeed when we got left. So where the whisperings and the mirth Of girls invite a sportive chap, Let's fare awhile,--aha, you smile; You guess my meaning,--verbum sap.
Here is the translation by Roswell Martin Field:
Now stands Soracte white with snow, now bend the laboring trees, And with the sharpness of the frost the stagnant rivers freeze. Pile the billets on the hearth, to warmer cheer incline, And draw, my Thaliarchus, from the Sabine jar the wine. The rest leave to the gods, who still the fiercely warring wind, And to the morrow's store of good or evil give no mind. Whatever day your fortune grants, that day mark up for gain; And in your youthful bloom do not the sweet amours disdain. Now on the Campus and the squares, when evening shades descend, Soft whisperings again are heard, and loving voices blend; And now the low delightful laugh betrays the lurking maid, While from her slowly yielding arms the forfeiture is paid.
O yonder see how clearly gleams Soracte, white with snow: How the fir-trees stagger beneath their load, Bowing to let it go, And the river, numbed by the piercing cold, At length has ceased to flow. Dissolve the rigor of the frost, Bright let the embers shine, With liberal hand heap on the logs, And, Thaliarchus mine, Bring forth the Sabine amphora Of four-years-mellowed wine. All else abandon to the gods; Whatever time they will They drive the winds from the tossing sea And cause them to be still, Till never a lowland cypress stirs Nor old ash on the hill. Pry not into the morrow's store; Thy profit doth advance By every day that fate allots, So, lad, improve thy chance, -- Ere stiff old age replace thy youth, -- To love and tread the dance. Now in the Campus and the squares At the appointed hour Let gentle whispers oft be heard From many a twilight bower, Or the laugh of a lurking lass betray The theft of a ring or flower.
How deep the snows upon Soracte glisten! The groaning forests yield Beneath their load, and fast in icy prison The streams are pent and sealed. Come, Thaliarchus, heap the logs on thicker, To melt this bitter cold, And draw me freely of yon Sabine liquor; The jar is four years old. Leave all the rest to Jove; the winds that riot With Ocean, at his will Are laid; the ancient ash-trees all are quiet, The cypresses are still. What matter of To-morrow and its chances? Count each To-day among Thy gains, and make the most of loves and dances Now while the heart is young, And crabbed age is far: and get thee roaming By city-square and mead, To catch a gentle whisper in the gloaming At hour and place agreed; A merry laugh that tells the maid who lingers Hid in some corner deep; A token plundered from the wrist or fingers That feign so fast to keep.
It is cold, O Thaliarchus, and Soracte's crest is white; There is skating on the Tiber; there is No Relief in Sight. Tell the janitor the radiator's absolutely cold... Let us crack a quart of Sabine; I've a case of four-year old. Here's to Folly, Thaliarchus! Here is "Banzai!", "Pros't!", and "How!" We should fret about the future! We should corrugate the brow! Any joy is so much velvet; Age impinges soon enough. Why resolve to can the frivol? Why decide to chop the fluff? On the well-known Campus Martius, as the shade of night descends, There are ladies castlewalking with their unplatonic friends; Many a sweetly smiling damsel -- need I fill up further space? Hurry, O my Thaliarchus, let us go to that there place.I used to think that line 6 of Adams' imitation would make more sense if it read as follows:
Should we fret about the future? Should we corrugate the brow?But Russell Maeth (personal communication, 21 June 2003) correctly points out that "We should fret," with the stress on "we," has the sense "Forget about fretting," and likewise "We should corrugate" means "Forget about corrugating." So no correction is needed. Maeth compares "I should worry!" and wonders if this might be a Yiddish turn of phrase. Cf. H.L. Mencken, The American Language (1921), p. 198 (with note 76), who says about "I should worry": "In essence it is as completely Yiddish as kosher, ganof, schadchen, oi-yoi, or mazuma."
Here are two more versions of the same ode by Adams, published under the title "Fair and Colder."
I How snowy white Soracte stands! How still the streams with cold! Pile the logs higher upon the fire! Decant that four-year old! Leave to the gods the other things! The ash and cypress trees Shall fall asleep when on the deep Blows not the battling breeze. Ask not about the morrow morn; Take what the gods may give, Nor scorn the dance and sweet romance -- Life is not long to live. Come seek the Campus and the squares, As fall the shades of night, Where many a maid, all unafraid, Laughs absolute delight.
II Soracte's snowy crest behold! The forecast is "Continued Cold." Come, turn the oil-burner up a notch, And let us crack a quart of Scotch. Fear not tomorrow's tragic tricks! What boots who wins in '36? Neglect not now the useful chance For wine and women, song and dance. And that reminds me: let us fare To see the doings round the Square, Where, if we play our cards aright, We may find ladies out tonight.
You see how the snow stands deep in the Ripton woods, The snow and frozen hail have cracked the trees Half to the ground, the river's hard as land, Inside we stoke generously the fire. Bobby, Bring that new cider and sit with me at the fire. The chill is off. The rest we leave to God Who strews the winds to fight the sea off Maine, While oak and hemlock grimly stand it out. Seek not to dare to ask as tomorrow's gift That extra day fate fails to take away But add it to the Credit columnn. And don't forget Loving and dancing, son, these years are hastening. Soon with spring it's the open fields, the square at eveningtime When whispers gently caress the appointed ear, And from a dark corner of the alley behind the stores A laugh (the betrayer) gladly given, marks A bracelet snatched as pledge from wrist, a ring Slipped from a finger that gladly gives the thing.
How deep the snow is drifting; white and grey Have stolen all the colour from the sky. The blizzard stings the ear and blinds the eye; Schiehallion's mass is spirited away. Sharp ice is forming on Loch Tummel's shore, And in the baffled, wearied wood that lines The lonely road that leads to Rannoch moor, You could persuade me that the pines For warmth have huddled close. Come, close the door, Stir up the fire, and while our wet clothes dry I'll pour us each a tumbler of Bowmore. What does it matter if the frost's severe? We've stout stone walls, fine food and drink, There's paper on the table, pens and ink: We'll be content to pass the winter here. Then when the needle-whin and broom are out Among the heather, green upon the brae, (For spring will come again without a doubt), We'll walk the Strath of Appin to the Tay, And, thrumming softly while we fish for trout, We'll count our time well spent. For don't you think That's what a truly happy life's about?
This poem starts by relocating one of Horace's odes (I ix) to Perthshire; it also borrows attitudes (including a touch of Epicureanism?) from other of the odes (particularly II xi and II xvi). The form of the stanza, however, is along the lines of those found in the odes of Keats and Shelley.
Lucilius was one of Horace's inspirations though they were not contemporaries. The reader therefore has to decide whether the author is talking to a friend or to his muse or to him- or herself.Horace's Soracte has metamorphosed to Schiehallion, a mountain of approximately conical shape which was the site of an 18th century experiment to measure the gravitational constant - hence the use of "mass" - and whose name translates as 'the hill of the Caledonian fairies' - which explains "spirited away".
The word "baffled" can be taken either at its face value or as meaning muffled.
To "thrum" is to hum or drum ones fingers idly.
Loch Tummel, Rannoch moor, [a very bleak spot], the Strath [glen] of Appin and the river Tay are all locatable on a map; so is Bowmore but it is a whisky from the isle of Islay (pronounced Eye-luh).
A brae is a hill (as in Burns' "Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon").