Short Poems

Dear Thestylus, Voconius Victor's joy
And pleasant torment, most beloved boy,
I pray that fair without your locks you seem
And that your bard no maid more comely deem.
A little while his learned scrolls lay by
While to your lord I read my poetry.
So great Maecenas, who could Virgil hear,
Let Marsus' dark Melaenis charm his ear.

Your verses are full of a sugary grace,
As spotless and pure as a well-powdered face,
Not an atom of salt or suspicion of gall,
So how can they but on an audience pall!
Even food does not please if the cooking's too simple,
And cheeks lack in charm when they haven't a dimple.
A child may like apples and figs without savour:
But give me the sort that have got a sharp flavour.

Come , Phoebus, come; as when thou didst inspire
The second singer of our Roman quire
To thunderous strains of war. What shall I pray
From heaven that may befit this glorious day?
Only that Polla still her love may show
To his great shade, and he her love may know.

Smile , all ye Muses, on this sacred morn
When Lucan, bard of Phoebus, erst was born;
Since that great day 'tis only just, I deem,
Baetis should mingle with Castalia's stream.

This is the day which, proud of that great birth,
Gave Lucan to thee, Polla, and to earth.
Ah, cruel Nero! murder 'twas most foul.
This crime at least lies heavy on thy soul.

Has Hylas fled the fountain's naiad queen,
Or who is this by Ianthis' waters seen?
Well is it that Alcides shrine is nigh
And that he can these wanton waves espy.
Serve then thy spring, Argynnus, nor have care
Of amorous nymphs: the god himself beware.

You ask me, dear Pudens, to make my corrections
Myself in your copy and cure imperfections.
You're really too kind and too easy to please,
When you want my own hand in such trifles as these.

If for thy people's love thou hast a care,
And wilt a joyful issue grant to prayer,
Then, sire, give back our god: Rome grudges thee
To foreign lands though thou victorious be.
Our foemen have the Lord of Earth in sight,
And in thy face find terror and delight.

Thou who to Sarmate arrows ne'er wilt yield,
More trusty than the War God's Getic shield,
Woven from countless boars with talons bright
And proof against e'en Meleager's might,
Rejoice, good cuirass, in thy happy part
To guard our god and touch his beating heart.
Go thou unharmed and soon, the triumph won,
Restore our chief the palm-leaved gown to don.

ODE LXXIII.

A WHILE I bloomed, a happy flower,
Till love approached one fatal hour,
And made my tender branches feel
The wounds of his avenging steel.
Then lost I fell, like some poor willow
That falls across the wintry billow!