| ODES - I.22 | THE MAN, MY FRIEND, WHOSE CONSCIOUS HEART ... |
| Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus) | trans. Samuel Johnson |
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Integer uitae scelerisque purus non eget Mauris laculis neque arcu nec uenenatis grauida sagittis, Fusce, pharetra, siue per Syrtis iter aestuosas siue facturus per inhospitalem Caucasum uel quae loca fabulosus lambit Hydaspes. Namque me silua lupus in Sabina, dum meam canto Lalagem et ultra terminum curis uagor expeditis, fugit inermem, quale portentum neque militaris Daunias latis alit aesculetis nec Iubae tellus generat, leonum arida nutrix. Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis arbor aestiua recreatur aura, quod latus mundi nebulae malusque Iuppiter urget; pone sub curru nimium propinqui solis in terra domibus negata: dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo, dulce loquentem. |
The man, my friend, whose conscious heart With virtue's sacred ardour glows, Nor taints with death th' envenomed dart, Nor needs the guard of Moorish bows. O'er icy Caucasus he treads, Or torrid Afric's faithless sands Or where the famed Hydaspes spreads His liquid wealth through barbarous lands. For while in Sabine forests charmed By Lalage, too far I strayed, Me - singing careless and unarmed - A furious wolf approached - and fled. No beast more dreadful ever stained Apulia's spacious wilds with gore, No beast more fierce Numidia's land (The lion's thirsty parent) bore. Place me where no soft summer gale Among the quivering branches sighs, Where clouds condensed for ever veil With horrid gloom the frowning skies. Place me beneath the burning zone, A clime denied to human race, My flame for Lalage I'll own; Her voice, her smiles, my song shall grace. |
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