| ODES - II.3 | WHEN DANGERS PRESS ... |
| Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus) | trans. John Herman Merivale |
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Aequam memento rebus in arduis seruare mentem, non secus in bonis ab insolentia temperatam laetitia, moriture Delli, seu maestus omni tempore uixeris, seu te in remoto gramine per dies festos reclinatum bearis interiore nota Falerni. Quo pinus ingens albaque populus umbram hospitalem consociare amant ramis? Quid obliquo laborat lympha fugax trepidare riuo? Huc uina et unguenta et nimium breuis flores amoenae ferre iube rosae, dum res et aetas et sororum fila trium patiuntur atra. Cedes coemptis saltibus et domo uillaque flauus quam Tiberis lauit, cedes et exstructis in altum diuitiis potietur heres. Diuesne prisco natus ab Inacho nil interest an pauper et infima de gente sub diuo moreris, uictima nil miserantis Orci. Omnes eodem cogimur, omnium uersata urna serius ocius sors exitura et nos in aeternum exsilium impositura cumbae. |
When dangers press, a mind sustain Unshaken by the storms of Fate; And when delight succeeds to pain, With no glad insolence elate; For death will end the various toys Of hopes, and fears, and cares, and joys. Mortal alike, if sadly grave You pass life's melancholy day, Or, in some green retirèd cave Wearing the idle hours away, Give to the Muses all your soul, And pledge them in the flowing bowl; Where the broad pine, and poplar white, To join their hospitable shade With intertwisted boughs delight; And, o'er its pebbly bed conveyed, Labours the winding stream to run, Trembling, and glittering to the sun. Thy generous wine, and rich perfume, And fragrant roses hither bring, That with the early zephyrs bloom, And wither with declining spring, While joy and youth not yet have fled, And Fate still holds the uncertain thread. You soon must leave your verdant bowers And groves, yourself had taught to grow; Your soft retreats from sultry hours, Where Tiber's gentle waters flow, Soon leave; and all you can call your own Be squandered by an heir unknown. Whether of wealth and lineage proud, A high patrician name you bear, Or pass ignoble in the crowd Unsheltered from the midnight air, 'Tis all alike; no age or state Is spared by unrelenting Fate. To the same port our barks are bound; One final doom is fixed for all: The universal wheel goes round, And, soon or late, each lot must fall, When all together shall be sent To one eternal banishment. |
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