The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace. Гораций

           Enough of snow and hail at last

             The Sire has sent in vengeance down:

           His bolts, at His own temple cast,

               Appall'd the town,

           Appall'd the lands, lest Pyrrha's time

             Return, with all its monstrous sights,

           When Proteus led his flocks to climb

                     The flatten'd heights,

           When fish were in the elm-tops caught,

             Where once the stock-dove wont to bide,

           And does were floating, all distraught,

                     Adown the tide.

           Old Tiber, hurl'd in tumult back

             From mingling with the Etruscan main,

           Has threaten'd Numa's court with wrack

                     And Vesta's fane.

           Roused by his Ilia's plaintive woes,

             He vows revenge for guiltless blood,

           And, spite of Jove, his banks o'erflows,

                     Uxorious flood.

           Yes, Fame shall tell of civic steel

             That better Persian lives had spilt,

           To youths, whose minish'd numbers feel

                     Their parents' guilt.

           What god shall Rome invoke to stay

             Her fall? Can suppliance overbear

           The ear of Vesta, turn'd away

                     From chant and prayer?

           Who comes, commission'd to atone

             For crime like ours? at length appear,

           A cloud round thy bright shoulders thrown,

                     Apollo seer!

           Or Venus, laughter-loving dame,

             Round whom gay Loves and Pleasures fly;

           Or thou, if slighted sons may claim

                     A parent's eye,

           O weary—with thy long, long game,

             Who lov'st fierce shouts and helmets bright,

           And Moorish warrior's glance of flame

                     Or e'er he smite!

           Or Maia's son, if now awhile

             In youthful guise we see thee here,

           Caesar's avenger—such the style

                     Thou deign'st to bear;

           Late be thy journey home, and long

             Thy sojourn with Rome's family;

           Nor let thy wrath at our great wrong

                     Lend wings to fly.

           Here take our homage, Chief and Sire;

             Here wreathe with bay thy conquering brow,

           And bid the prancing Mede retire,

                     Our Caesar thou!

              Thus may Cyprus' heavenly queen,

           Thus Helen's brethren, stars of brightest sheen,

             Guide thee! May the Sire of wind

           Each truant gale, save only Zephyr, bind!

             So do thou, fair ship, that ow'st

           Virgil, thy precious freight, to Attic coast,

             Safe restore thy loan and whole,

           And save from death the partner of my soul!

             Oak and brass of triple fold

           Encompass'd sure that heart, which first made bold

             To the raging sea to trust

           A fragile bark, nor fear'd the Afric gust

             With its Northern mates at strife,

           Nor Hyads' frown, nor South-wind fury-rife,

             Mightiest power that Hadria knows,

           Wills he the waves to madden or compose.

             What had Death in store to awe

           Those eyes, that huge sea-beasts unmelting saw,