[Geoff Brock]

Horace, Ode 1.31

What does the poet pray for......to new-enshrined Apollo?
Just what might he wish for,......letting new wine
spill from the saucer?......Not rich Sardinia's
fruit-bearing fields,......not feverish Calabria's
eye-pleasing plow-cattle,......not a whole pile
of goods from the Ganges......of ivory and gold,
not lands slowly swallowed......by the silent Liris
with its stream of soft-flowing,......nearly still waters.
Let them who good fortune......grants use of the grapevine
keep it well-clipped......with the Calenian sickle.
Let the rich merchant guzzle......from golden goblets
the wines that he won......with his Syrian wares.
The gods love that man:......they must, since he manages
to look on the leagues......of the distant Atlantic
and comes back to tell the tale......three times a year.
But as for myself,......if I have mild mallows,
small olives and succory,......that's plenty for supper.
Just keep me healthy, ......happy with what I have,
and, Latona's son, let......my head remain level.
And don't let my dotage......be something disgraceful,
nor let those last years lack......the sound of the lyre.


[original]

Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinem
vates? quid orat de patera novum
fundens liquorem? non opimae
Sardiniae segetes feracis,

non aestuosae grata Calabriae
armenta, non aurum aut ebur Indicum,
non rura, quae Liris quieta
mordet aqua taciturnus amnis.

premant Calenam falce quibus dedit
fortuna vitem, dives ut aureis
mercator exsiccet culillis
vina Syra reparata merce,

dis carus ipsis, quippe ter et quater
anno revisens aequor Atlanticum
inpune. me pascunt olivae,
me cichorea levesque malvae.

frui paratis et valido mihi,
Latoe, dones et precor integra
cum mente nec turpem senectam
degere nec cithara carentem.


[trot]

What will the poet ask of enshrined Apollo? What does he pray for, pouring out fresh liquid from the libation-bowl? Not for rich fields in fertile Sardinia, not for pleasing herds from hot Calabria, not for Indian gold or ivory, not for lands that the silent river Liris is biting away with its calm waters. Let those to whom fortune has given the vine prune it with a Calenian scythe, let the rich merchant drain the Syrian wines he traded his goods for from gold cups; he is the beloved gods themselves, of course, as three or four times a year he revisits the Atlantic sea without punishment. But olives give me my food, as do chicory and light mallows. Let me enjoy what I have and grant me, Latous, strength and an undiminished mind. I beg that I not pass my old age in an unsightly way, or without the lyre.