Synopsis (by Paul Shorey): "Temper thy joy and sorrow, Dellius, with the thought of death. Gather the roses of life while you may. For Dives and Lazarus alike is drawn the inevitable lot that dooms us to Charon's bark and everlasting exile from the warm precincts of the cheerful day."
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Aequam memento rebus in arduis seruare mentem, non secus in bonis ab insolenti temperatam laetitia, moriture Delli, |
Remember, Dellius, since you must die, to keep a steady mind in difficult circumstances, and likewise in good circumstances a mind free from giddy joy, |
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5 |
seu maestus omni tempore uixeris, seu te in remoto gramine per dies festos reclinatum bearis interiore nota Falerni. |
whether you'll live always in sorrow, or whether on holidays you'll stretch out on a retired, grassy spot and regale yourself with a choice vintage of Falernian. |
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10 |
Quo pinus ingens albaque populus umbram hospitalem consociare amant ramis? Quid obliquo laborat lympha fugax trepidare riuo? |
To what end do the tall pine and the white poplar delight with their branches to join their hospitable shade? Why does the fleeting water fret its quivering way along the winding stream? |
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Huc uina et unguenta et nimium breuis flores amoenae ferre iube rosae, dum res et aetas et sororum fila trium patiuntur atra. |
To this place bid [the servants] bring wine and perfume and the too short-lived flowers of the pleasant rose, while fortune and time and the black threads of the Three Sisters give their permission. |
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Cedes coemptis saltibus et domo uillaque flauus quam Tiberis lauit, cedes et exstructis in altum diuitiis potietur heres. |
You'll leave behind your expensive pastures and your city house and your country villa which the Tiber flows by, you'll leave them behind, and your heir will possess your riches piled up high. |
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Diuesne prisco natus ab Inacho nil interest an pauper et infima de gente sub diuo moreris, uictima nil miserantis Orci. |
It makes no difference whether you're wealthy, born a descendant of ancient Inachus, or whether you live out in the open, a poor man and of a humble family -- [you're still] the prey of pitiless Orcus. |
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Omnes eodem cogimur, omnium uersata urna serius ocius sors exitura et nos in aeternum exsilium impositura cumbae. |
We're all driven to the same end, sooner or later our ticket will come out of the upturned jar, destined to put us in [Charon's] boat for a never-ending exile. |
1 Possession of a steady mind, neither depressed by adversity nor elated by prosperity, was the Epicurean ideal of ataraxia (imperturbability).
4 Dellius was Quintus Dellius.
8 In the wine cellar, the inner brand (interiore nota) belongs to the bottle stored farthest back, i.e. the oldest.
Falernian wine comes from the Falernian district (ager Falernus) in Campania. Campania is the section of Italy which contains the cities of Naples, Pompeii, and Capua. The natural boundaries of the ager Falernus are Mount Massicus, the Volturnus River, the Apennine mountains, and the Tyrrenhian Sea. There is a useful map of ancient Italian wine varieties and their locations here (scroll down).
Falernian was a fine, expensive wine. Pliny the Elder says (Natural History 14.62), "Nowadays no other wine has a better reputation" (nec ulli nunc uino maior auctoritas), and an inscription from a tavern in Pompeii (Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum 4.1679, tr. E. Courtney in his Musa Lapidaria, no. 72) testifies to its price as compared with other wines: "(H)edone says: a drink here costs one as; if you pay two asses, you will drink better quality; if you give four, you will drink Falernian." (Edone dicit / assibus hic bibitur, dupundium si dederis, meliora bibes, / quattus si dederis, uina Falerna bib(es)).
Horace mentions Falernian wine more than any other variety, over a dozen times. It also seems to have been a favorite of Dellius (see above on line 4).
There is much excellent information on the ancient wines of Italy at Stuart Fleming's web site Roman Wine.9 Here are photographs of and information on the white poplar.
The answer to the questions "To what end" and "Why" do these pleasant surroundings exist, is obviously "For our enjoyment." Few pleasures can compare with drinking wine beneath a shade tree on soft grass beside a babbling brook. W.Y. Sellar, The Roman Poets of the Augustan Age: Horace and the Elegaic Poets (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1899), p. 126, says that "In the older Greek poets wine and song were glorified as the restorers of life and spirit in trouble and danger," whereas "In the Latin poets wine is glorified rather as a bond of companionship, and as affording relief from the monotony of existence; and the enjoyment of it is more often associated with bright weather and the grace and freshness of trees and running water than with rain and tempest."
13 In Ode 1.38, Horace rejects perfumes and roses as too extravagant, but he welcomes them here. A poet is under no obligation to be consistent.
15 The Three Sisters are the Fates (Moirai in Greek, Parcae in Latin): Clotho (Spinner) spins the thread of life, Lachesis (Apportioner) measures it, and Atropos (Inflexible) severs it.
CH. Who then is the steersman of Necessity?
PR. The triform Fates and mindful Furies.
CH. Can it be that Zeus has lesser power than they?
PR. Aye, in that at least he cannot escape what is foredoomed.
17 You can't take your possessions with you when you die.
20 Why accumulate possessions which only your heir will enjoy?
21 By tradition, Inachus was the first king of Argos. Inachus was proverbially a figure of hoary antiquity (e.g. Horace, Odes 3.19.1).
With the thought expressed in this stanza, compare these lines from Thomas Gray's "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard":
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
High birth is of no avail against the onslaught of death, as Horace says elsewhere: (Odes 4.7.21-24): "Once you're dead, Torquatus, and Minos has passed august judgement on you, neither your high birth nor your eloquence nor your devotion will restore you [to life]" (cum semel occideris et de te splendida Minos / fecerit arbitria, / non, Torquate, genus, non te facundia, non te / restituet pietas).
Death does not distinguish between rich and poor.
24 Orcus is the Latin equivalent of the Greek Pluto, god of the underworld. For the description "pitiless" (nil miserantis), cf. Homer, Iliad 9.158: "Hades is unyielding and not to be prevailed over". H. Wagenvoort, in a learned paper on Orcus in his Studies in Roman Literature, Culture and Religion (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1956), pp. 102-131, argues that Orcus was primarily a place (the underworld, envisioned as a huge jug located beneath the soil, with a narrow opening to the world above), and only secondarily a god.
25 Montaigne, Essays 1.20 ("That to philosophize is to learn to die"), quotes the final stanza of Horace's ode.
26 Cf. Horace, Odes 3.1.14-16: "With impartiality Necessity decides by lot the fate of the famous and the lowly; the huge urn shakes everyone's name" (aequa lege Necessitas / sortitur insignis et imos; / omne capax mouet urna nomen).
28 The skiff (cumba) belongs to Charon, the Ferryman of the underworld, who carried the souls of the dead across the River Acheron into Hades. In ancient art, Charon is usually shown bearded and wearing a brimless hat, standing in his skiff with a punt-pole in the water. Corpses were buried with a coin in their mouths so that they would be able to pay Charon for their passage.
Here are Internet images of Charon on white-ground Greek lekythoi (funerary oil-flasks):
Keep still an equal minde, not sunk With stormes of adverse chance, not drunk With sweet Prosperitie, O Dellius that must die, Whether thou live still melancholy, Or stretcht in a retired valley; Make all thy howers merry With bowls of choicest Sherrie. Where the white Poplar and tall Pine, Their hospitable shadow joyn, And a soft purling brook, With wrigling stream doth crook; Bid hither Wines and Oyntments bring, And the too short sweets of the Spring, Whilst wealth and youth combine, And the Fates give thee Line. Thou must forgoe thy purchas'd seats, Ev'n that which golden Tyber wets, Thou must; and a glad Heir Shall revel with thy care. If thou be rich, born of the Race Of ancient Inachus, or base Liest in the street; all's one, Impartial death spares none. All go one way: shak'd is the pot, And first or last comes forth thy lot, The Pass, by which thou'rt sent T' Eternal banishment.
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.
In trouble keep your courage high And calm, but yet in happier fate Be not with rapture too elate -- For one day, Dellius, you must die. Whether through dreary days you pine, Or on the far sequestered grass Luxurious holidays you pass Quaffing your old Falernian wine: I know the spot -- by poplar pale And lofty pines a friendly shade With intertwining brances made; And hard by struggles through the vale The winding water: -- there we'll set Wines and rich perfumes; boys shall bring Roses, too briefly blossoming; While youth and Fortune smile, while yet Their dark threads spin the sisters three. Ah me! your parks, your pleasant home Washed by the Tiber's tawny foam You'll leave; and all your wealth shall be But for your heir. If rich and one Of Inachus' old line and name, Or poor and basest born, the same Your doom to Orcus pitying none. To the grim ferry all must go; Our lots are cast into one urn, And soon or late comes out our turn For endless banishment below.
An equal mind, when storms o'ercloud,
Maintain, nor 'neath a brighter sky
Let pleasure make your heart too proud,
O Dellius, Dellius! sure to die,
Whether in gloom you spend each year,
Or through long holydays at ease
In grassy nook your spirit cheer
With old Falernian vintages,
Where poplar pale, and pine-tree high
Their hospitable shadows spread
Entwined, and panting waters try
To hurry down their zigzag bed.
Bring wine and scents, and roses' bloom,
Too brief, alas! to that sweet place,
While life, and fortune, and the loom
Of the Three Sisters yield you grace.
Soon must you leave the woods you buy,
Your villa, wash'd by Tiber's flow,
Leave, -- and your treasures, heap'd so high,
Your reckless heir will level low.
Whether from Argos' founder born
In wealth you lived beneath the sun,
Or nursed in beggary and scorn,
You fall to Death, who pities none.
One way all travel; the dark urn
Shakes each man's lot, that soon or late
Will force him, hopeless of return,
On board the exile-ship of Fate.
An even mind in days of care, And in thy days of joy to bear A chastened mood, remember: why? 'T is, Dellius, that thou hast to die. Alike, if all thy life be sad, Or festal season find thee glad, On the lone turf at ease recline, and quaff thy best Falernian wine. Why do tall pine and poplar white To weave their friendly shade delight? This flitting stream, why hath it sped So headlong down its wandering bed? Bring wine, bring perfumes, bring fresh flowers Of roses, all too brief their hours! While purse, and age, and Sisters Three Permit, though dark their threads may be. This home, these glades, no longer thine, Which auburn Tiber laps, resign; Resign the towering heaps of gold, Which one thine heir, not thou, shall hold. Be hoary Inachus thy sire, Or be thou risen from the mire; Be rich, or poor, it boots thee not: Unpitying Orcus casts his lot. All, all, we drive to doom. The urn Discharges every Life in turn: For every Life, or soon or late, The boat, and endless exile, wait.
Here is a translation of Horace's ode 2.3 by Eugene Field, published in his Echoes from the Sabine Farm (NY: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1920).
Be tranquil, Dellius, I pray; For though you pine your life away With dull complaining breath, Or speed with song and wine each day, Still, still your doom is death. Where the white poplar and the pine In glorious arching shade combine, And the brook singing goes, Bid them bring stores of nard and wine And garlands of the rose. Let's live while chance and youth obtain; Soon shall you quit this fair domain Kissed by the Tiber's gold, And all your earthly pride and gain Some heedless heir shall hold. One ghostly boat shall some time bear From scenes of mirthfulness or care Each fated human soul, -- Shall waft and leave its burden where The waves of Lethe roll. So come, I prithee, Dellius mine; Let's sing our songs and drink our wine In that sequestered nook Where the white poplar and the pine Stand listening to the brook.
This shifting bubble sages call thy soul Wilt thou not keep it, Friend, in firm control? Nor Joy nor Grief o'er-throws his level mind Who learns the Wisdom hidden in the Bowl. Whether thou pass thy gloomy days in pain, Or fling the Balm-of-life abroad like rain, Alike the bitter or the sparkling Cup Thou quaff'st -- to sleep and wake no more again. I sometimes think that never flows the Wine So red, as 'neath the Poplar and the Pine. Wer't not a shame? O Friend, wer't not a shame, If they in vain their pleasing shade combine? And to what end, think'st thou, this rivulet Doth in its winding Channel fume and fret? O pluck To-day! and make no vain pursuit Of This and That, which thou may'st never get. The Wine, the Perfume, and the lovely Rose That buds at dawn and with the evening goes, -- That man whom Wealth permits, and Youth and Fate, He knows about them all -- He knows -- He knows! The aureate earth thou sett'st thy Heart upon, The River-gardens thy heaped treasure won, -- All must thou leave; nor cares the heir one jot For all thy toil and thee, once thou art gone. Though Kaikobad the Great thy sires begot, Or thou art beggar's spawn, -- it matters not. The Potter molded from the same red clay And at his pleasure shatters every pot. All to the one dark realm are we addresst; On every brow one fatal sign is prest; When nods the dark Ferrash, the caravan Moves to the dusty desert, -- and we rest.
Be tranquil when the times are bad, And when thy days are prosperous Be not inordinately glad, For thou must die, my Dellius, Alike if all thy years have gone In sorrow, or thy feasts are spent At ease upon some quiet lawn With wine of the more excellent. Else wherefore do the pine-tree slim And poplar white enlace their sprays In kindly shade? why frets the stream To wimple down its winding ways? Bid bring the wines and scents and bloom Of roses sweet that fade apace, While you dark Sisters of the loom And time and fortune show us grace. Thy purchased parks, thy palace tall, Thy house by tawny Tiber's wave -- Thou must forgo, forgo them all: Those golden heaps thy heir shall have. Be thou of Inachus' high name, Or meanest wretch that bides beneath The naked sky, 'tis all the same: Thou art the prey of ruthless Death. We all are sped to one same mark, And late or soon from one same urn Out leaps the lot, and we embark For exile whence is no return.
When life is hard, your soul possess In calm serene; when times are fair, Refrain from triumph's haughty air, For, Dellius, death will come no less If length of days be wholly spanned With grief, or if as glad hours laugh You lie in quiet meads and quaff Falernum's wine of choicest brand; Where lofty pines and poplars white Their boughs in friendly shade entwine Together, and with winding line The brooklet babbles in its flight. Here call for wine and nard and bloom Of roses fading all too fast, While youth remains and fortunes last And Fate still spares the thread of doom. The lawns you buy you must forsake, That home by tawny Tiber's wave; The growing stores for which you slave In heirship will another take. What boots your wealth or long descent From Inachus? As well to lie A lowly beggar 'neath the sky For any ruth in Death's intent. One bourn constrains us all; for all The lots are shaken in the urn, Whence, soon or late, will fall our turn Of exile's barge without recall.