Synopsis (by C.H. Moore): "The breezes of the Spring are here again; the mourning swallow builds her nest; the shepherds pipe their songs once more (1-12). It is the thirsty season, Vergil. If thou wouldst drink a cup of choice wine at my house, bring a box of precious nard with thee. Let go thy cares and give thyself up to our revel (13-28)."
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Iam ueris comites, quae mare temperant, impellunt animae lintea Thraciae; iam nec prata rigent nec fluuii strepunt hiberna niue turgidi. |
Now do spring's companions which calm the sea, breezes from Thrace, drive sails forward; now meadows are not frozen and rivers do not rage, swollen with winter snow. |
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5 |
Nidum ponit Ityn flebiliter gemens infelix auis et Cecropiae domus aeternum opprobrium, quod male barbaras regum est ulta libidines. |
Mournfully lamenting Itys, [the swallow] builds her nest, unhappy bird and everlasting reproach of Cecrops' house, because she cruelly avenged the barbaric lusts of kings. |
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10 |
Dicunt in tenero gramine pingium custodes ouium carmina fistula delectantque deum cui pecus et nigri colles Arcadiae placent. |
On the soft grass the keepers of fat flocks utter songs [to the accompaniment] of the pipe, and they give delight to the god who is pleased by herds and the black hills of Arcadia. |
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15 |
adduxere sitim tempora, Vergili; sed pressum Calibus ducere Liberum si gestis, iuuenum nobilium cliens, nardo uina merebere. |
The season has brought with it thirst, Vergil; but if you desire to quaff wine pressed at Cales, o dependent of well-born youths, you'll earn the wine with perfume. |
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20 |
Nardi paruus onyx eliciet cadum, qui nunc Sulpiciis accubat horreis, spes donare nouas largus amaraque curarum eluere efficax. |
A small alabaster flask of perfume will draw forth the [wine] bottle which now lies in the Sulpician vaults, generous to give new hopes and strong to erase the bitterness of worries. |
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ad quae si properas gaudia, cum tua uelox merce ueni: non ego te meis immunem meditor tinguere poculis, plena diues ut in domo. |
If you hasten to these delights, come quickly with your contribution: I have no intention of soaking you in my cups, like a rich man in a full house, unless you pay your share. |
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25 |
Verum pone moras et studium lucri, nigrorumque memor, dum licet, ignium misce stultitiam consiliis breuem: dulce est desipere in loco. |
But put aside delays and the pursuit of profit, and mindful of the dark [funeral] fires, while it is permitted, mix a bit of nonsense with your schemes: it is sweet on occasion to play the fool. |
1 The ode opens with signs of spring.
2 The west wind is the traditional springtime wind. According to Homer (Iliad 9.5), both Zephyr (the west wind) and Boreas (the north wind) come from Thrace. But some think that the "breezes from Thrace" here mean not the west wind but the north wind, citing Columella 11.2: "The north winds, which are called Ornitheae, usually last for 30 days [starting from February 20]. Then also the swallow comes." (uenti septentrionales, qui uocantur Ornitheae, per dies XXX esse solent. tum et hirundo uenit).
5 Tereus, king of Thrace, seduced his wife's sister Philomela. In revenge, the king's wife Procne killed their son Itys and served him up in a casserole. Philomela and Procne fled from Tereus and were saved by being transformed into birds. In one version of the myth, Philomela became a nightingale, Procne a swallow, but in another version, Philomela was the swallow, Procne the nightingale.
Sophocles wrote a play (now lost) entitled Tereus, which Accius adapted for the Roman stage. The mythographers Hyginus (45), Apollodorus (3.14.8), and Antoninus Liberalis (11) all tell the tale. There are full-scale poetical treatments by Ovid (Metamorphoses 6.424-674) and in modern times by Matthew Arnold (Philomela) and Swinburne (Itylus).
The nightingale is occasionally mentioned as a harbinger of spring (Sappho fragment 39; Pentadius 2.7-8), but the swallow (chelidon in Greek, hirundo in Latin) more often is.
Cornell University's collection of bird songs has a recording of the swallow's song. It doesn't sound very mournful to me.
6 The "house of Cecrops" is the kingdom of Athens. Philomela and Procne were daughters of the third mythical king of Athens, Pandion. Cecrops was the first king.
8 Actually it was only one king (Tereus) whose lusts were avenged.
11-12 Pan is the god who loves herds and Arcadia.
13 It is hotly disputed whether this Vergil is the poet Vergil. The phrases "dependent of well-born youths" (15) and "pursuit of profit" (25) don't fit anything we know about the poet, and the 4th book of Horace's odes was published in 13 B.C., six years after the poet Vergil's death.
14 In Catullus 13, the situation is reversed. Catullus, who is flat broke, invites Fabullus to dine, but asks him to bring everything except the perfume.
15 The "well-born youths" were apparently patrons with whom Vergil sometimes dined.
16 We don't ordinarily think of perfume as a necessary accompaniment to a festive meal, but the ancients evidently thought differently.
18 The "Sulpician vaults" were storehouses at the eastern foot of the Aventine hill in Rome, better known as the "horrea Galbana" (warehouses of Galba). Chapter 25 (pp. 171-174) of Lindsey Davis' historical novel Two for the Lions (New York: Warner Books, 1998) is set in these warehouses.
19 Wine relieves the mind (at least temporarily) from cares:
23 In Greek, a potluck was an "eranos", and the individual contributions were "symbolai". The guest who arrived without a contribution was said to be "asymbolos". The Latin equivalent of "asymbolos" is "immunis". Here is a poem from the Greek Anthology (11.35, tr. W.R. Paton) by Philodemus describing a potluck:
Artemidorus gave us a cabbage, Aristarchus caviare, Athenagoras little onions, Philodemus a small liver, and Apollophanes two pounds of pork, and there were three pounds still left over from yesterday. Go and buy us an egg and garlands and sandals and scent, and I wish them to be here at four o'clock sharp.Survival
South winds, the Spring attending still, Now seas becalm, and sails do fill; Now Frosts make not the Meadows hoar, Nor Winter snow, swoln rivers rore. The luckless bird her nest doth frame, Bewailing Itis, and the shame Of Cecrops house, and that so ill, On Kings rude lust, she wrought her will. The Shepherds of rich Flocks reherse, And to their Pipes chaunt rural verse: Seeking his God-head to appease, Whom Flocks and hills Arcadian please. These times do thirsty seasons send, But if thou, Virgil Caesars friend, Calenian Wines desir'st to try, To me with fragrant unguents hie, And purchase with a little Box, Wine, which Sulpitious safely locks, New hopes most pow'rful to create, And bitter cares to dissipate: To which content if thou agree, Stay not, but quickly come to me: I'le not (free cost) my cups carrouze, As rich men in a plenteous house. Then leave delayes, and gain's desire, And mindful of blck Funeral fire, Short folly mix with Counsels best, 'Tis sweet, sometime to be in jest.
Now Thracian breezes, comrades of the spring,
Temper the ocean and impel the sails;
Frost crisps not now the fields, nor rage the floods,
Swollen with winter snows.
Now build her nest the melancholy bird
Yet moaning Itys; she, the eternal shame
Of Cecrops' house for vengeance too severe
On barbarous lusts of kings.
Swains of sleek flocks on the young grass reclined,
Chant pastoral songs attuned to piping reeds,
Charming the god who loves the darksome slopes
And folds of Arcady.
These, O my Virgil, are the days of thirst;
But if, O client of illustrious youths,
Calenian juices tempt, bring thou the nard,
And with it earn my wine;
One tiny box of spikenard will draw forth
The cask now ripening in Sulpician vaults,--
Cask large enough to hold a world of hope,
And drown a world of care.
Quick! if such merriments delight thee, come
With thine own contributions to the feast;
Not like rich host in prodigal halls -- my cups
Thou shalt not tinge scot-free.
But put aside delays and care of gain,
Warned, while yet time, by the dark death-fires; mix
With thought brief thoughtlessness; in fitting place
'Tis sweet to be unwise.
Now Thracian airs, companions of the Spring, Temper the seas, and with Etesian wing Fan the expanded sail. Released from snow The earth awakes: late-raging rivers flow With noiseless course. Once more the voice is heard, As she builds her nest, of that poor bird Who grieves for Itys,--her, the dire disgrace (Though foul the sin avanged) of Cecrops' race. The shepherd stretched on tender herbage trills Strains like his native mountains wild and free, Charming the god who haunts those pine-dark hills, And loves the peaceful flocks of Arcady. Thirst comes with Summer: Virgil, haste, Comrade of noble youths, and taste Choice wine of Cales: my reward One little shell of Syrian nard. The mellow cask long-stored within The depths of the Sulpician bin Shall then be thine, that nectar rare Which brightens hope and drowns dull care. Come taste my wine, but ere thou try it, Remember, friend, that thou must buy it: I cannot, like the rich man, give Largess to all, and nought receive. Hence, sordid cares! Hence, idle sorrow! Death comes apace: to-day--to-morrow-- Then mingle mirth with melancholy,-- Wisdom at times is found in folly.
See, Spring's companions, Thracian gales, Now warm the billows, fill the sails: The soil is soft; the rivers flow Unburdened by the winter snow. The swallow builds; and puts to shame Still sorrowing, the Cecropian name; She, that for Itys sadly sings, She scourged the barbarous lusts of kings. Beside his full-fed sheep, the swain In tender grass, indites the strain, And charms the god, that loves to see The dusky hills of Arcady. Client of nobles, Virgil mine! Say, if thou lov'st Calenian wine This thirsty season? Then, with nard Come buy it as a fit reward. A tiny box of nard will buy From the Sulpician granary A cask, the liberal nurse of hope, And meet with bitter care to cope. How like you this? Be quick, and bring Thy bargained share of offering; Would I could give thee drink for nought, As wealth in lordly dwellings ought. Quick! ere the lurid death-fire's day, Drive thou the lust of gain away! Thy wisdom with unwisdom grace: 'T is well to rave, in time and place.
The gales of Thrace, that hush the unquiet sea,
Spring's comrades, on the bellying canvas blow:
Clogg'd earth and brawling streams alike are free
From winter's weight of snow.
Wailing her Itys in that sad, sad strain,
Builds the poor bird, reproach to after time
Of Cecrops' house, for bloody vengeance ta'en
On foul barbaric crime.
The keepers of fat lambkins chant their loves
To silvan reeds, all in the grassy lea,
And pleasure Him who tends the flocks and groves
Of dark-leaved Arcady.
It is a thirsty season, Virgil mine:
But would you taste the grape's Calenian juice,
Client of noble youths, to earn your wine
Some nard you must produce.
A tiny box of nard shall bring to light
The cask that in Sulpician cellar lies:
O, it can give new hopes, so fresh and bright,
And gladden gloomy eyes.
You take the bait? then come without delay
And bring your ware: be sure, 'tis not my plan
To let you drain my liquor and not pay,
As might some wealthy man.
Come, quit those covetous thoughts, those knitted brows,
Think on the last black embers, while you may,
And be for once unwise. When time allows,
'Tis sweet the fool to play.
Now blow the Thracian breezes, Spring's companions, That soothe the seas and waft the vessels onward; No longer meads are frost-bound, nor the rivers Roar with the swelling from wintry snow-drifts. Now nests the luckless bird, lamenting sorely Her Itys -- she, of the old house of Cecrops Eternal shame! for there she wrought foul vengeance, Barbarous lust of the kings requiting. Now in the tender grass the flocks are feeding, Their guardian shephers piping songs of springtime To joy the god to whom the flocks are pleasing, Lover of dusky Arcadian ridges. The thirsty hours have come apace, my Vergil; If thou wouldst quaff the juice trod out at Cales, Then buy the wine, O client of young nobles! Paying rich price of Orient perfume. An onyx vase of nard will lure a wine-jar Now slumbering in the storehouse of Sulpitius, Endued with power to build thy hopes more largely, Driving away all thy bitter sorrows. If joys like these thou art in haste to welcome, Come swiftly with thy merchandise, I plan not That thou shouldst bring no share, yet drain my goblets, Deeming me rich and housed in fulness. So cast aside delay and zeal for riches, Remembering how death's gloomy fires await us. And while thou mayst, mix folly with thy wisdom. Sweet is it sometimes to play the witling.