Synopsis (by C.H. Moore):
"Spring is here again; hand in hand the Nymphs and Graces
dance. The seasons change and wane, but come again.
But we, when we are gone, come not back. So give thyself
good cheer while yet thou mayest; thou canst not buy
escape from nether gloom."
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Diffugere niues, redeunt iam gramina campis arboribusque comae; mutat terra uices et decrescentia ripas flumina praetereunt; |
The snows have fled, now grasses return to the fields and leaves to the trees; the dry land undergoes changes and subsiding rivers flow past their banks. |
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5 |
Gratia cum Nymphis geminisque sororibus audet ducere nuda choros. Inmortalia ne speres, monet annus et almum quae rapit hora diem: |
One of the Graces, with the Nymphs and with her two sisters, naked dares to lead the dances. The circling year and the hour which removes kindly day warn you not to hope for everlasting things. |
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10 |
frigora mitescunt Zephyris, uer proterit aestas, interitura simul pomifer autumnus fruges effuderit, et mox bruma recurrit iners. |
Frosts melt with the west winds; after spring summer follows close, itself doomed as soon as fruit-bearing autumn has poured out its plenty; and soon dead winter hastens back. |
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15 |
Damna tamen celeres reparant caelestia lunae: nos ubi decidimus quo pius Aeneas, quo Tullus diues et Ancus, puluis et umbra sumus. |
Yet swift moons repair their heavenly losses: when we have gone down to where righteous Aeneas, rich Tullus, and Ancus are, we are dust and shadow. |
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20 |
Quis scit an adiciant hodiernae crastina summae tempora di superi? Cuncta manus auidas fugient heredis, amico quae dederis animo. |
Who know whether the gods above will add tomorrows's time to today's total? Every gift which you give to your own dear self will escape an heir's greedy hands. |
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Cum semel occideris et de te splendida Minos fecerit arbitria, non, Torquate, genus, non te facundia, non te restituet pietas. |
As soon as you've died and Minos has passed august judgement on you, neither your high birth, Torquatus, nor your eloquence, nor your righteousness will bring you back. |
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25 |
Infernis neque enim tenebris Diana pudicum liberat Hippolytum, nec Lethaea ualet Theseus abrumpere caro uincula Pirithoo. |
For Diana does not free chaste Hippolytus from the shadows, and Theseus is not strong enough to break the chains of Lethe from his dear Pirithous. |
| Apparatus: 15 pius: pater alii codices | ||
Scansion (by Jerise Fogel) and vocabulary (by Jeanne Neumann O'Neill) for this ode are available on the World Wide Web. There's also an excellent recording of a Latin recitation in MP3 format.
1 The scene is similar at Horace, Odes 4.12.3-4: "Now meadows are not frozen and rivers do not rage, swollen with winter snow" (iam nec prata rigent nec fluuii strepunt / hiberna niue turgidi)
5 Horace doesn't say which of the three Graces (Aglaia, Euphrosyne, Thalia) is leading the dances.
For more information on the ancient artistic representation of the Graces, see Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae III (Zurich: Artemis, 1986), part 1, pp. 203-210 (text), and part 2, pp. 157-167 (plates). On later developments, see Jean Seznec, The Survival of the Pagan Gods: The Mythological Tradition and Its Place in Renaissance Humanism and Art, tr. Barbara F. Sessions (NY: Harper, 1961), pp. 207-209.
7 It's foolish to make long-range plans.
10 The parade of the seasons is a popular poetical theme.
The Parade of the Seasons is sometimes combined with the Four Ages of Man, as by Ovid, Metamorphoses 15.199-212 (tr. Frank Justus Miller):
Then again, do you not see the year assuming four aspects, in imitation of our own lifetime? For in early spring it is tender and full of fresh life, just like a little child; at that time the herbage is bright, swelling with life, but as yet without strength and stolidity, and fills the farmer with joyful expectation. Then all things are in bloom and the fertile fields run riot with their bright-coloured flowers; but as yet there is no strength in the green foliage. After spring has passed, the year, grown more sturdy, passes into summer and becomes like a strong young man. For there is no hardier time than this, none more abounding in rich, warm life. Then autumn comes, with its first flush of youth gone, but ripe and mellow, midway in time between youth and age, with sprinkled grey showing on the temples. And then comes aged winter, with faltering step and shivering, its locks all gone or hoary.
Quid? non in species succedere quattuor annumSome entire works of art have been built on this theme, e.g. James Thomson's poem The Seasons and Antonio Vivaldi's musical composition known in English by the same name.
adspicis, aetatis peragentem imitamina nostrae?
nam tener et lactens puerique simillimus aeuo
uere nouo est: tunc herba nitens et roboris expers
turget et insolida est et spe delectat agrestes;
omnia tunc florent, florumque coloribus almus
ludit ager, neque adhuc uirtus in frondibus ulla est.
transit in aestatem post uer robustior annus
fitque ualens iuuenis: neque enim robustior aetas
ulla nec uberior, nec quae magis ardeat, ulla est.
excipit autumnus, posito feruore iuuentae
maturus mitisque inter iuuenemque senemque
temperie medius, sparsus quoque tempora canis.
inde senilis hiems tremulo uenit horrida passu,
aut spoliata suos, aut, quos habet, alba capillos.
13 Each month the moon incurs losses as it wanes (grows smaller), but repairs those losses when it waxes (grows larger). Not so men.
15 Aeneas, Tullus, and Ancus are all figures from early Roman history.
A plain sailor man took a notion to study Latin, and his teacher tried him with Virgil; after many lessons he asked him something about the hero.
Said the sailor: 'What hero?'
Said the teacher: 'What hero, why, Aeneas, the hero.'
Said the sailor: 'Ach, a hero, him a hero? Bigob, I t'ought he was a priest.'
Among the elementary Latin readers at St. Louis University's excellent Latin teaching materials site is De Viris Illustribus (On Famous Men) by Charles Francois Lhomond (1727-1794), which includes short Latin biographies of the Roman kings, including Tullus Hostilius and Ancus Marcius.
If these worthies of early Roman history were subject to death, how much more so are we.
16 "For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return" (Genesis 3.19).
17 Today might be the last day of our lives.
Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears
TO-DAY of past Regrets and future Fears:
To-morrow! Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.
19 Why not indulge ourselves, rather than scrimp and save to please our heirs?
21 Minos and his brother Rhadamanthus were judges of the dead.
23 Horace's Epistle 1.5 (a dinner invitation) is addressed to the same Torquatus, who was a lawyer.
Devotion to the gods (pietas) cannot prevent the death of oneself or others.
25 Hippolytus was devoted to the goddess Artemis (whose Roman equivalent was Diana) and to the ideal of chastity. After his step-mother Phaedra tried unsuccessfully to seduce him, she falsely accused him of rape. His father believed the false accusation, and prayed for his son's destruction. His prayer was answered.
Horace follows the version of the myth in Euripides' play Hippolytus. But in another version of the myth, Artemis/Diana (with the help of Apollo's son, the physician Aesculapius) actually did succeed in restoring Hippolytus to life.
27 Theseus and his companion Pirithous (proverbial friends, like Orestes and Pylades) were chained to a rock in Hades for their impious attempt to carry off Proserpine. Hercules rescued Theseus, but Pirithous was left behind.
We've seen the past best times, and these Will ne'er return; we see the seas, And moons to wane, But they fill up their ebbs again; But vanish'd man, Like to a lily lost, ne'er can, Ne'er can repullulate, or bring His days to see a second spring. But on we must, and thither tend, Where Anchus and rich Tullus blend Their sacred seed: Thus has infernal Jove decreed; We must be made, Ere long a song, ere long a shade. Why then, since life to us is short, Let's make it full up by our sport.
The snows are thaw'd, now grass new cloaths the earth, And trees new hair thrust forth. The season's chang'd, and brooks late swoln with rain, Their proper banks contain. Nymphs with the Graces linkt dare dance around Naked upon the ground. That thou must die, the year and howers say Which draw the winged day. First Spring, then Summer, that away doth chase, and must it self give place To Apple-bearing Autumn, and that past, Dull Winter comes at last. But the decays of time, Time doth repair: When we once plunged are Where good Aeneas, with rich Ancus wades, Ashes we are, and shades. Who knows if Jove unto thy life's past score Will adde one morning more? When thou art dead, and Rhadamanthus just Sentence hath spoke thee dust, Thy blood, nor eloquence can ransome thee, No nor thy piety. For chast Hippolytus in Stygian night Diana cannot light: Nor Theseus break with all his vertuous pains, His dear Perithous chains.
The melted snow the verdure now restores, And leaves adorn the trees; The season shifts -- subsiding to their shores The rivers flow with ease. The Grace, with nymphs and her sisters twain, Tho' naked dares the dance -- That here's no permanence the years explain, And days, as they advance. The air grows mild with zephyrs, as the spring To summer cedes the sway, Which flies when autumn hastes his fruits to bring, Then winter comes in play. The moons their heav'nly damages supply -- Not so the mortal star -- Where good Eneas, Tullus, Ancus lie, Ashes and dust are we. Who knows if heav'n will give to-morrow's boon To this our daily pray'r? The goods you take to keep your soul in tune, Shall scape your greedy heir. When you shall die, tho' Minos must acquit A part so nobly play'd; Race, eloquence, and goodness, from the pit Cannot restore your shade. For nor Diana's heav'nly pow'r or love, Hippolytus revives; Nor Theseus can Perithous remove From his Lethean gives.
The snow dissolv'd no more is seen, The fields, and woods, behold, are green, The changing year renews the plain, The rivers know their banks again, The sprightly Nymph and naked Grace The mazy dance together trace. The changing year's successive plan, Proclaims mortality to Man. Rough Winter's blasts to Spring give way, Spring yields to Summer's sovereign ray, Then Summer sinks in Autumns's reign, And Winter chills the world again. Her losses soon the Moon supplies, But wretched Man, when once he lies Where Priam and his sons are laid, Is nought but Ashes and a Shade. Who knows if Jove who counts our Score Will toss us in a morning more? What with your friend you nobly share At least you rescue from your heir. Not you, Torquatus, boast of Rome, When Minos once has fix'd your doom, Or Eloquence, or splendid birth, Or Virtue shall replace on earth. Hippolytus unjustly slain Diana calls to life in vain, Nor can the might of Theseus rend The chains of hell that hold his friend.
The snow is fled: the trees their leaves put on,
The fields their green:
Earth owns the change, and rivers lessening run,
Their banks between.
Naked the Nymphs and Graces in the meads
The dance essay:
"No 'scaping death" proclaims the year, that speeds
This sweet spring day.
Frosts yield to zephyrs; Summer drives out Spring,
To vanish, when
Rich Autumn sheds his fruits; round wheels the ring,--
Winter again!
Yet the swift moons repair Heaven's detriment:
We, soon as thrust
Where good Aeneas, Tullus, Ancus went,
What are we? dust.
Can Hope assure you one more day to live
From powers above?
You rescue from your heir whate'er you give
The self you love.
When life is o'er, and Minos has rehearsed
The grand last doom,
Not birth, nor eloquence, nor worth, shall burst
Torquatus' tomb.
Not Dian's self can chaste Hippolytus
To life recall,
Nor Theseus free his loved Pirithous
From Lethe's thrall.
All the snows have fled, and grass springs up on the meadows, And there are leaves on the trees; Earth has changed her looks, and turbulent rivers decreasing, Slowly meander along; Now, with the naked nymphs and her own twin sisters, Aglaia Gracefully dances in time. But the Year, and the Hours which hurry along our existence, Solemnly warn us to die. Zephyr removes the frost, and Summer, soon destined to perish, Treads in the footsteps of Spring, After the joyous reign of Autumn, abounding in apples, Shivering Winter returns. Heavenly waste is repaired by the moon in her quick revolutions But when we go to the grave, Beside the pious Aeneas, and rich old Tullus, and Ancus, We are but dust and a shade. Who knows if the gods above have determined whether to-morrow We shall be living or dead. Nothing will come to the greedy hands of your spendthrift successor Which you have given away. When you are gone to the grave, and Minos, sitting in judgement, Utters your terrible doom, Neither your rank nor your talents will bring you to life, O Torquatus, Nor will affection avail; Even the chaste Hippolytus was not released by Diana From the infernal abyss, Nor could Theseus break from his friend the rewards of presumption Which the stern monarch imposed.
The snows are gone, the grass is seen, The woods wear waving robes of green. Tis Spring again; she wakes -- she wakes! The icy fetters all, she breaks; And every brooklet, wanton, free, Goes singing sweetly down the lea. The Graces three, with zones unbound, Trip lightly o'er the teeming ground; Yet grace and greenness flee apace, And change on change besets our race. Frosts melt away what time the Spring Puts balmy breezes on the wing; Hot Summer next, foredoomed to die, Drives away Spring; while hovering nigh Autumn brings fruits and golden grain, Forerunners both of Winter's reign. But as the seasons swiftly wane, New seasons swiftly come again; Whilst we, poor souls, our courses run, Will never see another sun; Alike the wicked and the just -- Die where we may, and when we must, Are only shadows -- only dust! And who can know the days in store, Or when, for us, they'll come no more? Yet this we know -- that what we spend, And what of ours to good works lend More wisely is bestowed than theirs Who hoard, for greediness of heirs. And thou, 0 friend! when death shall call, And the dread Judge, who judgeth all, Declare thy fate -- never again Canst thou return to haunts of men; Nor family, nor pious lore, Nor winged words can help thee more. Tis so with all: nor queen, nor king, Can stay or change what Death may bring. The fabled goddesses of old, As heathen stories quaintly told, Could never to that nether land Stretch forth to friend a guiding hand; And we no more: for Dead is Dead. Our hopes, our cries, the tears we shed Can never call -- alack, alack! From out the grave, our dear ones back!
The snows are fled away, leaves on the shaws And grasses in the mead renew their birth, The river to the river-bed withdraws, And altered is the fashion of the earth. The Nymphs and Graces three put off their fear And unapparelled in the woodland play. The swift hour and the brief prime of the year Say to the soul, Thou wast not born for aye. Thaw follows frost; hard on the heel of spring Treads summer sure to die, for hard on hers Comes autumn with his apples scattering; Then back to wintertide, when nothing stirs. But oh, whate'er the sky-led seasons mar, Moon upon moon rebuilds it with her beams; Come we where Tullus and where Ancus are And good Aeneas, we are dust and dreams. Torquatus, if the gods in heaven shall add The morrow to the day, what tongue has told? Feast then thy heart, for what thy heart has had The fingers of no heir will ever hold. When thou descendest once the shades among, The stern assize and equal judgment o'er, Not thy long lineage nor thy golden tongue, No, nor thy righteousness, shall friend thee more. Night holds Hippolytus the pure of stain, Diana steads him nothing, he must stay; And Theseus leaves Pirithous in the chain The love of comrades cannot take away.
But the greatest revelation of my boyhood, the revelation that awakened me definitely to literature as a fine art, came during the last year of my High School course. For during that year we read under our admirable teacher the Odes of Horace. What first enchanted me was the poet's metrical systems, the nervous, sonorous Alcaic, the restrained pathos of the Sapphic cadences, the surge-like sweep and recoil of the great Archilochian measures. Was ever language wrought into a larger music? There were lines and fragments that I repeated over and over to myself with endless rapture:
"Cras ingens iterabimus aequor,"
and
"... sors exitura et nos in aeternum
exsilium impositura cymbae."
And that other which, years later, I found had also evoked the wonder and delight of Stevenson:
"aut Lacedaemonium Tarentum."
I cared for the poet's matter too: his mellowness, his essential highmindedness, the sad serenity of his acceptance of life, his sober wisdom, the playfulness that is never very far from a characteristic Latin sense of the transitoriness of all things. But what influenced me most deeply was his stylistic finish and I absorbed into my innermost being a hundred just and terse and lovely phrases that I shall remember as long as I remember anything. I looked at my own verses and their flabby fatuousness made my cheeks burn. I swore not to write again until I had learned to write, and set about learning by translating the odes of Horace. I knew but dimly that a host of mature and learned writers had tried their skill upon my poet. I was acquainted with Milton's rendering of the "Quis multa gracilis," which, with all proper reverence, I did not think wonderful. So I hammered away, quite guilelessly at my own versions. One of them — it was of the radiant and yet melancholy "Diffugere nives" (IV, 7. )— seemed to me not so bad. I put the manuscript in my pocket. But every day when I heard the keen voice of our teacher my courage failed me. At the end of weeks filled with trepidation and misery I handed him the folded sheet. We took our seats. He spread out the paper before him on the desk. I heard my heart beat and the blood buzz and hum in my ears. His face grew very red as it did when he was angry and my heart nearly stopped. He looked up and gave me one of his vivid glances. "Did you do that yourself?" I could only nod. But evidently he saw the desperate sincerity in my eyes. He sprang up and smiled, and his smiles were very brilliant. "It needs improvement here and there," he said. "But it's good, it's charming! You will go far -- far!" And he read it to the class.I suppose we grow stolid as we grow older. Doubtless, too, I was more sensitively attuned than most boys of fourteen. But the hours and days that followed this incident were such as to outweigh a good many of the sorrows and hungers of life. I took the story home to my father and mother and they were moved by it. For in their starved and lonely lives they had set all their hopes on me. And these hopes were liberal and fine. From that day on they shared my ambition that I was to be a scholar and a man of letters, even though that meant a renunciation of the world's material prizes and rewards.