Abstract

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content: Three Odes HORACE (Translated by Charles Martin) To Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa No fears, Agrippa: your exploits will be Saluted by a bard who will eclipse Homer in singing your command of ships, Your winning use of cavalry. It won’t be us. Gifts far surpassing mine Are to be found in Varius, who sings Achilles’ spleen, Ulysses’ wanderings At sea, or Pelops’ nasty line. Of loftiness, we have a deficit, And so our Muse forbids us to pursue Praising your glory and our Caesar’s too, Lest, overwrought, we lessen it. Varius is fit to sing of Mars arrayed In armor, of Meriones in dust, Or of those gods that Diomedes thrust His lance through, with Athena’s aid. Ours, the wine bar and the local fray, The bachelorettes whose nails leave livid traces We later notice on their boyfriends’ faces And lightly sing of, in our way. (Odes i.6) arion 28.3 winter 2021 74 threee odes To Leuconoe Stop seeking what the gods prohibit us from apprehending, Leuconoe—the date on which it all comes to an ending. Better to toss the Dream Book and accept whatever comes, Whether Jove sends more winters, or the last we’ll know now drums The Tuscan Sea into submission on opposing cliffs. Be wise—decant this evening’s wine, curtail your hopeful ifs: Live in the moment: as we speak, now is becoming then; And insofar as possible, ignore tomorrow’s, “When….” (Odes i.11) To Iccius Iccius, are you hot for Arabian Loot now, devising tactics to subjugate The previously undefeated Kings of Sabaea? Forging new fetters For the ferocious Medes while previsioning Your oriental sex-slave, unguarded by The boyfriend whom you’ve slain in battle? What perfumed page from some royal palace, Whose father taught him Sinoform archery, Will be your Ganymede? Oh, deny falling Rivers the right to scale steep mountains, Tell us the Tiber can’t flow back upstream, When you—who were once so very promising, Rush to exchange your Works of Panaetius AND those Platonic scrolls you scoured bookstalls in search of—for Spanish armor! (Odes i.29)...