The Villa

(Alban Hills)

OUR

UR villa, perhaps, you have never seen;
It lies on the slope of the Alban hill;
Lifting its white face, sunny and still,
Out of the olives' pale gray green,
That, far away as the eye can go,
Stretch up behind it, row upon row.
There, in the garden, the cypresses, stirred
By the sifting winds, half musing talk,
And the cool, fresh, constant voice is heard
Of the fountains spilling in every walk.
There stately the oleanders grow,
And one long gray wall is aglow
With golden oranges burning between
Their dark stiff leaves of sombre green,

And there are hedges all clipped and square,

As carven from blocks of malachite,

Where fountains keep spinning their threads of

light,

And statues whiten the shadow there.

And, if the sun too friendly shine,

And one would creep from its noonday glare,

There are galleries dark, where ilexes twine
Their branchy roofs above the head.
Or when at twilight the heats decline,
If one but crosses the terraces,
And lean o'er the marble balustrade,
Between the vases whose aloes high

Show their sharp pike-heads against the sky,
What a sight - Madonna mia he sees!
There stretches our great campagna beneath,
And seems to breathe a rosy breath

Of light and mist, as in peace it sleeps,
And summery thunder-clouds of rain,

With their slanting spears, run over the plain,
And rush at the ruins, or, routed, fly

From Epistola XVI

(Sabine Hills)

NE

Ad Quinctium

E perconteris, fundus meus,
optime Quincti,

Arvo pascat herum an baccis

opulentet olivae,

Pomisne et pratis, an amicta
vitibus ulmo,

Scribetur tibi forma loquaciter
et situs agri.

Continui montes, ni dissocientur

opaca

Valle, sed ut veniens dextrum latus

adspiciat Sol,

Laevum discedens curru fugiente

vaporet.

Temperiem laudes. Quid, si rubicunda

benigni

To the mountains that lift their barriers high,
And stand with their purple pits of shades
Split by the sharp-edged limestone blades,
With opaline lights and tender grades
Of color, that flicker and swoon and die,
Built up like a wall against the sky.

William Wetmore Story.

From Epistle XVI. Horace's Farm

(Sabine Hills)

L

EST you may question me whether my farm, most excellent Quinctius,

Feeds its master with grain, or makes him rich with its olives,

Or with its orchards and pastures, or vines that cover the elm trees,

I, in colloquial fashion, will tell you its shape and position.

Only my shadowy valley indents the continuous mountains,

Lying so that the sun at his coming looks on the right side,

Then with retreating chariot, warming the left as he leaves it.

Surely the temperature you would praise; and what if the bushes

Corna vepres et pruna ferant? si quercus et ilex

Multa fruge pecus, multa dominum

juvet umbra?

Dicas adductum propius frondere

Tarentum.

Fons etiam rivo dare nomen idoneus,

ut nec

Frigidior Thracam nec purior ambiat
Hebrus,

Infirmo capiti fluit utilis,

utilis alvo.

Hae latebrae dulces, etiam, si credis,

amoenae,

Incolumem tibi me praestant Septembribus

horis.

Quintus Horatius Flaccus.

From Horatius at the Bridge

(Rome, Ponte Sublicio)

BUT, meanwhile axe and lever

Have manfully been plied,

And now the bridge hangs tottering
Above the boiling tide.

66

Come back, come back, Horatius!"
Loud cried the Fathers all;
"Back, Lartius! back, Herminius!
Back, ere the ruin fall!"

Back darted Spurius Lartius,
Herminius darted back;

Bear in profusion scarlet berries, the oak, and the

ilex,

Plentiful food for the herd provide, and shade for the master?

You would say, with its verdure, Tarentum was hither transported.

There is a fountain, deserving to give its name to a streamlet.

Not more pure nor cooler in Thrace runs winding the Hebrus.

Helpful it is to an aching head or a stomach exhausted.

Such is my ingle, sweet, and if you believe me, delightful;

Keeping me sound and safe for you even in days of September.

Tr. by William C. Lawton.

And as they passed, beneath their feet
They felt the timbers crack.

But when they turned their faces,

And on the farther shore

Saw brave Horatius stand alone,

They would have crossed once more;

But with a crash like thunder

Fell every loosened beam,

And like a dam the mighty wreck
Lay right athwart the stream;