ODE I.

TO MAECENAS.


Maecenas, descended from royal ancestors, O both my protection and my
darling honor! There are those whom it delights to have collected
Olympic dust in the chariot race; and [whom] the goal nicely avoided by
the glowing wheels, and the noble palm, exalts, lords of the earth, to
the gods.

This man, if a crowd of the capricious Quirites strive to raise him to
the highest dignities; another, if he has stored up in his own granary
whatsoever is swept from the Libyan thrashing floors: him who delights
to cut with the hoe his patrimonial fields, you could never tempt, for
all the wealth of Attalus, [to become] a timorous sailor and cross the
Myrtoan sea in a Cyprian bark. The merchant, dreading the south-west
wind contending with the Icarian waves, commends tranquility and the
rural retirement of his village; but soon after, incapable of being
taught to bear poverty, he refits his shattered vessel. There is
another, who despises not cups of old Massic, taking a part from the
entire day, one while stretched under the green arbute, another at the
placid head of some sacred stream.

The camp, and the sound of the trumpet mingled with that of the clarion,
and wars detested by mothers, rejoice many.

The huntsman, unmindful of his tender spouse, remains in the cold air,
whether a hart is held in view by his faithful hounds, or a Marsian boar
has broken the fine-wrought toils.