Translation

Horace, crowned with laurels bright,
  Truly thou hast spoken;
Time outspeeds the swift winds’ flight,
  Earthly power is broken.

Chorus

Give me cups that foaming rise,
  Cups with fragrance laden,
Pouting lips and smiling eyes,
  Of a blushing maiden.

Blooming grows the budding vine,
  And the maid grows blooming;
But the poet quaffs not wine,
  Age is surely dooming.

Who would grasp at empty fame? 
  ’Tis a fleeting vision;
But for love and wine we claim,
  Sweetness all Elysian.

    —­Tr.  J. A. Pearce, Jr.

AMERICA

  This singable Latin translation of America was made by Professor
  George D. Kellogg of Union College and appeared in The Classical
  Weekly.

Te cano, Patria,
candida, libera;
    te referet
portus et exulum
et tumulus senum;
libera montium
    vox resonet.

Te cano, Patria,
semper et atria
    ingenuum;
laudo virentia
culmina, flumina;
sentio gaudia
    caelicolum.

Sit modulatio!
libera natio
    dulce canat!
labra vigentia,
ora faventia,
saxa silentia
    vox repleat!

Tutor es unicus,
unus avum deus! 
    Laudo libens. 
Patria luceat,
libera fulgeat,
vis tua muniat,
    Omnipotens!

INTEGER VITAE.

[**Music]

Horace.  Book I, Ode xxii

Integer vitae, scelerisque purus
Non eget Mauris jaculis nec arcu,
Nec venenatis gravida sagittis,
  Fusce, pharetra.

Sive per Syrtes, iter aestuosas,
Sive facturus per inhospitalem
Caucasum, vel quae loca fabulosus
  Lambit Hydaspes.

Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis
Arbor aestiva recreatur aura;
Quod latus mundi nebulae malusque
  Iuppiter urget;

Pone sub curru nimium propinqui
Solis, in terra domibus negata: 
Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
  Dulce loquentem.

Translation

Fuscus, the man of life upright and pure
Needeth nor javelin, nor bow of Moor
Nor arrows tipped with venom deadly-sure,
  Loading his quiver.

Whether o’er Afric’s burning sand he rides,
Or frosty Caucasus’ bleak mountain-sides,
Or wanders lonely, where Hydaspes glides,
  That storied river.

Place me where no life-laden summer breeze
Freshens the meads, or murmurs ’mongst the trees;
Where clouds oppress, and withering tempests’ breeze
  From shore to shore.

Place me beneath the sunbeams’ fiercest glare,
On arid sands, no dwelling anywhere,
Still Lalage’s sweet smile, sweet voice e’en there
  I will adore.

    —­Tr.  William Greenwood

ROCK OF AGES