Odes 2.16 (Martin): Otium Divos

For ease he doth the gods implore,
Who, tossing on the wide
Egean billows, sees the black clouds hide
The moon, and the sure stars appear no more,
The shipman's course to guide.

For ease the sons of Thracia cry.
In battle uncontroll'd,
For ease the graceful-quivered Median bold,
That ease, which purple, Grosphus, cannot buy,
Nor wealth of gems or gold.

For hoarded treasure cannot keep
Disquietudes at bay,
Nor can the consul's lictor drive away
The brood of dark solicitudes, that sweep
Round gilded ceilings gay.

He lives on little, and is blest,
On whose plain board the bright
Salt-cellar shines, which was his sires' delight,
Nor terrors, nor cupidity's unrest
Disturb his slumbers light.

Why should we still project and plan,
We creatures of an hour?
Why fly from clime to clime, new regions scour?
Where is the exile, who, since time began,
To fly fi'om self had power?

Fell Care climbs brazen galleys' sides;
Nor troops of horse can fly
Her foot, which than the stag's is swifter, ay,
Swifter than Eurus, when he madly rides
The clouds along the sky.

Careless what lies beyond to know,
And turning to the best
The present, meet life's bitters with a jest,
And smile them down; since nothing here below
Is altogether blest.

In manhood's prime Achilles died,
Tithonus by the slow
Decay of age was wasted to a show,
And Time may what it hath to thee denied
On me perchance bestow.

Round thee low countless herds and kine
Of Sicily; the mare
Apt for the chariot paws for thee the air,
And Afric's costliest dyes incarnadine
The wools which thou dost wear.

To me a farm of modest size,
And slender vein of song,
Such as in Greece flowed vigorous and strong,
Kind fate hath given, and spirit to despise
The base, malignant throng.