Odes 3.27 (Martin): Impios Parrae

Let omens dire tile bad attend,
Who would upon a journey wend, —
The bitch in whelp, the screeching owl
The dun she-wolf upon her prowl
Of hunger from Lanuvium's rocks,
And, worse than all, the pregnant fox;
Nor care I if, their course to break,
With sudden spring some nimble snake
Shall cross the road-way like a dart,
And make their carriage horses start!
But I with sage forecasting skill,
For her I love and fear for will
By my strong pray'rs' resistless force
Call from the East the raven hoarse,
Ere, scenting rain at hand, again
It seek its haunts amid the fen.

May'st thou be happy, wheresoe'er
Thou go'st, and me in memory bear,
Fair Galatea! Boding joy
Nor vagrant crow shall bar thy way.
But see, with what a troubled glare
Orion's star is setting there!
Trust me! I've wrestled with the gales
Of Hadria's gulf, could tell thee tales.
Would scare thee, of the mischief too,
"Which smooth-lipp'd western winds can do.

Let our foes' wives, and all their kind,
Feel rising Auster's fury blind,
And shudder at black ocean's roar,
What time it smites the trembling shore.
Like thee, Europa her fair side
Did to the treacherous bull confide,
But found her courage fail, when she
Beheld the monsters of the sea;
She who but late through all her hours
Amongst the meads cull'd wilding flowers,
In garlands and festoons to twine
Around the guardian wood-nymphs' shrine,
Now nought beneath the louring sky
But stars and billows could descry.

Soon as she touch'd the Cretan ground,
For five score cities fair renown'd,
"How, O my sire! "did she exclaim,
"Have I foregone a daughter's name?
Slave to mad passion, how have I
Broke every holy filial tie V
Whence have I come, and whither flown?
One death is worthless to atone
For guilt like mine, so base, so deep!
Wake I, and have I cause to weep?
Or is my soul yet free from stain,
And these but phantoms of the brain,
Mere incorporeal films of dream,
Which through Sleep's ivory portal stream?

"O madness, to have left my home,
To deem it happier, thus to roam
Yon weary waste of waters blue,
Than gather flowers that freshly grew!
If any to my rage should now
Yield that vile bull, this steel, I vow.
Should hew him down before me here,
And break his horns though late so dear.
Shameless my father's hearth I fled!
Shameless I shrink from Orcus dread!
Place me, ye gods, in righteous wrath,
Naked upon the lion's path,
Or give me, ere grief's wasting might
The blossoms of my cheek shall bho;ht,
And sap my blood's warm tide away,
To be the hungry tiger's prey!

"Why, vile Europa, linger? why?
I hear my absent father cry.
Quick, hang thee on yon ash! Thy zone
Will serve thee — that is still thine own;
Or if yon cliff delight thee more.
These death-edged rocks, that strew the shore,
Then to the driving tempest give
Thyself, unless thou 'dst rather live
A bondslave, carding servile wool,
'Neath some barbarian princess' ride,
And brook, though sprung of royal race,
A vulgar concubine's disgrace!"

As thus she pour'd her wail on high,
Venus the while stood laughing by,
And to her side, with bow unstrung,
Her boy, the rosy Cupid, clung,
When she of mirth her fill had ta'en,
"This boiling rage," she cried, "restrain.
Since yon detested bull shall bend
His horns for thee at will to rend.
Know'st not, thou art Jove's honour'd bride?
Then dry thy tears, and own with pride
Thy mighty fortune, mightier fame,
For half the globe shall bear thy name!"