Odes 4.6 (Martin): Dive, Quem Proles

Thou god, who art potent that tongue to chastise,
Which e'er by its vaunts the Immortals defies,
As well as the sad offspring of Niobe knew,
And Tityus, profanest of ravishers too,
And Phthian Achilles, who well-nigh o'ercame
Proud Troy, of all warriors the foremost in fame,
Yet ne'er with thyself to be match'd; for though he
Was begotten of Thetis, fair nymph of the sea,
And shook the Dardanian turrets with fear,
As he crash'd through the fray with his terrible spear,
Like a pine, by the biting steel struck and down cast,
Or cypress o'erthrown by the hurricane blast,
Far prostrate he fell, and in Teucrian dust
His locks all dishevell'd ignobly were thrust.
He would not, shut up in the horse, that was feign'd
To be vow'd to the rites of Minerva, have deign'd
In their ill-timed carouse on the Trojans to fall,
When the festival dance gladden'd Priam's high hall;
No! He to the captives remorseless, — O shame!
In the broad face of day to Greek fagot and flame
Their babes would have flung, yea, as ruthless a doom
Would have wreak'd upon those who still slept in the womb,
If won by sweet Venus' entreaties and thine,
The Sire of the Gods, with a bounty benign,
A city had not to Aeneas allow'd,
To stand through the ages triumphant and proud!
Thou, who taught'st keen Thalia the plectrum to guide,
Thou, who lavest thy tresses in Xanthus's tide,
O beardless Agyieus, uphold, I implore,
The fame of the Daunian Muse evermore,
For 't was thou didst inspire me with poesy's flame,
Thou gav'st me the art of the bard, and his name!

Ye virgins, the foremost in rank and in race.
Ye boys, who the fame of your ancestry grace,
Fair wards of the Delian goddess, whose bow
Lays the swift-footed lynx and the antelope low.
To the Lesbian measure keep time with your feet,
And sing in accord With my thumb in its beat;
Hymn the son of Latona in cadence aright,
Hymn duly the still-waxing lamp of the night,
That with plentiful fruitage the season doth cheer,
And speeds the swift months on to girdle the year!

And thou, who art chief of the chorus to-day,
Soon borne home a bride in thy beauty shalt say,
"When the cyclical year brought its festival days.
My voice led the hymn of thanksgiving and praise,
So sweet the Immortals to hear it were fain,
And 't was Horace the poet who taught me the strain!"