Odes 4.14 (Martin): Quae Cura Patrum

How shall the Fathers, how
Shall the Quiritians, O Augustus, now,
Intent their honours in no niggard wise
Upon thee to amass.
By storied scroll, or monumental brass
Thy virtues eternise?

O thou who art, wherever shines the sun
On lands where man a dwelling-place hath won,
Of princes greatest far,
Thee the Vindelici, who ever spurn'd
Our Latian rule, of late have learn'd
To know supreme in war!

For't was with soldiers thou hadst form'd,
That Drusus, greatly resolute,
On many a hard-won field o'erthrew the wild
Genaunians, and the Brenni fleet of foot,
And all their towering strongholds storm'd.
On Alps tremendous piled.

Anon to deadliest fight
The elder Nero press'd,
And, by auspicious omens bless'd.
Scattered the giant Rhaetian hordes in flight.
Himself, that glorious day,
The foremost in the fray,
With havoc dire did he
O'erwhelm that banded crowd
Of hearts in stern devotion vow'd
To die or to be free!

Like Auster, lashing into ire
The tameless ocean-waves, when through
The driving rack the Pleiad choir
Flash suddenly In view,
So furiously he dash'd
Upon his serried foes,
And where their balefires thickest rose,
With foaming war-steed crash'd.

As bull-shaped Aufidus, who laves
Apulian Daunus' realm,
Is whirl'd along, when o'er his banks
He eddies and he raves,
Designing to o'erwhelm
The cultured fields with deluge and dismay,
So Claudius swept the Iron ranks
Of the barbarian host,
And where from van to rear he clove his way,
Along his track the mangled foemen lay,
Nor did one squadron lost
The lustre dim of that victorious fray.

But thine the legions were, and thine
The counsels, and the auspices divine,
For on the self-same day,
That suppliant Alexandria had flung
Her port and empty palace wide to thee,
Did Fortune, who since then through lustres three
Had to thy banners smiling clung,
Bring our long wars to a triumphant close,
And for thee proudly claim
The honour long desired, the glorious fame
Of countless vanquish'd foes,
And vanquish'd empires bow'd in homage to thy sway!

Thee the Cantabrian, unsubdued till now,
The Mede, the Indian, — thee
The Scythian roaming free,
Unwedded to a home,
With wondering awe obey,
O mighty Caesar, thou
Of Italy and sovereign Rome
The present shield, the guardian, and the stay!
Thee Nile, who hides from mortal eyes
The springs where he doth rise,
Thee Ister, arrowy Tigris thee.
Thee, too, the monster-spawning sea,
Which round far Britain's islands breaks in foam,
Thee Gallia, whom no form of death alarms,
Iberia thee, through all her swarms
Of rugged warriors, hears;
Thee the Sicambrian, who
Delights in carnage, too,
Now laying down his arms
Submissively reveres!