Alternate translations of Horace 1.22 by some famous people

1. Translations of Horace’s Ode 1.22 PowerPoint by Sarah Hustwit Information from: Michael Gilleland ‘s website http://www.merriampark.com/horcarm122.htm

2. John Quincy Adams John Quincy Adams (1767-1848), sixth President of the United States, composed a translation of Horace's ode addressed "To Sally".

3. The man in rightousness arrayed, A pure and blameless liver, Needs not the keen Toledo blade, Nor venom-freighted quiver. What though he wind his toilsome way O'er regions wild and weary – Through Zara's burning desert stray, Or Asia's jungles dreary Zara-desert in Africa

4. What though he plough the billowy deep By lunar light, or solar, Meet the resistless Simoom's sweep, Or iceberg circumpolar! In bog or quagmire deep and dank His foot shall never settle; He mounts the summit of Mont Blanc, Or Popocatapetl. Popocatapetl-volcano near Mexico City Simoom-desert storm

5. On Chimborazo's breathless height He treads o'er burning lava; Or snuffs the Bohan Upas blight, The deathful plant of Java. Through every peril he shall pass, By virtue's shield protected; And still by Truth's unerring glass His path shall be directed. Chimborazo-volcano in Ecuador, S.America Bohan Upas-fabled poison tree used to make darts

6. Else wherefore was it, Thursday last, While strolling down the valley, Defenseless, musing as I passed A canzonet to Sally, A wolf, with mouth-protruding snout, Forth from the thicket bounded – I clapped my hands and raised a shout He heard -- and fled -- confounded.

7. Tangier nor tunis never bred An animal more crabbéd; Nor Fez, dry-nurse of lions, fed A monster half so rabid; Nor Ararat so fierce a beast Has seen since days of Noah; Nor stronger, eager for a feast, The fell constrictor boa.

8. Oh! place me where the solar beam Has scorch'd all verdure vernal; Or on the polar verge extreme, Block'd up with ice eternal – Still shall my voice's tender lays Of love remain unbroken; And still my charming Sally praise, Sweet smiling and sweet spoken.

9. William Shakespeare In his tragedy Titus Andronicus (4.2.20-23), English poet and dramatist William Shakespeare (1564-1616) has Demetrius read from a scroll the first two lines of Horace's ode: Integer vitae scelerisque purus, Non eget Maruri iaculis nec arcu. to which Chiron responds O, 'tis a verse in Horace. I know it well. I read it in the grammar long ago.

10. William Ewart Gladstone British Prime Minister William Ewart Gladstone (1809-1898) made the following translation of Horace's ode:

11. If whole in life, and free from sin, Man needs no Moorish bow, nor dart, Nor quiver, carrying death within By poison's art. Though frowning Caucasus he treads, And boiling Syrtes hath defied, Been, Fuscus, where Hydaspes spreads His mythic tide.

12. In Sabine woods, and fancy-free, A wolf observed my wandering tread; Unarmed, I sang of Lalage; He saw and fled. Such portent in the oaken grove, Hath martial Daunia never known; Nor Juba's land, where lions rove The thirsty zone.

13. Place me, where desert wastes forbid One tree to breathe the summer wind, Where fogs the land and sea have hid, With Jove unkind. Or, where the sun so near would be, That none to build or dwell may dare; Thy voice, thy smile, my Lalage, I'll love them there.

14. William Sinclair Marris (1873-1945) was a governor of the United Provinces of British India. He was also a translator of Homer, Catullus, and the odes of Horace. Here is his translation of Ode 1.22:

15. He who is innocent and pure Needs not to go equipped With spear or quiver of the Moor And arrows poison-tipped. Not though he fare through Syrtes' waves, Cold Caucasus' expanse, Or regions that Hydaspes laves, That river of romance.

16. I roamed beyond my farm at ease, I sang of Lalage, And met unarmed among the trees A wolf, who fled from me. Martial Apulia, forest-land, Bred never monster worse; Nor such was weaned 'mid Juba's sand, The lions' thirsty nurse.

17. Set me on steppes, where summer air No leaf has ever kissed, The zone that lies in dull despair Of sombre sky and mist; Set me where flames so fierce a heat That there no dwellers be: Yet will I love her -- smiling-sweet, Sweet-speaking Lalage.

18. Franklin P. Adams Tobogganing on Parnassus (1911), by American man of letters Franklin P. Adams (1881-1960), contains two humorous adaptations of Horace's ode. Here is one:

19. Fuscus, my friend, take it from me— I know the world and what it's made of— One on the square has naught to be Afraid of. The Moorish bows and javelins? Nope. Such deadly things need not alarm him. Why, even arrows dipped in dope Can't harm him!

20. He's safe in any clime or land, Desert or river, hill or valley; Safe in all places on the Rand- McNally. Why, one day in my Sabine grot, I sang for Lalage to hear me; A wolf came in and he did not Come near me!

21. Ah, set me on the sunless plain, In China, Norway, or Matanzas, Ay, place me anywhere from Maine To Kansas. Still of my Lalage I'll sing, Where'er the Fates may chance to drop me; And nobody nor anything Shall stop me.

22. Yet another version of the same ode published in Adams' By and Large (1914): O Fuscus, if your heart be true, If you be but a righteous liver, No Moorish bow need bother you, No arrows from a foeman's quiver. Duluth, Winona, Kankakee, South Framingham and points adjacent – It matters not where you may be, If but your conscience be complacent.

23. Why, once when I was singing of My Lalage -- need I repeat it? – A wolf that heard my song of love Gave me a look and straightway beat it. Put me where it is cold or hot, Where water's ice, or where it's b'iling, I'll sing -- who likes my stuff or not – My Lalage so sweetly smiling.

24. Here is one final translation by Adams, entitled "The Clear Conscience," which reproduces the meter (Sapphics) of Horace's original. He who is upright in his way of living, Stainless of guilt, needs never the protection Darts of Morocco, or bows or poisoned arrows, Fuscus, can give him; Whether his path be though the sultry Syrtes, Or through the sunless Caucasus he travel, Or through the countries watered by the famous River Hydaspes.

25. Once in the Sabine Woods when I was strolling Far past my farm, unarmed and free of worry, Singing of Lalage, the wolf that heard me Came up; and left me. Place me on the sun-divested prairie Where not a tree lives in the breath of summer; Or there is nothing ever but the forecast: Cloudy with showers. Yes, you may place me on the old Equator Where it is far too hot for habitation, Yet I will love my Lalage forever, Smiling so sweetly.