Horace, Odes 1.1

Maecenas, born of monarch ancestors,
The shield at once and glory of my life!
There are who joy them in the Olympic strife
And love the dust they gather in the course;

The goal by hot wheels shunn'd, the famous prize,
Exalt them to the gods that rule mankind;
This joys, if rabbles fickle as the wind
Through triple grade of honours bid him rise,

That, if his granary has stored away
Of Libya's thousand floors the yield entire;
The man who digs his field as did his sire,
With honest pride, no Attalus may sway

By proffer'd wealth to tempt Myrtoan seas,
The timorous captain of a Cyprian bark.
The winds that make Icarian billows dark
The merchant fears, and hugs the rural ease

Of his own village home; but soon, ashamed
Of penury, he refits his batter'd craft.
There is, who thinks no scorn of Massic draught,
Who robs the daylight of an hour unblamed,

Now stretch'd beneath the arbute on the sward,
Now by some gentle river's sacred spring;
Some love the camp, the clarion's joyous ring,
And battle, by the mother's soul abhorr'd.

See, patient waiting in the clear keen air,
The hunter, thoughtless of his delicate bride,
Whether the trusty hounds a stag have eyed,
Or the fierce Marsian boar has burst the snare.

To me the artist's meed, the ivy wreath
Is very heaven: me the sweet cool of woods,
Where Satyrs frolic with the Nymphs, secludes
From rabble rout, so but Euterpe's breath

Fail not the flute, nor Polyhymnia fly
Averse from stringing new the Lesbian lyre.
O, write my name among that minstrel choir,
And my proud head shall strike upon the sky!

 

Vergil, Aeneid VIII

Then Venus, bright goddess, came bearing gifts through

the ethereal clouds: and when she saw her son from far away

who had retired in secret to the valley by the cool stream,

she went to him herself, unasked, and spoke these words:

‘See the gifts brought to perfection by my husband’s

skill, as promised. You need not hesitate, my son, to quickly

challenge the proud Laurentines, or fierce Turnus, to battle.’

Cytherea spoke, and invited her son’s embrace, and placed

the shining weapons under an oak tree opposite.

He cannot have enough of turning his gaze over each item,

delighting in the goddess’s gift and so high an honour,

admiring, and turning the helmet over with hands and arms,

with its fearsome crest and spouting flames,

and the fateful sword, the stiff breastplate of bronze,

dark-red and huge, like a bluish cloud when it’s lit

by the rays of the sun, and glows from afar:

then the smooth greaves, of electrum and refined gold,

the spear, and the shield’s indescribable detail.

626-670, Vulcan’s Shield: Scenes of Early Rome

There the lord with the power of fire, not unversed

in prophecy, and knowledge of the centuries to come,

had fashioned the history of Italy, and Rome’s triumphs:

there was every future generation of Ascanius’s stock,

and the sequence of battles they were to fight.

He had also shown the she-wolf, having just littered,

lying on the ground, in the green cave of Mars,

the twin brothers, Romulus and Remus, playing, hanging

on her teats, and fearlessly sucking at their foster-mother.

Bending her neck back smoothly she caressed them

in turn, and licked their limbs with her tongue.

Not far from that he had placed Rome, the Sabine women,

lawlessly snatched from the seated crowd, when the great games

were held in the Circus: and the sudden surge of fresh warfare

between Romulus’s men, and the aged Tatius and his austere Cures.

Next, the same two kings stood armed in front of Jove’s altar,

holding the wine-cups and joined in league, sacrificing a sow,

the new-built palace bristling with Romulus’s thatch.

Then, not far from that, four-horse chariots driven

in different directions tore Mettus apart (Alban, you should

have kept your word, though!), and Tullus dragged the liar’s

entrails through the woods, the briars wet with sprinkled blood.

There was Porsenna too, ordering Rome to admit the banished

Tarquin, and gripping the city in a mighty siege:

the scions of Aeneas running on the sword for freedom’s sake.

You could see Porsenna in angry, and in threatening, posture,

because Cocles dared to tear down the bridge,

because Cloelia broke her restraints and swam the river.

At the top Manlius, guardian of the Tarpeian Citadel,

stood before the temple, defending the high Capitol.

And there the silvery goose, flying through the gilded

colonnades, cackled that the Gauls were at the gate.

The Gauls were there in the gorse, taking the Citadel,

protected by the dark, the gift of shadowy night.

Their hair was gold, and their clothes were gold,

they shone in striped cloaks, their white necks

torqued with gold, each waving two Alpine javelins

in his hand, long shields defending their bodies.

Here he had beaten out the leaping Salii and naked Luperci,

the woolly priest’s caps, and the oval shields that fell

from heaven, chaste mothers in cushioned carriages

leading sacred images through the city. Far from these

he had added the regions of Tartarus, the high gates of Dis,

the punishment for wickedness, and you Catiline, hanging

from a threatening cliff, trembling at the sight of the Furies:

and the good, at a distance, Cato handing out justice.

671-713, Vulcan’s Shield: The Battle of Actium

The likeness of the swollen sea flowed everywhere among these,

in gold, though the flood foamed with white billows,

and dolphins in bright silver swept the waters

round about with arching tails, and cut through the surge.

In the centre bronze ships could be seen, the Battle of Actium,

and you could make out all Leucate in feverish

preparation for war, the waves gleaming with gold.

On one side Augustus Caesar stands on the high stern,

leading the Italians to the conflict, with him the Senate,

the People, the household gods, the great gods, his happy brow

shoots out twin flames, and his father’s star is shown on his head.

Elsewhere Agrippa, favoured by the winds and the gods

leads his towering column of ships, his brow shines

with the beaks of the naval crown, his proud battle distinction.

On the other side Antony, with barbarous wealth and strange weapons,

conqueror of eastern peoples and the Indian shores, bringing Egypt,

and the might of the Orient, with him, and furthest Bactria:

and his Egyptian consort follows him (the shame).

All press forward together, and the whole sea foams,

churned by the sweeping oars and the trident rams.

They seek deep water: you’d think the Cycladic islands were uprooted

and afloat on the flood, or high mountains clashed with mountains,

so huge the mass with which the men attack the towering sterns.

Blazing tow and missiles of winged steel shower from their hands,

Neptune’s fields grow red with fresh slaughter.

The queen in the centre signals to her columns with the native

sistrum, not yet turning to look at the twin snakes at her back.

Barking Anubis, and monstrous gods of every kind

brandish weapons against Neptune, Venus,

and Minerva. Mars rages in the centre of the contest,

engraved in steel, and the grim Furies in the sky,

and Discord in a torn robe strides joyously, while

Bellona follows with her blood-drenched whip.

Apollo of Actium sees from above and bends his bow: at this

all Egypt, and India, all the Arabs and Sabaeans turn and flee.

The queen herself is seen to call upon the winds,

set sail, and now, even now, spread the slackened canvas.

The lord with the power of fire has fashioned her pallid

with the coming of death, amidst the slaughter,

carried onwards by the waves and wind of Iapyx,

while before her is Nile, mourning with his vast extent,

opening wide his bays, and, with his whole tapestry, calling

the vanquished to his dark green breast, and sheltering streams.

714-731, Vulcan’s Shield: Augustus’s Triple Triumph

Next Augustus, entering the walls of Rome in triple triumph,

is dedicating his immortal offering to Italy’s gods,

three hundred great shrines throughout the city.

The streets are ringing with joy, playfulness, applause:

a band of women in every temple, altars in every one:

before the altars sacrificial steers cover the ground.

He himself sits at the snow-white threshold of shining Apollo,

examines the gifts of nations, and hangs them on the proud gates.

The conquered peoples walk past in a long line, as diverse

in language as in weapons, or the fashion of their clothes.

Here Vulcan has shown the Nomad race and loose-robed Africans,

there the Leleges and Carians and Gelonians with their quivers:

Euphrates runs with quieter waves, and the Morini,

remotest of mankind, the double-horned Rhine,

the untamed Dahae, and Araxes, resenting its restored bridge.

Aeneas marvels at such things on Vulcan’s shield, his mother’s gift,

and delights in the images, not recognising the future events,

lifting to his shoulder the glory and the destiny of his heirs.