Joe Shearer
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- Apr 19, 2009
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Recently, we have had a flurry of comments using well-known Latin tags.
Latin is one of the more attractive classical languages. It still is the language of the Roman Catholic Church, therefore its usual description as a 'dead' language seems to be lacking in flexibility. Thousands speak it, among the academic community largely, of course, but among the members of the Church and enthusiastic amateurs who relish the wealth of literature and history that lies before them due to their knowledge.
There were suspicions that some of us were using Internet based translators and collections of commonly held tags to make our contributions. This caused discomfort, even some amount of disillusionment, disappointment - I would not go further, as there are graver and more profound issues.
Here, then, is a personal reaction to the whole question - what should it mean to us, this facility in languages, and what do we seek from it?
I turned to Horace for comfort, and he was as true as ever before. His first Ode itself put things back in place, and I share this as a final offering:
DEDICATED TO A FRIEND WHO NEVER EXISTED.
Maecenas atavis edite regibus,
o et praesidium et dulce deus meum,
Dear Maecenas, son of kings,
Who rules over the contentment of my days,
sunt quos curriculo pulverem Olympicum
colleges iuvat, metaque fervidis
evitata rotis palmaque nobilis
terrarum dominos evehit ad deos;
There are those who are famous,
Those whose chariot wheels have raised the Olympian dust,
So famous that even the Gods know his story;
hunc, si mobilium turba Quiritium
certat tergiminis tollere honoribus;
Those who are powerful,
Who are lifted to political honours,
On the shoulders of the fickle multitude;
illum, si proprio condidit horreo
quidquid de Libycis verritur areis.
The rich, who glory in their wealth,
In their barns bursting with Libya's grain;
gaudentem patrios findere sarculo
agros Attalicis condicionibus
numquam dimoveas ut trabe Cypria
Myrtoum pavidus nauta secet mare.
The poor, scratching a living,
Toiling over their ancestral patch,
Yet not brave enough to break,
To travel overseas to change their fortune;
luctantem Icariis fluctibus Africum
mercator metuens otium et oppidi
laudat rura sui; mix reficit ratis
quassas, indocilis pauperism pati.
The merchant, trembling through
Every turn of tide or change of wind,
Yet nervously bracing for the next season,
Reluctant to give up his profit;
est qui nec veteris pocula Massici
nec partem solido demere de die
spernit, nunc viridi membra sub arbuto
stratus, nunc ad aquae lene caput sacrae.
Peaceful sorts, who like their cup,
And to sip it under a peaceful shade,
Or near a gentle, murmuring brook;
multos castra iuvant et lituo tubae
permixtus sonitus bellaque matribus
detestata.
The war-like sort, who loves
The loud trumpet, camps,
The sounds of wars, that mothers hate;
manet sub Iove frigido
venate tenerae coniugis immemor,
Hunters, chasing game,
Forgetful of their brides pining at home;
seu visa est catulis cerva fidelibus,
seu rupit teretes Marsus aper plagas.
me doctarum hederae praemia frontium
dis miscent superis, me gelidum nemus
Nympharumque leves cum Satyris chori
secemunt populo,
What is it for me then?
It is the attire of poet and scholar,
The cool grove, and music for the dance,
Of nymph and satyr,
That is my place and that is my pleasure...
si neque tibias
Euterpe cohibet nec Polyhymnia
Lesboum refugit tendere barbiton.
...unless the gods themselves
Take back their gifts.
quodsi me lyricis vatibus inseres
sublimi feriam sidera vertice.
But if you think I am a poet,
My head will touch the stars.
The translation is a very loose one of my own.
Latin is one of the more attractive classical languages. It still is the language of the Roman Catholic Church, therefore its usual description as a 'dead' language seems to be lacking in flexibility. Thousands speak it, among the academic community largely, of course, but among the members of the Church and enthusiastic amateurs who relish the wealth of literature and history that lies before them due to their knowledge.
There were suspicions that some of us were using Internet based translators and collections of commonly held tags to make our contributions. This caused discomfort, even some amount of disillusionment, disappointment - I would not go further, as there are graver and more profound issues.
Here, then, is a personal reaction to the whole question - what should it mean to us, this facility in languages, and what do we seek from it?
I turned to Horace for comfort, and he was as true as ever before. His first Ode itself put things back in place, and I share this as a final offering:
DEDICATED TO A FRIEND WHO NEVER EXISTED.
Maecenas atavis edite regibus,
o et praesidium et dulce deus meum,
Dear Maecenas, son of kings,
Who rules over the contentment of my days,
sunt quos curriculo pulverem Olympicum
colleges iuvat, metaque fervidis
evitata rotis palmaque nobilis
terrarum dominos evehit ad deos;
There are those who are famous,
Those whose chariot wheels have raised the Olympian dust,
So famous that even the Gods know his story;
hunc, si mobilium turba Quiritium
certat tergiminis tollere honoribus;
Those who are powerful,
Who are lifted to political honours,
On the shoulders of the fickle multitude;
illum, si proprio condidit horreo
quidquid de Libycis verritur areis.
The rich, who glory in their wealth,
In their barns bursting with Libya's grain;
gaudentem patrios findere sarculo
agros Attalicis condicionibus
numquam dimoveas ut trabe Cypria
Myrtoum pavidus nauta secet mare.
The poor, scratching a living,
Toiling over their ancestral patch,
Yet not brave enough to break,
To travel overseas to change their fortune;
luctantem Icariis fluctibus Africum
mercator metuens otium et oppidi
laudat rura sui; mix reficit ratis
quassas, indocilis pauperism pati.
The merchant, trembling through
Every turn of tide or change of wind,
Yet nervously bracing for the next season,
Reluctant to give up his profit;
est qui nec veteris pocula Massici
nec partem solido demere de die
spernit, nunc viridi membra sub arbuto
stratus, nunc ad aquae lene caput sacrae.
Peaceful sorts, who like their cup,
And to sip it under a peaceful shade,
Or near a gentle, murmuring brook;
multos castra iuvant et lituo tubae
permixtus sonitus bellaque matribus
detestata.
The war-like sort, who loves
The loud trumpet, camps,
The sounds of wars, that mothers hate;
manet sub Iove frigido
venate tenerae coniugis immemor,
Hunters, chasing game,
Forgetful of their brides pining at home;
seu visa est catulis cerva fidelibus,
seu rupit teretes Marsus aper plagas.
me doctarum hederae praemia frontium
dis miscent superis, me gelidum nemus
Nympharumque leves cum Satyris chori
secemunt populo,
What is it for me then?
It is the attire of poet and scholar,
The cool grove, and music for the dance,
Of nymph and satyr,
That is my place and that is my pleasure...
si neque tibias
Euterpe cohibet nec Polyhymnia
Lesboum refugit tendere barbiton.
...unless the gods themselves
Take back their gifts.
quodsi me lyricis vatibus inseres
sublimi feriam sidera vertice.
But if you think I am a poet,
My head will touch the stars.
The translation is a very loose one of my own.