O navis, referent in mare te novi
fluctus. o quid agis? fortiter occupa
portum. nonne vides, ut
nudum remigio latus
et malus celeri saucius Africo
antemnaeque gemant ac sine funibus
vix durare carinae
possint imperiosius
aequor? non tibi sunt integra lintea,
non di, quos iterum pressa voces malo.
quamvis Pontica pinus,
silvae filia nobilis,
iactes et genus et nomen inutile:
nil pictis timidus navita puppibus
fidit. tu, nisi ventis
debes ludibrium, cave.
nuper sollicitum quae mihi taedium,
nunc desiderium curaque non levis,
interfusa nitentis
vites aequora Cycladas.
—-
New waves, O ship,
will drive you to sea:
O ship! What to do,
hold strong, seek port;
do you not see your oar-
stripped sides; that sore hurt
by the southwest gale,
your yards groan; that unroped,
your sails scarce bear
the sea’s sway? No whole
canvas is left you, no gods
to invoke in new straits.
Though pine of Pontus,
noble woods’ daughter,
you call name and lineage
in vain: trembling,
the sailor trusts nothing
in painted sterns.
O ship, lest you turn
a toy to the winds, beware!
Till late my oppression
and worry, now my love,
my care not light,
O ship, shun those waters
that glitter among the Cyclades.
Thanks — the gnarly short lines deliver a salutary shock to the usual Englishing. (I experimentally lineated your verses as three quatrains, but your original breaks asserted themselves.)
To my surprise, the easiest online translation to find is by the newspaper columnist F.P.A., a name I recognize from a pubescent fascination with the Algonquin Round Table.
track it back