Ode XXVIII

Archytas

The [want of the] scanty present of a little sand near the Mantinian shore, confines thee, O Archytas, the surveyor of sea and earth, and of the innumerable sand: neither is it of any advantage to you, to have explored the celestial regions, and to have traversed the round world in your imagination, since thou wast to die. Thus also did the father of Pelops, the guest of the gods, die; and Tithonus likewise was translated to the skies, and Minos, though admitted to the secrets of Jupiter; and the Tartarean regions are possessed of the son of Panthous, once more sent down to the receptacle of the dead; notwithstanding, having retaken his shield from the temple, he gave evidence of the Trojan times, and that he had resigned to gloomy death nothing but his sinews and skin; in your opinion, no inconsiderable judge of truth and nature. But the game night awaits all, and the road of death must once be travelled. The Furies give up some to the sport of horrible Mars: the greedy ocean is destructive to sailors: the mingled funerals of young and old are crowded together: not a single person does the cruel Proserpine pass by. The south wind, the tempestuous attendant on the setting Orion, has sunk me also in the Illyrian waves. But do not thou, O sailor, malignantly grudge to give a portion of loose sand to my bones and unburied head. So, whatever the east wind shall threaten to the Italian sea, let the Venusinian woods suffer, while you are in safety; and manifold profit, from whatever port it may, come to you by favoring Jove, and Neptune, the defender of consecrated Tarentum. But if you, by chance, make light of committing a crime, which will be hurtful to your innocent posterity, may just laws and haughty retribution await you. I will not be deserted with fruitless prayers; and no expiations shall atone for you. Though you are in haste, you need not tarry long: after having thrice sprinkled the dust over me, you may proceed.

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[alternative translation by Peter Saint-Andre]

You who measured the sea, the earth, and the numberless sands,
You, Archytas, are now confined in a small mound of dirt
Near the Matine shore, and what good does it do you that you
Attempted the mansions of the skies and that you traversed
The round celestial vault — you with a soul born to die?

For these have perished: Tantalus, the father of Pelops,
Guest of the gods; Tithonus, scattered to the far-off winds;
Minos, privy to the secrets of Jove; Pythagoras,
Son of Panthous, held by Tartarus, consigned to Orcus
Not once but twice, who witnessed Trojan times by taking down
The shield and who conceded to dark death nothing at all
But his sinews and skin — and I know you consider him
No mean judge of nature and truth. A common night awaits
Us all, and in the end we must all tread the path of death.
Some are offered by the Furies to bloody Mars as sport;
Sailors are devoured when they go out on voracious seas;
Mixed corpses of young and old are densely packed together;
No head escapes harsh Proserpina. I've been submerged in
Illyrian waves by Orion's swift friend, the south wind.

So, sailor, don't spite me, don't be sparing with shifting sands,
Grant instead a little to my unburied bones and skull —
Then may you stay safe whatever the east wind vents against
Hesperian waves when Venusian woods are beaten back,
May a great reward flow down to you from Jove and Neptune.

Would you make light of committing a wrong that might bring harm
To your innocent children? For chance may yet deny you
Due justice and bring you outrageous fortune: in which case
My request would not go unrewarded, nor would any
Atonement release you. Though you're in a hurry, the wait
Is short: scatter three handfuls of sand and scurry away.