Book I: Ode IX: Vides Ut Alta
See, how it stands, one pile of snow,Soracte! 'neath the pressure yieldIts groaning woods; the torrents' flowWith clear sharp ice is all congeal'd.Heap high the logs, and melt the cold,Good Thaliarch; draw the wine we ask,That mellower vintage, four-year-old,From out the cellar'd Sabine cask.The future trust with Jove; when HeHas still'd the warring tempests' roarOn the vex'd deep, the cypress-treeAnd aged ash are rock'd no more.O, ask not what the morn will bring,But count as gain each day that chanceMay give you; sport in life's young spring,Nor scorn sweet love, nor merry dance,While years are green, while sullen eldIs distant. Now the walk, the game,The whisper'd talk at sunset held,Each in its hour, prefer their claim.Sweet too the laugh, whose feign'd alarmThe hiding-place of beauty tells,The token, ravish'd from the armOr finger, that but ill rebels.
Words in this poem
- sabine a.
- Of or pertaining to the ancient Sabines, a people of Italy. [L. Sabinus.]
- jove n.
- The chief divinity of the ancient Romans; Jupiter. [L. Jupiter, gen. Jovis, OL. Jovis, nom. & gen. for Djovis; akin to E. Tuesday. See Tuesday, and cf. Jupiter.]
- morn n.
- The first part of the day; the morning; -- used chiefly in poetry. [OE. morwen, morgen, AS. morgen; akin to D. morgen, OS. morgan, G. morgen, Icel. morginn, morgunn, Sw. morgon, Dan. morgen, Goth. maúrgins. Cf. Morrow, Morning.]
- sullen a.
- Lonely; solitary; desolate. Wyclif (Job iii. 14). [OE. solein, solain, lonely, sullen; through Old French fr. (assumed) LL. solanus solitary, fr. L. solus alone. See Sole, a.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Book I: Ode IX: Vides Ut Alta is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Odes and Carmen Saeculare, Project Gutenberg ebook #5432, the John Conington translation; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Horace, Book I: Ode IX: Vides Ut Alta, in The Odes and Carmen Saeculare (1863), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #5432, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/horace-odes/book-i-ode-ix-vides-ut-alta.html, id L13905.
Form and metre
Book I: Ode IX: Vides Ut Alta is 24 lines in a single stanza. It rhymes ABABCDCDEFEFGHGHBIBIJKJK. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 91%). 100% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 8.0 syllables. 38% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 ABABCDCDEFEFGHGHBIBIJKJK snowA · yieldB · flowA · congeal'dB · coldC · askD · oldC · caskD · heE · roarF · treeE · moreF · bringG · chanceH · springG · danceH · eldB · gameI · heldB · claimI · alarmJ · tellsK · armJ · rebelsK
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| See, how it stands, one pile of snow, | 8 | ········ |
| Soracte! 'neath the pressure yield | 7 | ····/˘· |
| Its groaning woods; the torrents' flow | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| With clear sharp ice is all congeal'd. | 8 | ······˘/ |
| Heap high the logs, and melt the cold, | 8 | ········ |
| Good Thaliarch; draw the wine we ask, | 8 | ········ |
| That mellower vintage, four-year-old, | 9 | ····/˘··· |
| From out the cellar'd Sabine cask. | 8 | ·····˘/· |
| The future trust with Jove; when He | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Has still'd the warring tempests' roar | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| On the vex'd deep, the cypress-tree | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| And aged ash are rock'd no more. | 7 | ······· |
| O, ask not what the morn will bring, | 8 | ········ |
| But count as gain each day that chance | 8 | ········ |
| May give you; sport in life's young spring, | 8 | ········ |
| Nor scorn sweet love, nor merry dance, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| While years are green, while sullen eld | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| Is distant. Now the walk, the game, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| The whisper'd talk at sunset held, | 8 | ·/˘··/·· |
| Each in its hour, prefer their claim. | 8 | ···/˘/·· |
| Sweet too the laugh, whose feign'd alarm | 8 | ······˘/ |
| The hiding-place of beauty tells, | 8 | ·/˘··/˘· |
| The token, ravish'd from the arm | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Or finger, that but ill rebels. | 8 | ·/˘···˘/ |
On this poem
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.