HQ: [x] [x]Text version of Martial under the cut. A house renowned stands in the land of Tartes

HQ: [x] [x]Text version of Martial under the cut. A house renowned stands in the land of Tartessuswhere rich Corduba woos tranquil Baetis, where fleeces are yellow-pale with native ore, and living gold o’erlays the Western flock. In the middle of the house, shadowing all the abode, stands with dense leafage Caesar’s plane, which an unconquered Guest’s propitious hand planted, and which—then but a shoot—began from that hand to grow.It seems to feel who was its creator and lord; so green it is, and with its boughs it climbs high heaven. Ofttimes under this tree sported Fauns flown with wine, and a late-blown pipe startled the still house; and, while o’er lonely fields she fled by night from Pan, oft under these leaves the rustic Dryad nestled hid. And fragrant has the dwelling been when Lyaeus held revel,and more luxuriant grown the tree’s shade from spilth of wine, and the blushing flower has been scattered down from last night’s wreath, and none could claim his own roses.O thou dear to the gods! O tree of mighty Caesar!fear not the steel and sacrilegious fires. Thou mayst hope thy leafy honours shall endure for ever: it was not Pompey’s hands set thee there!* translation by Walter C. A. Ker (1920)There stands a far-famed house in Spanish landWhere wealthy Corduba loves calm Baetis’ strand,Where yellow fleeces glow with native goldAnd living foil o’erfilms the western fold.O’ershadowing all the roof with mantle greenOf thickest foliage, Caesar’s plane is seen.The conquering hand that planted luckilyCharmed the young rod into a lofty tree.Proud of its lord, his tender nursling fairBurgeoned and tossed great limbs in upper air.The tipsy Fauns beneath its shadow played;Oft their late pipe the silent home dismayed.At night the Dryad through the country sideFlying from Pan beneath its leaves would hide.Perfumed by revelling Bacchus all the placeSmelt sweet. His wine-cups swelled the tree apace.Yesterday’s ruddy leaves all round were thrown,Relics of chaplets none might call his own.O happy day, O mighty Caesar’s tree,Fear not the axe, the hearth’s impiety!Year after year your honours you’ll renew,For ‘twas no Pompey’s hand that planted you.* translation by A. L. Francis and H. F. Tatum (1924)In far Tartessus stands a house renowned,Where rich Corduba Baetis woos in peaceAnd western sheep with living gold are crownedWhose native ore makes pale the yellow fleece.Within its midst is mighty Caesar’s planeWhich as a shoot by his own hand was given.It seems to know from whom its life began;So green it grows, so high it springs to heaven.Oft drunken fauns have sported in its shadeAnd with their piping roused the house to fear,Oft have its boughs concealed a Dryad maidWho felt that Pan was in the darkness near.The scent of Bacchic revels too it knows,And thick have grown its leaves from spilth of wine,While from red garlands fell the scattered rose,And none could say of any bloom—‘ 'Twas mine.’O dear to heaven, mighty Caesar’s tree,Fear not the fire, the sacrilegious knife;It was not Pompey’s hand that planted thee,Thy honours shall enjoy eternal life.* translation by J. A. Pott and F. A. Wright (1926) -- source link

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