Horace, creator; Conington, John, 1825-1869, editor

  • Maecenas, born of monarch ancestors,
  • The shield at once and glory of my life!
  • There are who joy them in the Olympic strife
  • And love the dust they gather in the course;
  • The goal by hot wheels shunn'd, the famous prize,
  • Exalt them to the gods that rule mankind;
  • This joys, if rabbles fickle as the wind
  • Through triple grade of honours bid him rise,
  • That, if his granary has stored away
  • Of Libya's thousand floors the yield entire;
  • The man who digs his field as did his sire,
  • With honest pride, no Attalus may sway
  • By proffer'd wealth to tempt Myrtoan seas,
  • The timorous captain of a Cyprian bark.
  • The winds that make Icarian billows dark
  • The merchant fears, and hugs the rural ease
  • Of his own village home; but soon, ashamed
  • Of penury, he refits his batter'd craft.
  • There is, who thinks no scorn of Massic draught,
  • Who robs the daylight of an hour unblamed,