Odes

Horace

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

  • Now stretch'd beneath the arbute on the sward,
  • Now by some gentle river's sacred spring;
  • Some love the camp, the clarion's joyous ring,
  • And battle, by the mother's soul abhorr'd.
  • See, patient waiting in the clear keen air,
  • The hunter, thoughtless of his delicate bride,
  • Whether the trusty hounds a stag have eyed,
  • Or the fierce Marsian boar has burst the snare.
  • To me the artist's meed, the ivy wreath
  • Is very heaven: me the sweet cool of woods,
  • Where Satyrs frolic with the Nymphs, secludes
  • From rabble rout, so but Euterpe's breath
  • Fail not the flute, nor Polyhymnia fly
  • Averse from stringing new the Lesbian lyre.
  • O, write my name among that minstrel choir,
  • And my proud head shall strike upon the sky!
  • Enough of snow and hail at last
  • The sire has sent in vengeance down:
  • His bolts, at his own temple cast,
  • Appall'd the town,