Odes

Horace

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

  • Ask not ('tis forbidden knowledge), what our destined term of years,
  • Mine and yours; nor scan the tables of your Babylonish seers.
  • Better far to bear the future, my Leuconoe, like the past,
  • Whether Jove has many winters yet to give, or this our last;
  • This, that makes the Tyrrhene billows spend their strength against the shore.
  • Strain your wine and prove your wisdom; life is short; should hope be more?
  • In the moment of our talking, envious time has ebb'd away.
  • Seize the present; trust tomorrow e'en as little as you may.
  • What man, what hero, Clio sweet,
  • On harp or flute wilt thou proclaim?
  • What god shall echo's voice repeat
  • In mocking game
  • To Helicon's sequester'd shade,
  • Or Pindus, or on Haemus chill,
  • Where once the hurrying woods obey'd
  • The minstrel's will,
  • Who, by his mother's gift of song,
  • Held the fleet stream, the rapid breeze,
  • And led with blandishment along
  • The listening trees?