Odes

Horace

Horace. The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace. Conington, John, translator. London: George Bell and Sons, 1882.

Than savage wrath; nor sword nor spear

Appals it, no, nor ocean's frown,

Nor ravening fire, nor Jupiter

In hideous ruin crashing down.

Prometheus, forced, they say, to add

To his prime clay some favourite part

From every kind, took lion mad,

And lodged its gall in man's poor heart.

'Twas wrath that laid Thyestes low;

'Tis wrath that oft destruction calls

On cities, and invites the foe

To drive his plough o'er ruin'd walls.

Then calm your spirit; I can tell

How once, when youth in all my veins

Was glowing, blind with rage, I fell

On friend and foe in ribald strains.

Come, let me change my sour for sweet,

And smile complacent as before:

Hear me my palinode repeat,

And give me back your heart once more.