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

  • 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.