Odes Horace Horace. The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace. Conington, John, translator. London: George Bell and Sons, 1882. Place me where none can live for heat,'Neath Phoebus' very chariot plant me,That smile so sweet, that voice so sweet,Shall still enchant me.You fly me, Chloe, as o'er trackless hillsA young fawn runs her timorous dam to find,Whom empty terror thrillsOf woods and whispering wind.Whether 'tis Spring's first shiver, faintly heardThrough the light leaves, or lizards in the brakeThe rustling thorns have stirr'd,Her heart, her knees, they quake.