Odes

Horace

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

  • No, though more suasive than the bard of Thrace
  • You swept the lyre that trees were fain to hear,
  • Ne'er should the blood revisit his pale face
  • Whom once with wand severe
  • Mercury has folded with the sons of night,
  • Untaught to prayer Fate's prison to unseal.
  • Ah, heavy grief! but patience makes more light
  • What sorrow may not heal.
  • The Muses love me: fear and grief,
  • The winds may blow them to the sea;
  • Who quail before the wintry chief
  • Of Scythia's realm, is nought to me.
  • What cloud o'er Tiridates lowers,
  • I care not, I. O, nymph divine
  • Of virgin springs, with sunniest flowers
  • A chaplet for my Lamia twine,
  • Pimplea sweet! my praise were vain
  • Without thee. String this maiden lyre,
  • Attune for him the Lesbian strain,
  • O goddess, with thy sister quire!