Odes

Horace

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

  • Me, too, Orion's mate, the Southern blast,
  • Whelm'd in deep death beneath the Illyrian wave.
  • But grudge not, sailor, of driven sand to cast
  • A handful on my head, that owns no grave.
  • So, though the eastern tempests loudly threat
  • Hesperia's main, may green Venusia's crown
  • Be stripp'd, while you lie warm; may blessings yet
  • Stream from Tarentum's guard, great Neptune, down,
  • And gracious Jove, into your open lap!
  • What! shrink you not from crime whose punishment
  • Falls on your innocent children? it may hap
  • Imperious Fate will make yourself repent.
  • My prayers shall reach the avengers of all wrong;
  • No expiations shall the curse unbind.
  • Great though your haste, I would not task you long;
  • Thrice sprinkle dust, then scud before the wind.
  • Your heart on Arab wealth is set,
  • Good Iccius: you would try your steel
  • On Saba's kings, unconquerd yet,
  • And make the Mede your fetters feel.