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

  • The fiend enchain'd; she sought to die
  • More nobly, nor with woman's dread
  • Quail'd at the steel, nor timorously
  • In her fleet ships to covert fled.
  • Amid her ruin'd halls she stood
  • Unblench'd, and fearless to the end
  • Grasp'd the fell snakes, that all her blood
  • Might with the cold black venom blend,
  • Death's purpose flushing in her face;
  • Nor to our ships the glory gave,
  • That she, no vulgar dame, should grace
  • A triumph, crownless, and a slave.
  • No Persian cumber, boy, for me;
  • I hate your garlands linden-plaited;
  • Leave winter's rose where on the tree
  • It hangs belated.
  • Wreath me plain myrtle; never think
  • Plain myrtle either's wear unfitting,
  • Yours as you wait, mine as I drink
  • In vine-bower sitting.