Odes

Horace

Horace. The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace. Conington, John, translator. London: George Bell and Sons, 1882.

  • 'Tis now the time to wreathe the brow with branch of myrtle green,
  • Or flowers, just opening to the vernal breeze;
  • Now Faunus claims his sacrifice among the shady treen,
  • Lambkin or kidling, which soe'er he please.
  • Pale Death, impartial, walks his round: he knocks at cottage-gate
  • And palace-portal. Sestius, child of bliss!
  • How should a mortal's hopes be long, when short his being's date?
  • Lo here! the fabulous ghosts, the dark abyss,
  • The void of the Plutonian hall, where soon as e'er you go,
  • No more for you shall leap the auspicious die
  • To seat you on the throne of wine; no more your breast shall glow
  • For Lycidas, the star of every eye.
  • What slender youth, besprinkled with perfume,
  • Courts you on roses in some grotto's shade?
  • Fair Pyrrha, say, for whom
  • Your yellow hair you braid,
  • So trim, so simple! Ah! how oft shall he
  • Lament that faith can fail, that gods can change,
  • Viewing the rough black sea
  • With eyes to tempests strange,