Odes

Horace

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

Why skulks he, as they say

Did Thetis' son before the dawn of Ilion's fatal day,

For fear the manly dress

Should fling him into danger's arms, amid the

Lycian press?

See, how it stands, one pile of snow,

Soracte! 'neath the pressure yield

Its groaning woods; the torrents' flow

With clear sharp ice is all congeal'd.

Heap high the logs, and melt the cold,

Good Thaliarch; draw the wine we ask,

That mellower vintage, four-year-old,