Odes

Horace

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

  • Why bear so hard on Sybaris, to ruin him with love?
  • What change has made him shun
  • The playing-ground, who once so well could bear the dust and sun?
  • Why does he never sit
  • On horseback in his company, nor with uneven bit
  • His Gallic courser tame?
  • Why dreads he yellow Tiber, as 'twould sully that fair frame?
  • Like poison loathes the oil,
  • His arms no longer black and blue with honourable toil,
  • He who erewhile was known
  • For quoit or javelin oft and oft beyond the limit thrown?
  • 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.