Odes

Horace

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

  • Who'll coax coy Lyde from her home?
  • Go, bid her take her ivory lyre,
  • The runaway, and haste to come,
  • Her wild hair bound with Spartan tire.
  • The weary war where fierce Numantia bled,
  • Fell Hannibal, the swoln Sicilian main
  • Purpled with Punic blood—not mine to wed
  • These to the lyre's soft strain,
  • Nor cruel Lapithae, nor, mad with wine,
  • Centaurs, nor, by Herculean arm o'ercome,
  • The earth-born youth, whose terrors dimm'd the shine
  • Of the resplendent dome
  • Of ancient Saturn. You, Maecenas, best
  • In pictured prose of Caesar's warrior feats
  • Will tell, and captive kings with haughty crest
  • Led through the Roman streets.
  • On me the Muse has laid her charge to tell
  • Of your Licymnia's voice, the lustrous hue
  • Of her bright eye, her heart that beats so well
  • To mutual passion true: