Odes

Horace

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

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: