Odes

Horace

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

  • Ah, Postumus! they fleet away,
  • Our years, nor piety one hour
  • Can win from wrinkles and decay,
  • And Death's indomitable power;
  • Not though three hundred bullocks flame
  • Each year, to soothe the tearless king
  • Who holds huge Geryon's triple frame
  • And Tityos in his watery ring,
  • That circling flood, which all must stem,
  • Who eat the fruits that Nature yields,
  • Wearers of haughtiest diadem,
  • Or humblest tillers of the fields.
  • In vain we shun war's contact red
  • Or storm-tost spray of Hadrian main:
  • In vain, the season through, we dread
  • For our frail lives Scirocco's bane.
  • Cocytus' black and stagnant ooze
  • Must welcome you, and Danaus' seed
  • Ill-famed, and ancient Sisyphus
  • To never-ending toil decreed.