Odes

Horace

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

  • Your land, your house, your lovely bride
  • Must lose you; of your cherish'd trees
  • None to its fleeting master's side
  • Will cleave, but those sad cypresses.
  • Your heir, a larger soul, will drain
  • The hundred-padlock'd Caecuban,
  • And richer spilth the pavement stain
  • Than e'er at pontiff's supper ran.
  • Few roods of ground the piles we raise
  • Will leave to plough; ponds wider spread
  • Than Lucrine lake will meet the gaze
  • On every side; the plane unwed
  • Will top the elm; the violet-bed,
  • The myrtle, each delicious sweet,
  • On olive-grounds their scent will shed,
  • Where once were fruit-trees yielding meat;
  • Thick bays will screen the midday range
  • Of fiercest suns. Not such the rule
  • Of Romulus, and Cato sage,
  • And all the bearded, good old school.