Odes

Horace

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

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.

Each Roman's wealth was little worth,

His country's much; no colonnade

For private pleasance wooed the North

With cool “prolixity of shade.”

None might the casual sod disdain

To roof his home; a town alone,

At public charge, a sacred fane

Were honour'd with the pomp of stone.