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

  • Carven ivory have I none
  • No golden cornice in my dwelling shines;
  • Pillars choice of Libyan stone
  • Upbear no architrave from Attic mines;
  • 'Twas not mine to enter in
  • To Attalus' broad realms, an unknown heir,
  • Nor for me fair clients spin
  • Laconian purples for their patron's wear.
  • Truth is mine, and Genius mine;
  • The rich man comes, and knocks at my low door:
  • Favour'd thus, I ne'er repine,
  • Nor weary out indulgent Heaven for more:
  • In my Sabine homestead blest,
  • Why should I further tax a generous friend?
  • Suns are hurrying suns a-west,
  • And newborn moons make speed to meet their end.
  • You have hands to square and hew
  • Vast marble-blocks, hard on your day of doom,
  • Ever building mansions new,
  • Nor thinking of the mansion of the tomb.