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

  • Thou, when the giants, threatening wrack,
  • Were clambering up Jove's citadel,
  • Didst hurl o'erweening Rhoetus back,
  • In tooth and claw a lion fell.
  • Who knew thy feats in dance and play
  • Deem'd thee belike for war's rough game
  • Unmeet: but peace and battle-fray
  • Found thee, their centre, still the same.
  • Grim Cerberus wagg'd his tail to see
  • Thy golden horn, nor dreamd of wrong.
  • But gently fawning, follow'd thee,
  • And lick'd thy feet with triple tongue.
  • No vulgar wing, nor weakly plied,
  • Shall bear me through the liquid sky;
  • A two-form'd bard, no more to bide
  • Within the range of envy's eye
  • 'Mid haunts of men. I, all ungraced
  • By gentle blood, I, whom you call
  • Your friend, Maecenas, shall not taste
  • Of death, nor chafe in Lethe's thrall.