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

  • Soon must you leave the woods you buy,
  • Your villa, wash'd by Tiber's flow,
  • Leave,—and your treasures, heap'd so high,
  • Your reckless heir will level low.
  • Whether from Argos' founder born
  • In wealth you lived beneath the sun,
  • Or nursed in beggary and scorn,
  • You fall to Death, who pities none.
  • One way all travel; the dark urn
  • Shakes each man's lot, that soon or late
  • Will force him, hopeless of return,
  • On board the exile-ship of Fate.
  • Why, Xanthias, blush to own you love
  • Your slave? Briseis, long ago,
  • A captive, could Achilles move
  • With breast of snow.
  • Tecmessa's charms enslaved her lord,
  • Stout Ajax, heir of Telamon;
  • Atrides, in his pride, adored
  • The maid he won,