Odes

Horace

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

  • That spot, those happy heights desire
  • Our sojourn; there, when life shall end,
  • Your tear shall dew my yet warm pyre,
  • Your bard and friend.
  • O, oft with me in troublous time
  • Involved, when Brutus warr'd in Greece,
  • Who gives you back to your own clime
  • And your own gods, a man of peace,
  • Pompey, the earliest friend I knew,
  • With whom I oft cut short the hours
  • With wine, my hair bright bathed in dew
  • Of Syrian oils, and wreathed with flowers?
  • With you I shared Philippi's rout,
  • Unseemly parted from my shield,
  • When Valour fell, and warriors stout
  • Were tumbled on the inglorious field:
  • But I was saved by Mercury,
  • Wrapp'd in thick mist, yet trembling sore,
  • While you to that tempestuous sea
  • Were swept by battle's tide once more.