Odes Horace Horace. The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace. Conington, John, translator. London: George Bell and Sons, 1882. When guilty Pomp the drawn sword seesHung o'er her, richest feasts in vainStrain their sweet juice her taste to please;No lutes, no singing birds againWill bring her sleep. Sleep knows no pride;It scorns not cots of village hinds,Nor shadow-trembling river-side,Nor Tempe, stirr'd by western winds.