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

  • Hurrying, for an heir so base,
  • To gather riches. Money, root of ill,
  • Doubt it not, still grows apace:
  • Yet the scant heap has somewhat lacking still.
  • Whither, Bacchus, tear'st thou me.
  • FiIl'd with thy strength? What dens, what forests these,
  • Thus in wildering race I see?
  • What cave shall hearken to my melodies,
  • Tuned to tell of Caesar's praise
  • And throne him high the heavenly ranks among?
  • Sweet and strange shall be my lays,
  • A tale till now by poet voice unsung.
  • As the Evian on the height,
  • Roused from her sleep, looks wonderingly abroad,
  • Looks on Thrace with snow-drifts white,
  • And Rhodope by barbarous footstep trod,
  • So my truant eyes admire
  • The banks, the desolate forests. O great King
  • Who the Naiads dost inspire,
  • And Bacchants, strong from earth huge trees to wring!