Odes

Horace

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

  • Now the noon has pass'd the full,
  • Yet sure you deem swift Time has made a halt,
  • Tardy as you are to pull
  • Old Bibulus' wine-jar from its sleepy vault.
  • I will take my turn and sing
  • Neptune and Nereus' train with locks of green;
  • You shall warble to the string
  • Latona and her Cynthia's arrowy sheen.
  • Hers our latest song, who sways
  • Cnidos and Cyclads, and to Paphos goes
  • With her swans, on holydays;
  • Night too shall claim the homage music owes.
  • Heir of Tyrrhenian kings, for you
  • A mellow cask, unbroach'd as yet,
  • Maecenas mine, and roses new,
  • And fresh-drawn oil your locks to wet,
  • Are waiting here. Delay not still,
  • Nor gaze on Tibur, never dried,
  • And sloping Aesule, and the hill
  • Of Telegon the parricide.