Odes

Horace

Horace. The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace. Conington, John, translator. London: George Bell and Sons, 1882.

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.