Odes

Horace

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

Your grace, sweet Muses, shields me still

On Sabine heights, or lets me range

Where cool Praeneste, Tibur's hill,

Or liquid Baiae proffers change.

Me to your springs, your dances true,

Philippi bore not to the ground,

Nor the doom'd tree in falling slew,

Nor billowy Palinurus drown'd.

Grant me your presence, blithe and fain

Mad Bosporus shall my bark explore;

My foot shall tread the sandy plain

That glows beside Assyria's shore;

'Mid Briton tribes, the stranger's foe,

And Spaniards, drunk with horses' blood,

And quiver'd Scythians, will I go

Unharm'd, and look on Tanais' flood.

When Caesar's self in peaceful town

The weary veteran's home has made,

You bid him lay his helmet down

And rest in your Pierian shade.