Odes

Horace

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

  • He knows not, he, how life is won;
  • Thinks war, like peace, a thing of trade!
  • Great art thou, Carthage! mate the sun,
  • While Italy in dust is laid!”
  • His wife's pure kiss he waved aside,
  • And prattling boys, as one disgraced,
  • They tell us, and with manly pride
  • Stern on the ground his visage placed.
  • With counsel thus ne'er else aread
  • He nerved the fathers' weak intent,
  • And, girt by friends that mourn'd him, sped
  • Into illustrious banishment.
  • Well witting what the torturer's art
  • Design'd him, with like unconcern
  • The press of kin he push'd apart
  • And crowds encumbering his return,
  • As though, some tedious business o'er
  • Of clients' court, his journey lay
  • Towards Venafrum's grassy floor,
  • Or Sparta-built Tarentum's bay.