Odes Horace Horace. The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace. Conington, John, translator. London: George Bell and Sons, 1882. Not such their birth, who stain'd for usThe sea with Punic carnage red,Smote Pyrrhus, smote Antiochus,And Hannibal, the Roman's dread.Theirs was a hardy soldier-brood,Inured all day the land to tillWith Sabine spade, then shoulder woodHewn at a stern old mother's will,When sunset lengthen'd from each heightThe shadows, and unyoked the steer,Restoring in its westward flightThe hour to toilworn travail dear.