Odes

Horace

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

  • Not such their birth, who stain'd for us
  • The 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 till
  • With Sabine spade, then shoulder wood
  • Hewn at a stern old mother's will,
  • When sunset lengthen'd from each height
  • The shadows, and unyoked the steer,
  • Restoring in its westward flight
  • The hour to toilworn travail dear.
  • What has not cankering Time made worse?
  • Viler than grandsires, sires beget
  • Ourselves, yet baser, soon to curse
  • The world with offspring baser yet.
  • Why weep for him whom sweet Favonian airs
  • Will waft next spring, Asteria, back to you,
  • Rich with Bithynia's wares,
  • A lover fond and true,