Odes

Horace

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

Incense there and fragrant spice

With odorous fumes thy nostrils shall salute;

Blended notes thine ear entice,

The lyre, the pipe, the Berecyntine flute:

Graceful youths and maidens bright

Shall twice a day thy tuneful praise resound,

While their feet, so fair and white,

In Salian measure three times beat the ground.

I can relish love no more,

Nor flattering hopes that tell me hearts are true,

Nor the revel's loud uproar,

Nor fresh-wreathed flowerets, bathed in vernal dew.

Ah! but why, my Ligurine,

Steal trickling tear-drops down my wasted cheek?

Wherefore halts this tongue of mine,

So eloquent once, so faltering now and weak?

Now I hold you in my chain,

And clasp you close, all in a nightly dream;

Now, still dreaming, o'er the plain

I chase you; now, ah cruel! down the stream.