Odes

Horace

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

  • 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.