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

  • Here is a cask of Alban, more
  • Than nine years old: here grows for you
  • Green parsley, Phyllis, and good store
  • Of ivy too
  • (Wreathed ivy suits your hair, you know):
  • The plate shines bright: the altar, strew'd
  • With vervain, hungers for the flow
  • Of lambkin's blood.
  • There's stir among the serving folk;
  • They bustle, bustle, boy and girl;
  • The flickering flames send up the smoke
  • In many a curl.
  • But why, you ask, this special cheer?
  • We celebrate the feast of Ides,
  • Which April's month, to Venus dear,
  • In twain divides.
  • O, 'tis a day for reverence,
  • E'en my own birthday scarce so dear,
  • For my Maecenas counts from thence
  • Each added year.