Odes

Horace

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

  • 'Tis Telephus that you'd bewitch:
  • But he is of a high degree;
  • Bound to a lady fair and rich,
  • He is not free.
  • O think of Phaethon half burn'd,
  • And moderate your passion's greed:
  • Think how Bellerophon was spurn'd
  • By his wing'd steed.
  • So learn to look for partners meet,
  • Shun lofty things, nor raise your aims
  • Above your fortune. Come then, sweet,
  • My last of flames
  • (For never shall another fair
  • Enslave me), learn a tune, to sing
  • With that dear voice: to music care
  • Shall yield its sting.
  • The gales of Thrace, that hush the unquiet sea,
  • Spring's comrades, on the bellying canvas blow:
  • Clogg'd earth and brawling streams alike are free
  • From winter's weight of snow.