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

  • Rude boy, he flies like lightning o'er the heath
  • Past wither'd trees like you; you're wrinkled now;
  • The white has left your teeth
  • And settled on your brow.
  • Your Coan silks, your jewels bright as stars,
  • Ah no! they bring not back the days of old,
  • In public calendars
  • By flying Time enroll'd.
  • Where now that beauty? where those movements? where
  • That colour? what of her, of her is left,
  • Who, breathing Love's own air,
  • Me of myself bereft,
  • Who reign'd in Cinara's stead, a fair, fair face,
  • Queen of sweet arts? but Fate to Cinara gave
  • A life of little space;
  • And now she cheats the grave
  • Of Lyce, spared to raven's length of days,
  • That youth may see, with laughter and disgust,
  • A fire-brand, once ablaze,
  • Now smouldering in grey dust.