Odes

Horace

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

  • Not the lopp'd Hydra task'd so sore
  • Alcides, chafing at the foil:
  • No pest so fell was born of yore
  • From Colchian or from Theban soil.
  • Plunged in the deep, it mounts to sight
  • More splendid: grappled, it will quell
  • Unbroken powers, and fight a fight
  • Whose story widow'd wives shall tell.
  • No heralds shall my deeds proclaim
  • To Carthage now: lost, lost is all:
  • A nation's hope, a nation's name,
  • They died with dying Hasdrubal.”
  • What will not Claudian hands achieve?
  • Jove's favour is their guiding star,
  • And watchful potencies unweave
  • For them the tangled paths of war.
  • Best guardian of Rome's people, dearest boon
  • Of a kind Heaven, thou lingerest all too long:
  • Thou bad'st thy senate look to meet thee soon:
  • Do not thy promise wrong.