Odes

Horace

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

  • E'en in the tomb: not Hannibal's swift flight,
  • Nor those fierce threats flung back into his face,
  • Not impious Carthage in its last red blaze,
  • In clearer light sets forth his spotless fame,
  • Who from crush'd Afric took away—a name,
  • Than rude Calabria's tributary lays.
  • Let silence hide the good your hand has wrought,
  • Farewell, reward! Had blank oblivion's power
  • Dimm'd the bright deeds of Romulus, at this hour,
  • Despite his sire and mother, he were nought.
  • Thus Aeacus has 'scaped the Stygian wave,
  • By grace of poets and their silver tongue,
  • Henceforth to live the happy isles among.
  • No, trust the Muse: she opes the good man's grave,
  • And lifts him to the gods. So Hercules,
  • His labours o'er, sits at the board of Jove:
  • So Tyndareus' offspring shine as stars above,
  • Saving lorn vessels from the yawning seas:
  • So Bacchus, with the vine-wreath round his hair,
  • Gives prosperous issue to his votary's prayer.