Odes

Horace

Horace. The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace. Conington, John, translator. London: George Bell and Sons, 1882.

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.

Think not those strains can e'er expire,

Which, cradled 'mid the echoing roar

Of Aufidus, to Latium's lyre

I sing with arts unknown before.

Though Homer fill the foremost throne,

Yet grave Stesichorus still can please,