Odes

Horace

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

The lord of boundless revenues,

Salute not him as happy: no,

Call him the happy, who can use

The bounty that the gods bestow,

Can bear the load of poverty,

And tremble not at death, but sin:

No recreant he when called to die

In cause of country or of kin.

Here is a cask of Alban, more

Than nine years old: here grows for you

Green parsley, Phyllis, and good store

Of ivy too

(Wreathed ivy suits your hair, you know):

The plate shines bright: the altar, strew'd

With vervain, hungers for the flow

Of lambkin's blood.

There's stir among the serving folk;

They bustle, bustle, boy and girl;

The flickering flames send up the smoke

In many a curl.