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

  • Varus, are your trees in planting? put in none before the vine,
  • In the rich domain of Tibur, by the walls of Catilus;
  • There's a power above that hampers all that sober brains design,
  • And the troubles man is heir to thus are quell'd, and only thus.
  • Who can talk of want or warfare when the wine is in his head,
  • Not of thee, good father Bacchus, and of Venus fair and bright?
  • But should any dream of licence, there's a lesson may be read,
  • How 'twas wine that drove the Centaurs with the Lapithae to fight.
  • And the Thracians too may warn us; truth and falsehood, good and ill,
  • How they mix them, when the wine-god's hand is heavy on them laid!
  • Never, never, gracious Bacchus, may I move thee 'gainst thy will,
  • Or uncover what is hidden in the verdure of thy shade!
  • Silence thou thy savage cymbals, and the Berecyntine horn;
  • In their train Self-love still follows, dully, desperately blind,
  • And Vain-glory, towering upwards in its emptyheaded scorn,
  • And the Faith that keeps no secrets, with a window in its mind.