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

  • Place me where none can live for heat,
  • 'Neath Phoebus' very chariot plant me,
  • That smile so sweet, that voice so sweet,
  • Shall still enchant me.
  • You fly me, Chloe, as o'er trackless hills
  • A young fawn runs her timorous dam to find,
  • Whom empty terror thrills
  • Of woods and whispering wind.
  • Whether 'tis Spring's first shiver, faintly heard
  • Through the light leaves, or lizards in the brake
  • The rustling thorns have stirr'd,
  • Her heart, her knees, they quake.
  • Yet I, who chase you, no grim lion am,
  • No tiger fell, to crush you in my gripe:
  • Come, learn to leave your dam.
  • For lover's kisses ripe.
  • Why blush to let our tears unmeasured fall
  • For one so dear? Begin the mournful stave,
  • Melpomene, to whom the sire of all
  • Sweet voice with music gave.