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

  • The sea, the earth, the innumerable sand,
  • Archytas, thou couldst measure; now, alas!
  • A little dust on Matine shore has spann'd
  • That soaring spirit; vain it was to pass
  • The gates of heaven, and send thy soul in quest
  • O'er air's wide realms; for thou hadst yet to die.
  • Ay, dead is Pelops' father, heaven's own guest,
  • And old Tithonus, rapt from earth to sky,
  • And Minos, made the council-friend of Jove;
  • And Panthus' son has yielded up his breath
  • Once more, though down he pluck'd the shield, to prove
  • His prowess under Troy, and bade grim death
  • O'er skin and nerves alone exert its power,
  • Not he, you grant, in nature meanly read.
  • Yes, all “await the inevitable hour;”
  • The downward journey all one day must tread.
  • Some bleed, to glut the war-god's savage eyes;
  • Fate meets the sailor from the hungry brine;
  • Youth jostles age in funeral obsequies;
  • Each brow in turn is touch'd by Proserpine.