Odes

Horace

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

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.

Me, too, Orion's mate, the Southern blast,

Whelm'd in deep death beneath the Illyrian wave.

But grudge not, sailor, of driven sand to cast

A handful on my head, that owns no grave.