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

  • My prayers were scant, my offerings few,
  • While witless wisdom fool'd my mind;
  • But now I trim my sails anew,
  • And trace the course I left behind.
  • For lo! the sire of heaven on high,
  • By whose fierce bolts the clouds are riven,
  • Today through an unclouded sky
  • His thundering steeds and car has driven.
  • E'en now dull earth and wandering floods,
  • And Atlas' limitary range,
  • And Styx, and Taenarus' dark abodes
  • Are reeling. He can lowliest change
  • And loftiest; bring the mighty down
  • And lift the weak; with whirring flight
  • Comes Fortune, plucks the monarch's crown,
  • And decks therewith some meaner wight.