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

  • The touch of Zephyr and of Spring has loosen'd Winter's thrall;
  • The well-dried keels are wheel'd again to sea:
  • The ploughman cares not for his fire, nor cattle for their stall,
  • And frost no more is whitening all the lea.
  • Now Cytherea leads the dance, the bright moon overhead;
  • The Graces and the Nymphs, together knit,
  • With rhythmic feet the meadow beat, while Vulcan, fiery red,
  • Heats the Cyclopian forge in Aetna's pit.
  • 'Tis now the time to wreathe the brow with branch of myrtle green,
  • Or flowers, just opening to the vernal breeze;
  • Now Faunus claims his sacrifice among the shady treen,
  • Lambkin or kidling, which soe'er he please.
  • Pale Death, impartial, walks his round: he knocks at cottage-gate
  • And palace-portal. Sestius, child of bliss!
  • How should a mortal's hopes be long, when short his being's date?
  • Lo here! the fabulous ghosts, the dark abyss,
  • The void of the Plutonian hall, where soon as e'er you go,
  • No more for you shall leap the auspicious die
  • To seat you on the throne of wine; no more your breast shall glow
  • For Lycidas, the star of every eye.