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

  • When Teucer fled before his father's frown
  • From Salamis, they say his temples deep
  • He dipp'd in wine, then wreath'd with poplar crown,
  • And bade his comrades lay their grief to sleep:
  • “Where Fortune bears us, than my sire more kind,
  • There let us go, my own, my gallant crew.
  • 'Tis Teucer leads, 'tis Teucer breathes the wind;
  • No more despair; Apollo's word is true.
  • Another Salamis in kindlier air
  • Shall yet arise. Hearts, that have borne with me
  • Worse buffets! drown today in wine your care;
  • To-morrow we recross the wide, wide sea!”
  • Lydia, by all above,
  • Why bear so hard on Sybaris, to ruin him with love?
  • What change has made him shun
  • The playing-ground, who once so well could bear the dust and sun?
  • Why does he never sit
  • On horseback in his company, nor with uneven bit
  • His Gallic courser tame?
  • Why dreads he yellow Tiber, as 'twould sully that fair frame?