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

  • Methinks I hear of leaders proud
  • With no uncomely dust distain'd,
  • And all the world by conquest bow'd,
  • And only Cato's soul unchain'd.
  • Yes, Juno and the powers on high
  • That left their Afric to its doom,
  • Have led the victors' progeny
  • As victims to Jugurtha's tomb.
  • What field, by Latian blood-drops fed,
  • Proclaims not the unnatural deeds
  • It buries, and the earthquake dread
  • Whose distant thunder shook the Medes?
  • What gulf, what river has not seen
  • Those sights of sorrow? nay, what sea
  • Has Daunian carnage yet left green?
  • What coast from Roman blood is free?
  • But pause, gay Muse, nor leave your play
  • Another Cean dirge to sing;
  • With me to Venus' bower away,
  • And there attune a lighter string.