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

  • Few roods of ground the piles we raise
  • Will leave to plough; ponds wider spread
  • Than Lucrine lake will meet the gaze
  • On every side; the plane unwed
  • Will top the elm; the violet-bed,
  • The myrtle, each delicious sweet,
  • On olive-grounds their scent will shed,
  • Where once were fruit-trees yielding meat;
  • Thick bays will screen the midday range
  • Of fiercest suns. Not such the rule
  • Of Romulus, and Cato sage,
  • And all the bearded, good old school.
  • Each Roman's wealth was little worth,
  • His country's much; no colonnade
  • For private pleasance wooed the North
  • With cool “prolixity of shade.”
  • None might the casual sod disdain
  • To roof his home; a town alone,
  • At public charge, a sacred fane
  • Were honour'd with the pomp of stone.