Odes Horace Horace. The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace. Conington, John, translator. London: George Bell and Sons, 1882. No vulgar wing, nor weakly plied,Shall bear me through the liquid sky;A two-form'd bard, no more to bideWithin the range of envy's eye'Mid haunts of men. I, all ungracedBy gentle blood, I, whom you callYour friend, Maecenas, shall not tasteOf death, nor chafe in Lethe's thrall.E'en now a rougher skin expandsAlong my legs: above I changeTo a white bird; and o'er my handsAnd shoulders grows a plumage strange: