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

  • O, oft with me in troublous time
  • Involved, when Brutus warr'd in Greece,
  • Who gives you back to your own clime
  • And your own gods, a man of peace,
  • Pompey, the earliest friend I knew,
  • With whom I oft cut short the hours
  • With wine, my hair bright bathed in dew
  • Of Syrian oils, and wreathed with flowers?
  • With you I shared Philippi's rout,
  • Unseemly parted from my shield,
  • When Valour fell, and warriors stout
  • Were tumbled on the inglorious field:
  • But I was saved by Mercury,
  • Wrapp'd in thick mist, yet trembling sore,
  • While you to that tempestuous sea
  • Were swept by battle's tide once more.
  • Come, pay to Jove the feast you owe;
  • Lay down those limbs, with warfare spent,
  • Beneath my laurel; nor be slow
  • To drain my cask; for you 'twas meant.