Odes

Horace

Horace. The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace. Conington, John, translator. London: George Bell and Sons, 1882.

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.