Odes

Horace

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

The mother dreads you for her son,

The thrifty sire, the new-wed bride,

Lest, lured by you, her precious one

Should leave her side.

The rain, it rains not every day

On the soak'd meads; the Caspian main

Not always feels the unequal sway

Of storms, nor on Armenia's plain,

Dear Valgius, lies the cold dull snow

Through all the year; nor northwinds keen

Upon Garganian oakwoods blow,

And strip the ashes of their green.

You still with tearful tones pursue

Your lost, lost Mystes; Hesper sees

Your passion when he brings the dew,

And when before the sun he flees.

Yet not for loved Antilochus

Grey Nestor wasted all his years

In grief; nor o'er young Troilus

His parents' and his sisters' tears