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

  • Whither, Bacchus, tear'st thou me.
  • FiIl'd with thy strength? What dens, what forests these,
  • Thus in wildering race I see?
  • What cave shall hearken to my melodies,
  • Tuned to tell of Caesar's praise
  • And throne him high the heavenly ranks among?
  • Sweet and strange shall be my lays,
  • A tale till now by poet voice unsung.
  • As the Evian on the height,
  • Roused from her sleep, looks wonderingly abroad,
  • Looks on Thrace with snow-drifts white,
  • And Rhodope by barbarous footstep trod,
  • So my truant eyes admire
  • The banks, the desolate forests. O great King
  • Who the Naiads dost inspire,
  • And Bacchants, strong from earth huge trees to wring!
  • Not a lowly strain is mine,
  • No mere man's utterance. O, 'tis venture sweet
  • Thee to follow, God of wine,
  • Making the vine-branch round thy temples meet!