Odes

Horace

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

  • 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!
  • For ladies' love I late was fit,
  • And good success my warfare blest,
  • But now my arms, my lyre I quit,
  • And hang them up to rust or rest.
  • Here, where arising from the sea
  • Stands Venus, lay the load at last,
  • Links, crowbars, and artillery,
  • Threatening all doors that dared be fast.
  • O Goddess! Cyprus owns thy sway,
  • And Memphis, far from Thracian snow;
  • Raise high thy lash, and deal me, pray,
  • That haughty Chloe just one blow!