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

  • Your grace, sweet Muses, shields me still
  • On Sabine heights, or lets me range
  • Where cool Praeneste, Tibur's hill,
  • Or liquid Baiae proffers change.
  • Me to your springs, your dances true,
  • Philippi bore not to the ground,
  • Nor the doom'd tree in falling slew,
  • Nor billowy Palinurus drown'd.
  • Grant me your presence, blithe and fain
  • Mad Bosporus shall my bark explore;
  • My foot shall tread the sandy plain
  • That glows beside Assyria's shore;
  • 'Mid Briton tribes, the stranger's foe,
  • And Spaniards, drunk with horses' blood,
  • And quiver'd Scythians, will I go
  • Unharm'd, and look on Tanais' flood.
  • When Caesar's self in peaceful town
  • The weary veteran's home has made,
  • You bid him lay his helmet down
  • And rest in your Pierian shade.