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

  • Stripp'd from the soldier; I have seen
  • Free sons of Rome with arms fast tied;
  • The fields we spoil'd with corn are green,
  • And Carthage opes her portals wide.
  • The warrior, sure, redeem'd by gold,
  • Will fight the bolder! Aye, you heap
  • On baseness loss. The hues of old
  • Revisit not the wool we steep;
  • And genuine worth, expell'd by fear,
  • Returns not to the worthless slave.
  • Break but her meshes, will the deer
  • Assail you? then will he be brave
  • Who once to faithless foes has knelt;
  • Yes, Carthage yet his spear will fly,
  • Who with bound arms the cord has felt,
  • The coward, and has fear'd to die.
  • He knows not, he, how life is won;
  • Thinks war, like peace, a thing of trade!
  • Great art thou, Carthage! mate the sun,
  • While Italy in dust is laid!”