Odes

Horace

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

Ah! but why, my Ligurine,

Steal trickling tear-drops down my wasted cheek?

Wherefore halts this tongue of mine,

So eloquent once, so faltering now and weak?

Now I hold you in my chain,

And clasp you close, all in a nightly dream;

Now, still dreaming, o'er the plain

I chase you; now, ah cruel! down the stream.

Who fain at Pindar's flight would aim,

On waxen wings, Iulus, he

Soars heavenward, doom'd to give his name

To some new sea.

Pindar, like torrent from the steep

Which, swollen with rain, its banks o'erflows,

With mouth unfathomably deep,

Foams, thunders, glows,