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

  • The gods have heard, the gods have heard my prayer;
  • Yes, Lyce! you are growing old, and still
  • You struggle to look fair;
  • You drink, and dance, and trill
  • Your songs to youthful Love, in accents weak
  • With wine, and age, and passion. Youthful Love!
  • He dwells in Chia's cheek,
  • And hears her harp-strings move.
  • Rude boy, he flies like lightning o'er the heath
  • Past wither'd trees like you; you're wrinkled now;
  • The white has left your teeth
  • And settled on your brow.
  • Your Coan silks, your jewels bright as stars,
  • Ah no! they bring not back the days of old,
  • In public calendars
  • By flying Time enroll'd.
  • Where now that beauty? where those movements? where
  • That colour? what of her, of her is left,
  • Who, breathing Love's own air,
  • Me of myself bereft,