Odes

Horace

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

Thee Spanish tribes, unused to yield,

Mede, Indian, Scyth that knows no home,

Acknowledge, sword at once and shield

Of Italy and queenly Rome.

Ister to thee, and Tanais fleet,

And Nile that will not tell his birth,

To thee the monstrous seas that beat

On Britain's coast, the end of earth,

To thee the proud Iberians bow,

And Gauls, that scorn from death to flee;

The fierce Sygambrian bends his brow,

And drops his arms to worship thee.

Of battles fought I fain had told,

And conquer'd towns, when Phoebus smote

His harp-string: “Sooth, 'twere over-bold.

To tempt wide seas in that frail boat.”

Thy age, great Caesar, has restored

To squalid fields the plenteous grain,

Given back to Rome's almighty Lord

Our standards, torn from Parthian fane,