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

  • Or mourn the bridegroom early torn
  • From his young bride, and set on high
  • Strength, courage, virtue's golden morn,
  • Too good to die.
  • Antonius! yes, the winds blow free,
  • When Dirce's swan ascends the skies,
  • To waft him. I, like Matine bee,
  • In act and guise,
  • That culls its sweets through toilsome hours,
  • Am roaming Tibur's banks along,
  • And fashioning with puny powers
  • A laboured song.
  • Your Muse shall sing in loftier strain
  • How Caesar climbs the sacred height,
  • The fierce Sygambrians in his train,
  • With laurel dight,
  • Than whom the Fates ne'er gave mankind
  • A richer treasure or more dear,
  • Nor shall, though earth again should find
  • The golden year.