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

  • Which chased the clouds, and show'd the sun,
  • When Hannibal o'er Italy
  • Ran, as swift flames o'er pine-woods run,
  • Or Eurus o'er Sicilia's sea.
  • Henceforth, by fortune aiding toil,
  • Rome's prowess grew: her fanes, laid waste
  • By Punic sacrilege and spoil,
  • Beheld at length their gods replaced.
  • Then the false Libyan own'd his doom:—
  • “Weak deer, the wolves' predestined prey,
  • Blindly we rush on foes, from whom
  • 'Twere triumph won to steal away.
  • That race which, strong from Ilion's fires,
  • Its gods, on Tuscan waters tost,
  • Its sons, its venerable sires,
  • Bore to Ausonia's citied coast;
  • That race, like oak by axes shorn
  • On Algidus with dark leaves rife,
  • Laughs carnage, havoc, all to scorn,
  • And draws new spirit from the knife.