Odes

Horace

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

  • On wings, to humankind by Heaven denied;
  • Acheron's bar gave way with ease
  • Before the arm of labouring Hercules.
  • Nought is there for man too high;
  • Our impious folly e'en would climb the sky,
  • Braves the dweller on the steep,
  • Nor lets the bolts of heavenly vengeance sleep.
  • The touch of Zephyr and of Spring has loosen'd Winter's thrall;
  • The well-dried keels are wheel'd again to sea:
  • The ploughman cares not for his fire, nor cattle for their stall,
  • And frost no more is whitening all the lea.
  • Now Cytherea leads the dance, the bright moon overhead;
  • The Graces and the Nymphs, together knit,
  • With rhythmic feet the meadow beat, while Vulcan, fiery red,
  • Heats the Cyclopian forge in Aetna's pit.
  • 'Tis now the time to wreathe the brow with branch of myrtle green,
  • Or flowers, just opening to the vernal breeze;
  • Now Faunus claims his sacrifice among the shady treen,
  • Lambkin or kidling, which soe'er he please.
  • Pale Death, impartial, walks his round: he knocks at cottage-gate