Odes

Horace

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

  • Death's purpose flushing in her face;
  • Nor to our ships the glory gave,
  • That she, no vulgar dame, should grace
  • A triumph, crownless, and a slave.
  • No Persian cumber, boy, for me;
  • I hate your garlands linden-plaited;
  • Leave winter's rose where on the tree
  • It hangs belated.
  • Wreath me plain myrtle; never think
  • Plain myrtle either's wear unfitting,
  • Yours as you wait, mine as I drink
  • In vine-bower sitting.
  • The broils that from Metellus date,
  • The secret springs, the dark intrigues,
  • The freaks of Fortune, and the great
  • Confederate in disastrous leagues,