Odes

Horace

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

The daily burden of unending song,

And search for wreaths the olive's rifled bower:

The praise of Juno sounds from many a tongue,

Telling of Argos' steeds, Mycenae's gold.

For me stern Sparta forges no such spell,

No, nor Larissa's plain of richest mould,

As bright Albunea echoing from her cell.

O headlong Anio! O Tiburnian groves,

And orchards saturate with shifting streams!

Look how the clear fresh south from heaven removes

The tempest, nor with rain perpetual teems!

You too be wise, my Plancus: life's worst cloud

Will melt in air, by mellow wine allay'd,

Dwell you in camps, with glittering banners proud,

Or 'neath your Tibur's canopy of shade.

When Teucer fled before his father's frown

From Salamis, they say his temples deep

He dipp'd in wine, then wreath'd with poplar crown,

And bade his comrades lay their grief to sleep:

“Where Fortune bears us, than my sire more kind,