Odes

Horace

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

This pine that shades my cot be thine;

Here will I slay, as years come round,

A youngling boar, whose tusks design

The side-long wound.

If, Phidyle, your hands you lift

To heaven, as each new moon is born,

Soothing your Lares with the gift

Of slaughter'd swine, and spice, and corn,

Ne'er shall Scirocco's bane assail

Your vines, nor mildew blast your wheat.

Ne'er shall your tender younglings fail

In autumn, when the fruits are sweet.

The destined victim 'mid the snows

Of Algidus in oakwoods fed,

Or where the Alban herbage grows,

Shall dye the pontiff's axes red;

No need of butcher'd sheep for you

To make your homely prayers prevail;

Give but your little gods their due,

The rosemary twined with myrtle frail.