Odes

Horace

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

Are waiting here. Delay not still,

Nor gaze on Tibur, never dried,

And sloping Aesule, and the hill

Of Telegon the parricide.

O leave that pomp that can but tire,

Those piles, among the clouds at home;

Cease for a moment to admire

The smoke, the wealth, the noise of Rome!

In change e'en luxury finds a zest:

The poor man's supper, neat, but spare,

With no gay couch to seat the guest,

Has smooth'd the rugged brow of care.

Now glows the Ethiop maiden's sire;

Now Procyon rages all ablaze;

The Lion maddens in his ire,

As suns bring back the sultry days:

The shepherd with his weary sheep

Seeks out the streamlet and the trees,

Silvanus' lair: the still banks sleep

Untroubled by the wandering breeze.