Odes

Horace

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

Though Phoebus thrice in brazen mail

Should case her towers, they thrice should fall,

Storm'd by my Greeks: thrice wives should wail

Husband and son, themselves in thrall.”—

Such thunders from the lyre of love!

Back, wayward Muse! refrain, refrain

To tell the talk of gods above,

And dwarf high themes in puny strain.

Come down, Calliope, from above:

Breathe on the pipe a strain of fire:

Or if a graver note thou love,

With Phoebus' cittern and his lyre.

You hear her? or is this the play

Of fond illusion? Hark! meseems

Through gardens of the good I stray,

'Mid murmuring gales and purling streams.

Me, as I lay on Vultur's steep,

A truant past Apulia's bound,

O'ertired, poor child, with play and sleep,

With living green the stock-doves crown'd—