Odes

Horace

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

Ah! but why, my Ligurine,

Steal trickling tear-drops down my wasted cheek?

Wherefore halts this tongue of mine,

So eloquent once, so faltering now and weak?

Now I hold you in my chain,

And clasp you close, all in a nightly dream;

Now, still dreaming, o'er the plain

I chase you; now, ah cruel! down the stream.

Who fain at Pindar's flight would aim,

On waxen wings, Iulus, he

Soars heavenward, doom'd to give his name

To some new sea.