Odes by Horace

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THE ODES AND CARMEN SAECULARE OF HORACE

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QUID DEDICATUM.


What blessing shall the bard entreat

The god he hallows, as he pours

The winecup? Not the mounds of wheat

That load Sardinian threshing floors;

Not Indian gold or ivory--no,

Nor flocks that o'er Calabria stray,

Nor fields that Liris, still and slow,

Is eating, unperceived, away.

Let those whose fate allows them train

Calenum's vine; let trader bold

From golden cups rich liquor drain

For wares of Syria bought and sold,

Heaven's favourite, sooth, for thrice a-year

He comes and goes across the brine

Undamaged. I in plenty here

On endives, mallows, succory dine.

O
grant me, Phoebus, calm content, Strength unimpair'd, a mind entire,

Old age without dishonour spent,

Nor unbefriended by the lyre!





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