Odes by Horace

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THE ODES AND CARMEN SAECULARE OF HORACE

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POSCIMUR.


They call;--if aught in shady dell

We twain have warbled, to remain

Long months or years, now breathe, my shell,

A Roman strain,

Thou, strung by Lesbos' minstrel hand,

The bard, who 'mid the clash of steel,

Or haply mooring to the strand

His batter'd keel,

Of Bacchus and the Muses sung,

And Cupid, still at Venus' side,

And
Lycus, beautiful and young, Dark-hair'd, dark-eyed.
O
sweetest lyre, to Phoebus dear, Delight of Jove's high festival,

Blest balm in trouble, hail and hear

Whene'er I call!





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