Odes by Horace

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THE ODES AND CARMEN SAECULARE OF HORACE

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QUO ME, BACCHE.


Whither, Bacchus, tear'st thou me,

Fill'd with thy strength? What dens, what forests these,

Thus in wildering race I see?

What cave shall hearken to my melodies,

Tuned to tell of Caesar's praise

And
throne him high the heavenly ranks among? Sweet and strange shall be my lays,

A tale till now by poet voice unsung.

As the Evian on the height,

Housed from her sleep, looks wonderingly abroad,

Looks on Thrace with snow-drifts white,

And
Rhodope by barbarous footstep trod, So my truant eyes admire
The
banks, the desolate forests. O great King Who the Naiads dost inspire,
And
Bacchants, strong from earth huge trees to wring! Not a lowly strain is mine,

No mere man's utterance. O, 'tis venture sweet

Thee to follow, God of wine,

Making the vine-branch round thy temples meet!





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