A Palinode. I-16 (From The Odes Of Horace)

    Oh, daughter, lovelier than your lovely mother,
        Whatever punishment you may desire
        Give my offending verses; in the fire
    Throw them, please you, or in the Adriatic.
    Not Dindymene, no, nor even Apollo
        So shakes the minds of priests within the shrine;
        Nor so disturbing is the God of wine,
    Nor Corybantes doubling their shrill cymbals,
    As direful fits of anger that are frightened
        Neither by Noric sword nor savage flame,
        Nor by ship-wrecking seas, nor them can tame
    Great Jupiter himself, with all his thunders.
    To our original clay, they say Prometheus
        Was forced to add a portion he had made
        Of bits from every creature, and he laid
    In human hearts rage from the furious lion.
    With crushing ruin rage destroyed Thyestes;
        And as a final cause rage may be known
        Why mighty cities fell, quite overthrown,
    And why upon their walls a sneering army
    Its plowshare drags along. But keep your temper!
        Me, too in my sweet youth a frenzied heart
        Has tempted sorely, and its maddening dart
    Has driven me to write impetuous verses
    To change sad things for brighter I am seeking,
        And since my offending verses I retract,
        I beg of you in turn a friendly act,
    That you again to me your heart give over.

Helen Leah Reed

Helen Leah Reed (1860-1926) was an American author and poet, renowned for her contributions to children's literature and her historical novels. She was an influential literary figure of her time, often remembered for her stories that blended education with entertainment. Reed's works reflected her deep knowledge and interest in history, making her a notable figure in early 20th-century American literature.

Helen Leah Reed

At Miami

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

To Mrs. Julia Ward Howe

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

The Harvard Regiment

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

A Liberty Bond

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

English

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To Melpomene. IV-3 (From The Odes Of Horace)

    Oh, him whom at birth you with favor regarded
        Melpomene! never an Isthmian game
    Shall render renowned, though he's skilled as a boxer,
        Nor shall a swift horse lead him onward to fame.
    Though a victor he rides in a chariot Achaian,
        Not him shall the fortune of war ever show.
    In the Capitol wearing the garland of laurel
        Because the proud threatenings of kings he laid low.
    But every stream flowing over the country
        Fertile Tibur around, and so every grove
    With its thick-growing leaves shall ennoble the poet,
        In Æolian song he ennobled shall prove.
    The offspring of Rome, that is Queen among cities,
        Me have deemed as a bard to be worthy a place
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The Hardy Youth. III-2 (From The Odes Of Horace)

    The hardy youth, my friends, in bitter warfare
        To narrow poverty must learn to bend,
    And, for his spear a horseman to be dreaded,
        Courageous Parthians into flight must send.
    And he must try all dangerous adventures,
        His life out in the open he must pass;
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        Him spying from their hostile walls, "Alas,"
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        Unskilled in warlike arts, should dare attack
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Odes From Horace. - To Lyce, On Her Refusing To Admit His Visits. Book The Third, Ode The Tenth.

Now had you drank cold Tanais' wave,
Whose streams the drear vale slowly lave,
    A barbarous Scythian's Bride,
Yet, Lyce, might you grieve to hear
Your Lover braves the winds severe,
    That pierce his aching side.

O listen to the howling groves,
That labour o'er your proud alcoves,
    And hear the jarring door!
Mark how the star, at eve that rose,
Has brightly glaz'd the settled snows,
    While every leaf is hoar!

Gay Venus hates this cold disdain; -
Cease then its rigors to maintain,
    That sprightly joys impede,
Lest the strain'd cord, with which you bind
The freedom of my amorous mind,
    In rapid whirl recede!

Born of a jocund Tuscan Sire,
Did he transmit his ardent fire
    That, like Ulysses' Queen,
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To Stella, Who Collected And Transcribed His Poems

As, when a lofty pile is raised,
We never hear the workmen praised,
Who bring the lime, or place the stones.
But all admire Inigo Jones:
So, if this pile of scatter'd rhymes
Should be approved in aftertimes;
If it both pleases and endures,
The merit and the praise are yours.
    Thou, Stella, wert no longer young,
When first for thee my harp was strung,
Without one word of Cupid's darts,
Of killing eyes, or bleeding hearts;
With friendship and esteem possest,
I ne'er admitted Love a guest.
    In all the habitudes of life,
The friend, the mistress, and the wife,
Variety we still pursue,
In pleasure seek for something new;
Or else, comparing with the rest,
Take comfort that our own is best;
The best we value by the worst,
As tradesmen s...

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To Censorinus. IV-8 (From The Odes Of Horace)

    With kindly thought I'd give, Oh Censorinus,
        Bowls and bronze vases pleasing to each friend;
    Tripods I'd offer, prizes of brave Grecians,
        And not the worst of gifts to you I'd send
    Were I, forsooth, rich in such artist's treasure
        As Scopas and Parrhasius could convey,
    This one in stone, and that in liquid color,
        Skilled here a man, - a god there to portray.
    But mine no power like this, nor does your spirit
        Or your affairs need luxuries so choice.
    Songs we can give, and on the gift set value,
        Songs we can give, and you in songs rejoice.
    Not marble carved with popular inscriptions
        Whereby the spirit and the life return
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Odes From Horace. - To Lydia. Book The First, Ode The Eighth.

    O, Lydia! I conjure thee tell
Why, with persisting zeal, thou dost employ
    The strongest power of amorous spell
    On Sybaris, belov'd too well,
Wounding his fame amid voluptuous joy?

    Why shuns he now the noon-tide glare,
Inur'd to whirling dust, and scorching heat?
    Ceases the Warrior-vest to wear
    In which he us'd, with graceful air,
Aspiring Youths, all emulous, to meet?

    Why is it now no more his pride
To rein the ardent horse with agile arm?
    With new-strung sinews to divide
    The yellow Tyber's angry tide,
When the tempestuous showers its rage alarm?

    Why hates he, as the viper's gore,
The Wrestler's oil, that supples every vein?
    Why do we see his arms no more
    With livid bruises spotted o'e...

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