To Apollo. I-31 (From The Odes Of Horace)

    What prays the poet of enshrined Apollo?
        What is he asking for with lifted hands,
    Pouring a fresh libation from his flagon? -
        Not fertile crop from rich Sardinian lands, -
    Not the fair herds of sultry, damp Calabria, -
        Not even Indian ivory and gold; -
    Nor meadows that the Liris, silent river,
        With sluggish flow has nibbled, as it rolled.
    Let those whom Fortune has endowed with vineyards,
        With the Calenian knife their grapevines trim,
    Let the rich merchant from his golden goblet
        Drink wine by Syrian traffic bought for him.
    Dear to the very gods he three times yearly,
        Yes four times, travels the Atlantic Sea
    Unharmed. But I - I feed myself on olives,
        Ay, succory and soft mallows are for me.

    Let one enjoy sound health and my possessions -
        Son of Latona, grant to me, I pray,
    With a sane mind an old age all unsullied,
        Nor let my gift - my lyre - be taken away.

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

Life And Death

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

To Neobule. III-12 (From The Odes Of Horace)

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

Religion. I-34 (From The Odes Of Horace)

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

To Maecenas. III-29 (From The Odes Of Horace)

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

English

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Odes From Horace. - To Apollo. Book The First, Ode The Thirty-First.

    What asks the POET, when he pours
His first libation in the Delphic Bowers?
    Duteous before the altar standing,
    With lively hope his soul expanding,
O! what demands he, when the crimson wine
Flows sparkling from the vase, and laves the golden shrine?

    Not the rich and swelling grain
    That yellows o'er Sardinia's isle;
Nor snowy herds, slow winding thro' the plain,
When warm Calabria's rosy mornings smile;
    Nor gold, nor gems, that India yields,
    Nor yet those fair and fertile fields,
Which, thro' their flow'ry banks as calm he glides,
The silent [1]Liris' azure stream divides.

    Let those, for whom kind fortune still
Leads lavish tendrils o'er the sloping hill,
    Let such, with care their vineyard dressing,
    Their...

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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
    In her glorious choir, and less and less keen...

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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
    After their death unto our upright leaders,
        Nor Hannib...

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To Maecenas. III-29 (From The Odes Of Horace)

    Mæcenas, scion of Tyrrhenian rulers,
        A jar, as yet unpierced, of mellow wine
    Long waits thee here, with balm for thee made ready
        And blooming roses in thy locks to twine.

    No more delay, nor always look with favor
        The sloping fields of Æsula upon;
    Why gaze so long on ever marshy Tibur
        Near by the mount of murderer Telegon?

    Give up thy luxury - it palls upon thee -
        Thy tower that reaches yonder lofty cloud;
    Cease to admire the smoke, the wealth, the uproar,
        And all that well hath made our Rome so proud.

    Sometimes a change is grateful to the rich man,
        A simple meal beneath a humble roof
    Has often smoothed from care the furrowed forehead,
        Though unadorned t...

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Horace I, 31.

As forth he pours the new made wine,
What blessing asks the lyric poet--
What boon implores in this fair shrine
Of one full likely to bestow it?

Not for Sardinia's plenteous store,
Nor for Calabrian herds he prayeth,
Nor yet for India's wealth galore,
Nor meads where voiceless Liris playeth.

Let honest riches celebrate
The harvest earned--I'd not deny it;
Yet am I pleased with my estate,
My humble home, my frugal diet.

Child of Latonia, this I crave;
May peace of mind and health attend me,
And down into my very grave
May this dear lyre of mine befriend me!

Eugene Field

The Second Hymn Of Callimachus. To Apollo

Hah! how the laurel, great Apollo's tree,
And all the cavern shakes! Far off, far off,
The man that is unhallow'd: for the god,
The god approaches. Hark! he knocks; the gates
Feel the glad impulse, and the sever'd bars
Submissive clink against their brazen portals.
Why do the Delian palms incline their boughs,
Self-moved, and hovering swans, their throats released
From native silence, carol sounds harmonious?

Begin young men the hymn: let all your harps
Break their inglorious silence, and the dance,
In mystic numbers trod, explain the music,
But first by ardent prayer and clear lustration
Purge the contagious spots of human weakness:
Impure no mortal can behold Apollo.
So may ye flourish favour'd by the god,
In youth with happy nuptials, and in age
...

Matthew Prior