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

    Ah! Unhappy are the maidens, who love's game are kept from playing,
        Nor in mellow wine may wash away their cares;
    Who, scared by scolding uncles' tongues, their terror are displaying, -
        But from you, though, Neobulé, Cupid bears
    Your basket and your webs, yet all the zeal you have been showing
        For industrious Minerva, is the prey
    Of fair Hebrus, Liparæan, when his shoulders, oiled and glowing,
        He has bathed in Tiber's waters. Let me say
    As a horseman, than Bellerophon he's really something greater;
        Never worsted in a hand-fight, nor a race.
    Skilled to shoot the flying stag-herd in the open, - swift he later
        Snares the boar, close-hidden in a shady place.

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

Oak-Leaves

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

The Parasol

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

The Grand Army Passes

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

Serbia

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

English

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To Neobule

A sorry life, forsooth, these wretched girls are undergoing,
Restrained from draughts of pleasant wine, from loving favors showing,
For fear an uncle's tongue a reprimand will be bestowing!

Sweet Cytherea's winged boy deprives you of your spinning,
And Hebrus, Neobule, his sad havoc is beginning,
Just as Minerva thriftily gets ready for an inning.

Who could resist this gallant youth, as Tiber's waves he breasted,
Or when the palm of riding from Bellerophon he wrested,
Or when with fists and feet the sluggers easily he bested?

He shot the fleeing stags with regularity surprising;
The way he intercepted boars was quite beyond surmising,--
No wonder that your thoughts this youth has been monopolizing!

So I repeat that with these maids fate is unkindly dealing...

Eugene Field

To Venus. III-26 (From The Odes Of Horace)

    Lately was I to gentle maidens suited,
        And not without some glory did contend,
    But now my weapons and my lute made useless
        For contests, on this wall I will suspend,
    That guards the left side of our sea-born Venus;
        Here, here, place you my gleaming waxen torch,
    My levers and my crow-bars that can threaten
        The doors that ought to open on this porch.
    Oh, Goddess, thou who blessed Cyprus rulest,
        And Memphis ever lacking Thracian snow,
    My Queen, in passing, with thy whip uplifted
        Give to my haughty Chloe just one blow.

Helen Leah Reed

Odes From Horace. - To Nea[=E]ra. Book The Fifth, Epode The Fifteenth.

'T was night - the moon, upon her sapphire throne,
High o'er the waning stars serenely shone,
When thou, false Nymph, determin'd to prophane
Them, and each Power that rules the earth, and main,
As thy soft, snowy arms about me twin'd,
Close as round oaks the clasping ivies wind,
Swore, while the gaunt wolf shall infest the lea,
And red Orion vex the wintry sea,
While gales shall fan Apollo's floating locks,
That shed their golden light o'er hills and rocks,
So long thy breast should burn with purest fires,
With mutual hopes, and with unchang'd desires.

    Perjur'd Nea[=e]ra! thou shalt one day prove
The worth, the vengeance of my slighted love;
For O! if Manhood steels, if Honor warms,
Horace shall fly, shall scorn thy faithless charms;
Seek some bright...

Anna Seward

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...

Helen Leah Reed

Elegy VI. Anno Aetates Undevigesimo.[1]

As yet a stranger to the gentle fires
That Amathusia's smiling Queen^[2] inspires,
Not seldom I derided Cupid's darts,
And scorn'd his claim to rule all human hearts.
Go, child, I said, transfix the tim'rous dove,
An easy conquest suits an infant Love;
Enslave the sparrow, for such prize shall be
Sufficient triumph to a Chief like thee;
Why aim thy idle arms at human kind?
Thy shafts prevail not 'gainst the noble mind.        
    The Cyprian^[3] heard, and, kindling into ire,
(None kindles sooner) burn'd with double fire.
    It was the Spring, and newly risen day
Peep'd o'er the hamlets on the First of May;
My eyes too tender for the blaze of light,
Still sought the shelter of retiring night,
When Love approach'd, in painted plumes arraye...

William Cowper

Elegy VI. Anno Aetates undevigesimo.1

As yet a stranger to the gentle fires
That Amathusia's smiling Queen² inspires,
Not seldom I derided Cupid's darts,
And scorn'd his claim to rule all human hearts.
Go, child, I said, transfix the tim'rous dove,
An easy conquest suits an infant Love;
Enslave the sparrow, for such prize shall be
Sufficient triumph to a Chief like thee;
Why aim thy idle arms at human kind?
Thy shafts prevail not 'gainst the noble mind.
The Cyprian³ heard, and, kindling into ire,
(None kindles sooner) burn'd with double fire.
It was the Spring, and newly risen day
Peep'd o'er the hamlets on the First of May;
My eyes too tender for the blaze of light,
Still sought the shelter of retiring night,
When Love approach'd, in painted plumes arrayed;
Th'insidious...

John Milton