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Polybius, Histories 602 0 Browse Search
M. Tullius Cicero, Orations, for Quintius, Sextus Roscius, Quintus Roscius, against Quintus Caecilius, and against Verres (ed. C. D. Yonge) 226 0 Browse Search
Titus Livius (Livy), History of Rome, books 1-10 (ed. Rev. Canon Roberts) 104 0 Browse Search
Titus Livius (Livy), History of Rome, books 1-10 (ed. Rev. Canon Roberts) 102 0 Browse Search
Cornelius Tacitus, The History (ed. Alfred John Church, William Jackson Brodribb) 92 0 Browse Search
John Conington, Commentary on Vergil's Aeneid, Volume 1 90 0 Browse Search
Titus Livius (Livy), History of Rome, books 1-10 (ed. Rev. Canon Roberts) 80 0 Browse Search
Pausanias, Description of Greece 80 0 Browse Search
M. Tullius Cicero, Orations, The fourteen orations against Marcus Antonius (Philippics) (ed. C. D. Yonge) 78 0 Browse Search
John Conington, Commentary on Vergil's Aeneid, Volume 2 70 0 Browse Search
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Browsing named entities in Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington). You can also browse the collection for Rome (Italy) or search for Rome (Italy) in all documents.

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Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 1, Poem 2 (search)
oes, He vows revenge for guiltless blood, And, spite of Jove, his banks o'erflows, Uxorious flood. Yes, Fame shall tell of civic steel That better Persian lives had spilt, To youths, whose minish'd numbers feel Their parents' guilt. What god shall Rome invoke to stay Her fall? Can suppliance overbear The ear of Vesta, turn'd away From chant and prayer? Who comes, commission'd to atone For crime like ours? at length appear, A cloud round thy bright shoulders thrown, Apollo seer! Or Venus, laughteith thy long, long game, Who lov'st fierce shouts and helmets bright, And Moorish warrior's glance of flame Or e'er he smite! Or Maia's son, if now awhile In youthful guise we see thee here, Caesar's avenger—such the style Thou deign'st to bear; Late be thy journey home, and long Thy sojourn with Rome's family; Nor let thy wrath at our great wrong Lend wings to fly. Here take our homage, Chief and Sire; Here wreathe with bay thy conquering brow, And bid the prancing Mede retire, Our Caesar tho
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 1, Poem 21 (search)
Of Dian's praises, tender maidens, tell; Of Cynthus' unshorn god, young striplings, sing; And bright Latona, well Beloved of Heaven's high king. Sing her that streams and silvan foliage loves, Whate'er on Algidus' chill brow is seen, In Erymanthian groves Dark-leaved, or Cragus green. Sing Tempe too, glad youths, in strain as loud, And Phoebus' birthplace, and that shoulder fair, His golden quiver proud And brother's lyre to bear. His arm shall banish Hunger, Plague, and War To Persia and to Britain's coast, away From Rome and Caesar far, If you have zeal to pray.
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 1, Poem 35 (search)
nd sudden turn A triumph to a funeral show! Thee the poor hind that tills the soil Implores; their queen they own in thee, Who in Bithynian vessel toil Amid the vex'd Carpathian sea. Thee Dacians fierce, and Scythian hordes, Peoples and towns, and Rome, their head, And mothers of barbarian lords, And tyrants in their purple dread, Lest, spurn'd by thee in scorn, should fall The state's tall prop, lest crowds on fire To arms, to arms! the loiterers call, And thrones be tumbled in the mire. Necesst In anger from the homes of pride. Then the false herd, the faithless fair, Start backward; when the wine runs dry. The jocund guests, too light to bear An equal yoke, asunder fly. O shield our Caesar as he goes To furthest Britain, and his band, Rome's harvest! Send on Eastern foes Their fear, and on the Red Sea strand! O wounds that scarce have ceased to run! O brother's blood! O iron time! What horror have we left undone? Has conscience shrunk from aught of crime? What shrine has rapine hel
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 2, Poem 1 (search)
The broils that from Metellus date, The secret springs, the dark intrigues, The freaks of Fortune, and the great Confederate in disastrous leagues, And arms with uncleansed slaughter red, A work of danger and distrust, You treat, as one on fire should tread Scarce hid by treacherous ashen crust. Let Tragedy's stern muse be mute Awhile; and when your order'd page Has told Rome's tale, that buskin'd foot Again shall mount the Attic stage, Pollio, the pale defendant's shield, In deep debate the senate's stay, The hero of Dalmatic field By Triumph crown'd with deathless bay. E'en now with trumpet's threatening blare You thrill our ears; the clarion brays; The lightnings of the armour scare The steed, and daunt the rider's gaze. Methinks I hear of leaders proud With no uncomely dust distain'd, And all the world by conquest bow'd, And only Cato's soul unchain'd. Yes, Juno and the powers on high That left their Afric to its doom, Have led the victors' progeny As victims to Jugurtha's tomb. W
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 2, Poem 6 (search)
Septimius, who with me would brave Far Gades, and Cantabrian land Untamed by Rome, and Moorish wave That whirls the sand; Fair Tibur, town of Argive kings, There would I end my days serene, At rest from seas and travellings, And service seen. Should angry Fate those wishes foil, Then let me seek Galesus, sweet To skin-clad sheep, and that rich soil, The Spartan's seat. O, what can match the green recess, Whose honey not to Hybla yields, Whose olives vie with those that bless Venafrum's fields? Long springs, mild winters glad that spot By Jove's good grace, and Aulon, dear To fruitful Bacchus, envies not Falernian cheer. That spot, those happy heights desire Our sojourn; there, when life shall end, Your tear shall dew my yet warm pyre, Your bard and friend.
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 2, Poem 9 (search)
The rain, it rains not every day On the soak'd meads; the Caspian main Not always feels the unequal sway Of storms, nor on Armenia's plain, Dear Valgius, lies the cold dull snow Through all the year; nor northwinds keen Upon Garganian oakwoods blow, And strip the ashes of their green. You still with tearful tones pursue Your lost, lost Mystes; Hesper sees Your passion when he brings the dew, And when before the sun he flees. Yet not for loved Antilochus Grey Nestor wasted all his years In grief; nor o'er young Troilus His parents' and his sisters' tears For ever flow'd. At length have done With these soft sorrows; rather tell Of Caesar's trophies newly won, And hoar Niphates' icy fell, And Medus' flood, 'mid conquer'd tribes Rolling a less presumptuous tide, And Scythians taught, as Rome prescribes, Henceforth o'er narrower steppes to ride.
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 2, Poem 13 (search)
her's throat the monster press'd Beside, and on his hearthstone spilt, I ween, the blood of midnight guest; Black Colchian drugs, whate'er of guilt Is hatch'd on earth, he dealt in all— Who planted in my rural stead Thee, fatal wood, thee, sure to fall Upon thy blameless master's head. The dangers of the hour! no thought We give them; Punic seaman's fear Is all of Bosporus, nor aught Reeks he of pitfalls otherwhere; The soldier fears the mask'd retreat Of Parthia; Parthia dreads the thrall Of Rome; but Death with noiseless feet Has stolen and will steal on all. How near dark Pluto's court I stood, And Aeacus' judicial throne, The blest seclusion of the good, And Sappho, with sweet lyric moan Bewailing her ungentle sex, And thee, Alcaeus, louder far Chanting thy tale of woful wrecks, Of woful exile, woful war! In sacred awe the silent dead Attend on each: but when the song Of combat tells and tyrants fled, Keen ears, press'd shoulders, closer throng. What marvel, when at those sweet air
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 3, Poem 3 (search)
grandson in the child of wrong, Him whom the Trojan priestess bore. Receive him, Mars! the gates of flame May open: let him taste forgiven The nectar, and enrol his name Among the peaceful ranks of Heaven. Let the wide waters sever still Ilium and Rome, the exiled race May reign and prosper where they will: So but in Paris' burial-place The cattle sport, the wild beasts hide Their cubs, the Capitol may stand All bright, and Rome in warlike pride O'er Media stretch a conqueror's hand. Aye, let heRome in warlike pride O'er Media stretch a conqueror's hand. Aye, let her scatter far and wide Her terror, where tbe land-lock'd waves Europe from Afric's shore divide, Where swelling Nile the corn-field laves— Of strength more potent to disdain Hid gold, best buried in the mine, Than gather it with hand profane, That for man's greed would rob a shrine. Whate'er the bound to earth ordain'd, There let her reach the arm of power, Travelling, where raves the fire unrein'd, And where the storm-cloud and the shower. Yet, warlike Roman, know thy doom, Nor, drunken with a
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 3, Poem 5 (search)
ainted life!) Earning his foemen-kinsmen's pay, His king, forsooth, a Mede, his sire A Marsian? can he name forget, Gown, sacred shield, undying fire, And Jove and Rome are standing yet? 'Twas this that Regulus foresaw, What time he spurn'd the foul disgrace Of peace, whose precedent would draw Destruction on an unborn race, Should aught but death the prisoner's chain Unrivet. “I have seen,” he said, “Rome's eagle in a Punic fane, And armour, ne'er a blood-drop shed, Stripp'd from the soldier; I have seen Free sons of Rome with arms fast tied; The fields we spoil'd with corn are green, And Carthage opes her portals wide. The warrior, sure, redeem'd by goldRome with arms fast tied; The fields we spoil'd with corn are green, And Carthage opes her portals wide. The warrior, sure, redeem'd by gold, Will fight the bolder! Aye, you heap On baseness loss. The hues of old Revisit not the wool we steep; And genuine worth, expell'd by fear, Returns not to the worthless slave. Break but her meshes, will the deer Assail you? then will he be brave Who once to faithless foes has knelt; Yes, Carthage yet his spear will fly, Who with<
Q. Horatius Flaccus (Horace), Odes (ed. John Conington), Book 3, Poem 6 (search)
ur coping still; 'Tis Heaven neglected bids o'erflow The measure of Italian ill. Now Pacorus and Monaeses twice Have given our unblest arms the foil; Their necklaces, of mean device; Smiling they deck with Roman spoil. Our city, torn by faction's throes, Dacian and Ethiop well-nigh razed, These with their dreadful navy, those For archer-prowess rather praised. An evil age erewhile debased The marriage-bed, the race, the home; Thence rose the flood whose waters waste The nation and the name of Rome. Not such their birth, who stain'd for us The sea with Punic carnage red, Smote Pyrrhus, smote Antiochus, And Hannibal, the Roman's dread. Theirs was a hardy soldier-brood, Inured all day the land to till With Sabine spade, then shoulder wood Hewn at a stern old mother's will, When sunset lengthen'd from each height The shadows, and unyoked the steer, Restoring in its westward flight The hour to toilworn travail dear. What has not cankering Time made worse? Viler than grandsires, sires beget
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