tones the Roman glory. The last ode of Book III, beginning, _Exegi monumentum ære perennius,_ I’ve reared a monument than bronze more lasting, serves as an epilogue to the finished collection. The subjects of the odes are so various as to touch upon almost every circumstance of human life and every mood of human feeling. Friendship, love, the gods, patriotism, conviviality, the pleasures of country life, events of the day, and philosophical thoughts, all find their place. In tone the odes are grave and gay, lively and serene, sometimes fantastic, more often thoughtful or at least reasonable. More than once the thought that life is short and we should pluck its blossoms ere they fade occurs in one form or another. The workmanship of the odes is wonderful in its perfection. Horace is not one of those who believe that perfect poetry comes purely by inspiration, without labor. He writes no word without being sure that it is the best word in its place. His metres are adapted to the thought he wishes to express, and the perfection of the metre makes even simple or common thoughts beautiful. The odes are not the ardent outpourings of a passionate spirit, as are some of the poems of Catullus, but they are the carefully elaborated expressions of the thoughts and sentiments of a gentle, kindly, thoughtful, but gay and humorous man of the world. They do not stir our blood, but they arouse our admiration, satisfy our taste, and please us by their tone of cultured and refined sentiment. The variety of their contents can not be presented in selections, nor can all the qualities of any ode be adequately rendered in a translation. One of the shortest but not the least attractive odes is the following, addressed to his cup-bearer: Persia’s pomp, my boy, I hate; No coronals of flowerets rare For me on bare of linden plait, Nor seek thou to discover where The lush rose lingers late. With unpretending myrtle twine, Naught else! It fits your brows Attending me; it graces mine As I in happy ease carouse Beneath the thick-leaved vine.[71] The following ode offers more variety, and is perhaps more representative: One dazzling mass of solid snow, Soracte stands; the bent woods fret Beneath their load, and, sharpest set With frost, the streams have ceased to flow. Pile on great fagots and break up The ice; let influence more benign Enter with four-years-treasured wine, Fetched in the ponderous Sabine cup; Leave to the gods all else. When they Have once bid rest the winds that war Over the passionate seas, no more Gray ash and cypress rock and sway. Ask not what future suns shall bring; Count to-day gain, whatever it chance To be; nor, young man, scorn the dance, Nor deem sweet Love an idle thing,