27 JANUARY 1877, Page 14

AN ODE OF HORACE.

[Horace, Book L, last Ode, beginning, "Perigees odi."1

To feast in high state Like a Persian, I hate ; Wreaths of linden I care not to braid.

Then cease, boy, to look Through each leafy nook For the summer's last rose ere it fade. The myrtle alone Has a charm all its own ; I forbid thee aught else to entwine.

It is fairest for thee, It is sweetest for me, While I quaff 'neath the close-arching vine.

Saint Leonard, December 29, 1876. J. R.