University of Virginia Library

ODE VIII. To Censorinus.

If I with Scopas' Art could raise
A God or Man, in Stone or Brass,
Or to Parrhasian Colours give
A human Face, and bid it live;
There's not a Friend, who shares my Soul,
Should want a Statue, or a Bowl,
Or Tripod of a pond'rous Size,
Rich as some antick Grecian Prize:
To You my noblest Gifts I'd send,
To You, my best my dearest Friend:
But no such vulgar Arts as these,
Or Presents, Me or You can please;
In Lyrick Numbers I excel,
This is the Art you love so well:
For You a Poem I design;
You know the Value of each Line.
Not Statues, in which Heroes breathe,
And stand secure from Time and Death,
Nor he, who paints the bloody Field,
With Scenes of Rout and Slaughter fill'd,
Where Hannibal's less haughty Mien,
And Carthage all in Flames is seen,
Can add more Worth to Scipio's Name,
Than when the Muses sing his Fame.
If Poetry her Aid denies,
All Merit unrewarded dies.
Had Romulus, from Ilia sprung,
Perish'd, forgotten, and unsung;
Who of his Race could tell the Name,
From whence the Roman Empire came?
The Muses, by superiour Pow'r,
Redeem'd from Pluto's gloomy Shore
Great Æacus, with Glory crown'd,
And through a thousand Isles renown'd.
Whilst Bards can sing no Hero dies,
They lift the Virtuous to the Skies:
Thus Hercules now sits above
Among the Gods, and drinks with Jove;
Fair Leda's Sons are chang'd to Stars,
Propitious to the Mariners;
Bacchus with Vine-Leaves crowns his Brows,
And hears the Suppliant's humble Vows.