ODE XX. TO MÆCENAS.
Horace supposing himself changed into a swan, will fly all
the world over; from which adventure he infers, that his poetry will be immortal.
Above the vulgar and the trite
Transform'd, the poet takes his flight
Thro' heav'n, and will be held on earth no more;
But o'er th'abodes of man, of envious man, shall soar.
Not I, the poor man's offspring scorn'd;
Not I thus honour'd and adorn'd,
As by Mæcenas to be call'd his friend,
Shall know the Stygian stream, or share a common end.
Now, ev'n but now, my skin began
To roughen, and my upper man
Of a white bird the radiant form assumes,
And on my hands and neck spring forth the glossy plumes.
Now a melodious swan indeed,
Th'Icarian flight I shall exceed;
And Bosphorus his roaring rocks will know,
And Syrtes, and the plains of Hyperborean snow:
The Dacians who so poorly feign
To hold the Romans in disdain;
The Colchan and Gelonians far remote,
And skilful Spain and Gaul shall learn my works by rote.
No dirges, squalid grief, or moan,
At mine unreal death be shown;
Your loud lamentings at my grave restrain,
Nor care to build the tomb this verse has render'd vain.
