University of Virginia Library

ODE III. To Melpomene.

The Youth, whose Birth the kindly Muse
With an indulgent Aspect views,
Shall neither at the Barrier shine,
Nor the Olympick Garland win,
Nor drive the Chariot o'er the Plain,
Nor guide with Skill the flowing Rein;
No Laurel Wreaths for Battels won,
Shall the triumphant Victor crown,
When to the Capitol he leads,
And on the Necks of Monarchs treads;
But Tibur's Streams and verdant Glades,
The limpid Spring, and gloomy Shades,
Shall fill his never-dying Lays,
And crown him with immortal Praise.
Amidst her other vocal Sons,
Me Rome, the Prince of Cities, owns
A Master of the tuneful Lyre,
And seats me in Apollo's Quire.
The vulgar Criticks I disdain,
And Envy grinds her Teeth in vain.
O Goddess of the golden Shell!
Whose Hands in artful Notes excel;
Mute Fishes, when inspir'd by Thee,
Can mate the Swan in Harmony:
To thee my Fame and Praise I owe,
When pointing Crowds, where-e'er I go,
Gaze and admire, and cry, That's He!
The Prince of Lyrick Poetry!
For (if I please) I please by Thee.