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157
The Third Ode of the 4th Book of Horace Paraphrased.
I
Whom first Melpomene, thy EyeWith friendly Aspect views,
Shall from his Cradle rise renown'd,
And sacred to the Muse.
II
Nor to the Isthmian Games, his FameAnd deathless Triumphs owe;
Nor shall he wear the verdant Wreath,
That shades the Champion's Brow.
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III
Nor in the wide Elæan PlainsFatigue the Courser's Speed;
Nor thro' the glorious Cloud of Dust,
Provoke the bounding Steed.
IV
Nor, as an haughty Victor, mountThe Capitolian Heights,
And proudly dedicate to Jove
The Trophies of his Fights.
V
Because his thund'ring Hand in WarHas check'd the swelling Tide
Of the stern Tyrant's Pow'r, and broke
The Measures of his Pride.
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VI
But by sweet Tybur's Groves and Streams,His glorious Theme pursues,
And scorns the Laurels of the War,
For those that crown the Muse.
VII
There in the most retir'd Retreats,He sets his charming Song,
To the sweet Harp which Sappho touch'd,
Or bold Alcæus strung.
VIII
Rank'd by thy Sons, Imperial Rome,Among the Poet's Quire,
Above the reach of Envy's Hand
I safely may aspire.
160
IX
Thou sacred Muse, whose artful HandCan teach the Bard to sing;
Can animate the golden Lyre,
And wake the living String.
X
Thou, by whose mighty Pow'r, may singIn unaccustom'd Strains,
The silent Fishes in the Floods,
As on their Banks the Swans.
XI
To thee I owe my spreading Fame,That thousands as they gaze,
Make me their Wonder's common Theme,
And Object of their Praise.
161
XII
If first I struck the Lesbian Lyre,No Fame belongs to me;
I owe my Honours, when I please,
(If e'er I please) to thee.
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