University of Virginia Library

In Imitation of Horace,

Book iv. Ode iii.

He on whose birth Apollo strongly shone,
Whom then the Muse saluted as her own,
Shall ne'er on Isthmian Sands pursue renown,
But scorn the Piny Wreath and Laurel Crown;
Nor after Toils of many a well fought Day,
To the proud Capitol direct his Way.
But on the Banks of murm'ring Tiber laid,
Trees in soft Whispers waving round his Head,
To the sweet Lyre his Song he shall rehearse,
And all his Glory be deriv'd from Verse,
Imperial Rome, whose Nod the World obeys,
Who gives to warlike Heroes martial Praise,
Has plac'd me in the Poet's charming Choir,
And Envy, tho' unwilling, must retire.
Sweet Nymph, that dost in fair Pieria dwell,
And call forth Musick from the vocal Shell,
Thou who coud'st give to silent Fish a Breath
Sweeter than Swans e'er warbled at their Death;
To thee 'tis due, that as I pass along
Each Eye selects me from the vulgar Throng,
As Father of the Roman Lyric Song.
And that I charm each Ear with Notes divine,
And that I please, if I can please, is thine.