Classic Poem

To rival Pindar whoso makes his aim,
On wings by Daedalus' art of wax compact
Soars destined, Julus, to bequeath his name
To watery tract.

As river swoln by rain from mountain side
Flows high above its banks, so, deep and strong,
From Pindar's fount upwells a boiling tide
Of copious song.

Apollo's bays are aye his rightful fee,
When, swept along on flood of dithyramb bold,
He pours new words in rhythms that may not be
By law controlled;

Or when of gods his lay, and kings from sire
Divine descended, by whose vengeance just
Centaurs, and dread Chimaera breathing fire
Were brought to dust;

Or of Elean winners when he tells
To heavenly bliss led home, athlete or steed,
In ode whose worth a hundred-fold excels
The sculptor's meed;

Or mourns young bridegroom reft from maid forlorn,
And strength and courage and golden virtues bright
Portrays, and lifts from nether gloom upborne
To eternal light.

The swan of Dirce draughts of buoyant air
Raise when he lists to cloudy height sublime.
To Matine bee, Antonius, me compare,
From fragrant thyme

Intent with busy care sweet drops to drain
Round Tibur's wood and banks with spray bedewed
With plodding toil like hers I mould my strain
Of lowly mood.

Thy mightier stroke in Caesar's praise the chord
Will wake, when, haling down the Sacred Way
Sygambrians fierce, he wears his due reward
Of leafy bay.

Fate and the kindly gods ne'er gave to earth
A nobler boon; nor time can have in store
Aught better, though a golden age to birth
It bring once more.

Thou'lt sing of festal days, and public sports
Voted for brave Augustus home returned
To crown our prayers: thou'lt sing of empty courts,
And pleas adjourned.

O then, if aught of mine may audience win,
To swell the joyous cheers that Caesar meet,
That bright and glorious morn with tuneful din
My voice shall greet.

‘Hail! triumph, hail!’ in oft-repeated cries
All Rome will shout along the pageant's line;
And to propitious gods rich smoke will rise
From many a shrine.

Ten bulls and heifers ten will pay thy vow.
For mine I have a weanling calf designed,
That for the altar in broad pasture now
Grows unconfined,

His head arrayed with curving horns that match
Those the young moon at her third rising wears,
All brown his coat, save that one snowy patch
His forehead bears.