Classic Poem

[Horace, Book I, Ode i]

Thy noble birth, Mæcenas springs
From an illustrious race of kings,
That in Etruria reign'd;
Thy kind protection is my boast,
My all without thee, had been lost,
My patron and my friend.

Some in Olympick games delight,
Where clouds of dust obscure the sight,
And darken all the skies;
Striving who first shall reach the goal,
Their kindling wheels around to roll,
And gain the glorious prize.

The palm obtain'd, so great the odds,
It ranks the victors with the Gods,
That rule the world below:
Others by low intrigues elate,
To shine a Minister of State,
All less pursuits forego.

Some lur'd with hopes of ample gain,
Their garners fill with Lybian grain,
Awaiting times of dearth:
Some wedded to paternal fields,
Admire the store that labour yields,
Employ'd to till the earth.

Offer to these Peruvian mines,
Or all the glitt'ring wealth that shines,
On India's distant shore;
They would not tempt the stormy main,
Where winds unequal war maintain,
And waves incessant roar

The merchant views, with fear aghast,
The fury of the Northern blast,
When lofty billows foam;
Praises the country's calm retreats,
Yet soon his shatter'd bark refits,
In trackless paths to roam

Some cheer the hours with racy wine,
The product of the Massick vine,
Reclin'd beneath a shade;
Or near a mossy sacred source,
Where streams begin their silent course,
Their listless limbs are laid.

Others are pleas'd when monarchs jarr,
Admiring all the pomp of war,
And ev'ry warlike air;
When trumpets fainting hearts inspire,
And clarions kindle martial fire,
Detested by the fair.

The sportsman bent to chace the hind,
To all delights besides is blind,
His spouse entreats in vain;
Despising wint'ry skies he bounds,
Attended by sagacious hounds,
O'er hill, and dale, and plain.

Politer arts, Mæcenas, share,
Thy calmer hours and banish care,
Th' employment of the wise;
An ivy wreath thy temples binds,
An honour due t'exalted minds,
The kindred of the skies.

I love to sing the cooling grove,
Where nymphs and fawns in measures move;
And if the Muses aid:
Euterpe shall the flute inspire,
And Polyhymnia touch the lyre,
Deep in a sacred shade.

Thus rais'd above the vulgar throng,
To noble themes I'll suit my song,
And if you rank my name;
Among the tuneful lyrick train,
My works shall envious Time disdain;
Secure of deathless fame.