With liberal heart to every friend
A bowl or caldron would I send;
Or tripods, which the Grecians gave,
As rich rewards, to heroes brave;
Nor should the meanest gift be thine,
If the rich works of art were mine,
By Scopas, or Parrhasius wrought,
With animating skill who taught
The shapeless stone with life to glow,
Or bade the breathing colours flow,
To imitate, in every line,
The form or human or divine.
But I nor boast the curious store,
And you nor want, nor wish for more;
'T is yours the joys of verse to know,
Such joys as Horace can bestow,
While I can vouch my present's worth,
And call its every virtue forth.
Nor columns, which the public raise,
Engraved with monumental praise,
By which the breath of life returns
To heroes, sleeping in their urns:
Nor Hannibal, when swift he fled,
His threats retorted on his head;
Nor impious Carthage wrapt in flame,
From whence great Scipio gained a name,
Such glories round him could diffuse
As the Calabrian poet's muse;
And should the bard his aid deny,
Thy worth shall unrewarded die.
Had envious silence left unsung
The child from Mars and Ilia sprung,
How had we known the hero's fame,
From whom the Roman empire came?
The poet's favour, voice and lays,
Could Æacus from darkness raise,
Snatcht from the Stygian gulfs of hell,
Among the blissful isles to dwell,
The Muse forbids the brave to die,
The Muse enthrones him in the sky;
Alcides, thus, in heaven is placed,
And shares with Jove the immortal feast;
Thus the twin-stars have power to save
The shattered vessel from the wave,
And vine-crowned Bacchus with success
His jovial votaries can bless.