Classic Poem

Him on whose birth with favour thou
Hast looked but once, Melpomene,
No Isthmian contest will endow
With fame as boxer; ne'er will he
In Grecian car by mettled steed
Be drawn a winner, ne'er, in war
King's high threats crushing, will, with meed
Of Delian bays adorned, before
The crowded Capitol be displayed.
But him the rills that flow along
Green Tibur, him deep bowers of shade
Will mould a prince of lyric song.
The sons of Rome, foremost in place
Of cities, deign with rank among
Sweet choirs of poets me to grace,
And less by envy's tooth I'm stung.
O thou that of the golden shell
Dost govern, Muse, the tuneful string,
That to dumb fishes couldst as well
Grant, if thou list, as swan to sing,
All thine the boon that passers-by
Me as Rome's lyric minstrel show.
My songs' inspirer, aught that I
Of pleasure give, to thee I owe.