HORACE, Ode 3. Book IV

He, on whose Birth the Lyric Queen Of Numbers smil'd, shall never grace The Isthmian Gauntlet, nor be seen First in the fam'd Olympick Race. He shall not after Toils of War And taming haughty Monarch's Pride, With lawrell'd Brows conspicuous far, To Jove's Tarpeian Temple ride. But him the Streams, that warbling flow Rich Tybet's flowery Meads along, And shady Groves, (his Haunts) shall know The Master of the Aeolian Song. The Sons of Rome, majestic Rome! Have fix'd me in the Poet's Choir, And Envy now, or dead, or dumb, Forbear to blame what they admire. Goddess of the sweet-sounding Lute, Which thy harmonious Touch obeys, Who canst the finny Race, tho' mute, To Cygnet's dying Accents raise; Thy Gift it is, that all with Ease My new unrival'd Honours own; That I still live, and living please, O Goddess! is thy Gift alone.