Of the Immortality of the Muses

Thy well-known malice, fretful Envy, cease, Nor tax the Muse and me— With a weak genius, and inglorious ease; What!—I should then, whilst youth does vigour yield, Pursue the dusty glories of the field; Our fathers' praise! or bend my utmost care To the dull noise of the litigious bar. No! these must die;—but the most noble prize, That which alone can man immortalize, Must from the Muses' harmony arise: Homer shall live, whilst Tenedos shall stand, Or Ida's top survey the neighbouring strand, Whilst Simois' streams along the valleys glide, And in the sea discharge their rapid tide:— Hesiod shall live, till corn is not in use, Till the plump grape denies its wealthy juice:— The world Callimachus shall ever prize; For what his fancy wants, his art supplies:— The tragedies of mighty Sophocles Shall in no age their just applauses miss:— So well Aratus of the planets wrote, That sun and moon must fail when he's forgot:— When crafty Davus a hard father cheats To serve the son; when easy cully treats The jilting whore and bawd; the figures shew, The Comick from Menander's model drew;— Ennius, whose Muse by Nature was design'd Compleat, had Art with bounteous Nature join'd;— And tragic Accius, of style sublime And weighty words, shall stand the shock of Time:— Whilst Jason's golden fleece shall have a name, Who shall a stranger be to Varro's fame!— Lucretius Nature's causes did rehearse In such a lofty and commanding verse, As shall remain till that one fatal day, Which must the world itself in ruins lay:— Virgil, thy Works Divine shall patterns stand For each succeeding age's copying hand, Whilst Rome shall all its conquer'd world command:— Whilst Cupid shall be arm'd with bow and dart, And flaming shafts shall pierce the lover's heart; Shall we, O sweet Tibullus, love each line That comes from that soft moving pen of thine:— Both East and West resound with Gallus' fame, Gallus and his Lycoris are their theme:— Statues and tombs with age consume and die; 'Tis verse alone has immortality: To verse must yield the greatest acts of kings; Riches and empire are but empty things, Without the lasting fame a poet brings. Let vulgar spirits trivial blessings choose; May thy Castalian spring inspire my Muse, O God of wit, and myrtles wreath my hair! Then the too fearful lover may repair To what I write, to free his breast from care. As living worth detraction still attends, Which after death a juster fame defends; So I shall my last funeral flame survive, And in my better part for ever live.