T_he monument I build, to men endeared_,
N_ot biting rain, nor raging wind, nor time_,
E_ndlessly flowing through the countless years_,
S_hall e'er destroy. I shall not wholly die_;
T_he grave shall have of me but what appears_;
F_or me fresh praise shall ever multiply_.
A_s long as priest and silent Vestal wind_
T_he Capitolian steep, tongues shall tell o'er_
H_ow humble Horace rose above his kind_
W_here Aufidus's rushing waters roar_
I_n the parched land where rustic Daunus reigned_,
A_nd first taught Grecian numbers how to run_
I_n Latin measure. Muse! the honor gained_
I_s thine, for I am thine till time is done_.
G_racious Melpomene, O hear me now_,
A_nd with the Delphic bay gird round my brow_.
Yet Horace does not always refer to his poetry in this serious vein; if
indeed we are to call serious a manner of literary prophecy which has
always been more or less conventional. His frequent disclaimers of the
higher inspiration are well known. The Muse forbids him to attempt the
epic strain or the praise of Augustus and Agrippa. In the face of grand
themes like these, his genius is slight.
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