He will not essay even the
strain of Simonides in the lament for an Empire stained by land and sea
with the blood of fratricidal war. His themes shall be rather the feast
and the mimic battles of revelling youths and maidens, the making of
love in the grots of Venus. His lyre shall be jocose, his plectrum of
the lighter sort.
He not only half-humorously disclaims the capacity for lofty themes,
but, especially as he grows older and more philosophic, and perhaps less
lyric, half-seriously attributes whatever he does to persevering effort.
He has
"N_or the pride nor ample pinion_
T_hat the Theban eagle bear_,
S_ailing with supreme dominion_
T_hrough the azure deep of air_;"
he is the bee, with infinite industry flitting from flower to flower,
the unpretending maker of verse, fashioning his songs with only toil and
patience. He believes in the file, in long delay before giving forth to
the world the poem that henceforth can never be recalled. The only
inspiration he claims for _Satire_ and _Epistle_, which, he says,
approximate the style of spoken discourse, lies in the aptness and
patience with which he fashions his verses from language in ordinary
use, giving to words new dignity by means of skillful combination.
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