Classic Poem

In a small ship, my friend,
You soon your course shall bend,
To face huge vessels tow'ry-stern'd;
Prepar'd to undergo
All perils of the foe,
For Caesar, as thyself concern'd.
And what will come of me,
For life is sweet with thee,
But on the contrary severe:
What, must I peace pursue,
As so enjoin'd by you?
Peace is not peace if you're not here!
Or shall I danger dare,
Altho' forbid my share
Of bold adventure in the van:
With that degree of heart,
As best beseems the part,
Of him that acts up to the man?
Yes, yes I will sustain
Each ill of land or main,
Fell Caucasus, or Alpine snows;
Far as remotest west,
With thee my manly breast
I will to ev'ry foe oppose.
Perhaps you are to seek,
How timorous and weak,
I with my aid could help you out;
I answer, " less the fear,
To persons that are near —
Absence and distance heighten doubt."
As when she leaves her young,
The serpent's forked tongue,
The bird will fear with more of dread;
Not that her presence there,
Could save her callow care,
Or stave destruction from their head.
With pleasure for your sake,
This voyage would Horace make,
Or any journey or campaign;
Without a view to bow
More steers to pull my plough,
Upon a more extensive plain;
Or from Calabria's mead,
To turn my flock to feed
Lucania's marsh when summer reigns;
Or spread my marble cot,
To that ambitious spot,
Which Circe's title still retains.
Your bounty is my store,
Enough for me, and more —
I will not for myself provide
What, like a rake in taste,
I might profusely waste,
Or like penurious Chremes hide.