Classic Poem

O Censorinus, glad were I
My friends with gifts to gratify
Of chalices, and bronzes chaste
Chosen with care to please each taste,
And tripods that in days of yore
Greek champions for prizes bore.
Nor of my bounty would your share
Be least, if only rich I were
In masterpieces by the hand
Of Scopas or Parrhasius planned,
In sculpture skilled and painting they
Now god, now mortal, to portray.
Not there my strength, not that way leans
Your inclination, nor your means
Cause you to need such presents fine.
Verses you love; the power is mine
Verses to give, and mine as well
The value of the gift to tell.
Not marbles graved by state award
Great public service to record,
Which to brave captains after death
Bring back again their life and breath,
Not the swift flight of Hannibal foiled,
And threats that on his head recoiled,
Not evil Carthage sunk in flames,
More brilliantly the praise proclaims
Of him who home with title earned
From conquered Africa returned,
Than does Calabria's muse. For aught
Of all the good you may have wrought,
Silence thereon while poets keep,
You never the reward will reap.
What were his lot to-day who birth
To Mars and Ilia owed, his worth
If envious reticence opposed,
Nor Romulus' name to us disclosed?
His virtue, the good will and tongue
Of mighty bards his deeds who sung,
Raised Aeacus from Styx to rest
In the rich islands of the blest.
The Muse forbids the death of those
Who merit praise: the Muse bestows
Heaven's bliss. 'Tis thus that Hercules,
His hard toils o'er, in longed-for ease
At Jove's high banquets holds his place.
'Tis thus the twins of Tyndareus' race
Shine forth bright stars with power to save
Ships foundering 'neath the unfathomed wave;
And, crowned with vine, his votaries prayers
Liber to happy issues bears.