Classic Poem

Above the vulgar and the trite
Transform'd, the poet takes his flight
Thro' heav'n, and will be held on earth no more;
But o'er th'abodes of man, of envious man, shall soar.
Not I, the poor man's offspring scorn'd;
Not I thus honour'd and adorn'd,
As by Maecenas to be call'd his friend,
Shall know the Stygian stream, or share a common end.
Now, ev'n but now, my skin began
To roughen, and my upper man
Of a white bird the radiant form assumes,
And on my hands and neck spring forth the glossy plumes.
Now a melodious swan indeed,
Th'Icarian flight I shall exceed;
And Bosphorus his roaring rocks will know,
And Syrtes, and the plains of Hyperborean snow:
The Dacians who so poorly feign
To hold the Romans in disdain;
The Colchan and Gelonians far remote,
And skilful Spain and Gaul shall learn my works by rote.
No dirges, squalid grief, or moan,
At mine unreal death be shown;
Your loud lamentings at my grave restrain,
Nor care to build the tomb this verse has render'd vain.