Classic Poem

" FIVE books had been enough; a further pair
Are over many; ere thy jesting pall,
Retire, my muse, for fame hath given her all.
And thou and I find welcome everywhere.

Thy tomb, Messalla, shall be overthrown,
To dust shall sink thy marbles, Licinus,
While nations yet to be shall cherish us
And bear our songs to motherlands unknown."

'Twas thus I spake and scarce had done, when she
Who by the perfume of her floating hair
And fragrant robe made sweet the laden air,
She, the ninth muse, Thalia, answered me.

" Ingrate, wouldst leave thy quips to play the sage?
Ah, sluggish bard, what more dost thou desire,
Wilt take the buskin for the sock, aspire
To thunder savage war in epic rage?

So might some bawling pedant cite thee — one
Whom generous youth and ripening maiden hate —
On swelling themes let prigs and dullards prate
Whose toil the midnight lamp sees yet undone.

Season with native salt thy merry lay,
Show Rome her very self in word and deed,
And so the piping of thy slender reed
Shall sound when clarion blasts have died away."