Odes 4.2 (Creech): Pindarum Quisquis

HE that to equal Pindar trys,
With Waxen wings he vainly flys
Too near exalted Fame;
And must expect a Fate like his
Who fell, and gave the Sea a name.

As violent Rivers swoln with Rain,
Break o're the neighbouring fruitful Plain
With an impetuous stream;
So Pindar doth all Banks disdain,
And overflows the highest Theme.

In all He doth deserve the Crown
Whether He rushes boldly on,
And rouls new words along;
Through lawless Dytherambicks thrown;
Or Thunders in a looser Song:

Or Gods, or Gods next Kindred Kings,
In mighty numbers mighty things,
Or valiant Heroes names
That kill'd the Centaurs, nobly sings,
And quench'd the fierce Chimaera's flames.

Or praised him that swiftly rode,
And Crown'd return'd almost a God
From the Olympian race;
Or Verses on the Brave bestow'd,
More sounding and more strong than Brass.

Or softly sings with pious grief
A Youth snatcht from his weeping Wife,
And bears their names on high,
Their vertuous manners pleasant life,
And doth forbid their Loves to dye.

The Theban Swan vast whirls of Air
Thro highest Regions swiftly bear
When he designs to rise,
When He his lofty head doth rear
And shoots it thro the Cloudy Skies.

I like a Bee with toil and pain
Fly humbly o're the flowry Plain,
And with a busy tongue
The little Sweets my Labors gain,
I work at last into a Song.

But You shall sing in higher strains
What Conquests mighty Caesar gains,
How great his Pomp appears,
When justly Crown'd he leads in Chains
The German Trophies of his Wars.

Greater than him no Age can know,
Nor, if they would, the Gods bestow;
No, they can bless no more
If they their bounty strove to show,
And would the Golden Age restore:

Then thou shalt sing our feasting days,
Our City's Joy, and publick Plays
At Caesar's wisht return:
Then thou shalt sing how strife decays,
And Courts their peaceful Clients mourn.

And there if any patient Ear
My Muses feeble Song will hear
My voice shall sound thro Rome:
Thee, Sun, I'le sing, Thee, lovely fair;
Thee, Thee I'le praise when Caesar's come:

As you great Poet march along
From every Heart and every Tongue
A joyful sound shall move,
Io Triumph be the Song,
Whilst Incense smoaks to Gods above:

Ten fair large Bulls, ten lusty Cows
Must dy to pay thy richer Vows;
Of my small stock of Kine
A Calf just wean'd now Youthful grows
In Pastures fat to fall for mine:

Unus'd to push doth wildly run,
And as the third-days rising Moon
So bend his tender horns;
All over Red, but where alone
A milky spot his front adorns.