Odes 4.3 (Creech): Quem Tu, Melpomene

AT whose blest birth propitious rays
The Muses shed, on whom they smile
No dusty Isthmian game
Shall stoutest of the Ring proclaim,
Or to reward his toyl
Wreath Ivy Crowns, or grace his head with Bays.

Nor Victor, Laurel round his Brows,
In an Achean Chariot ride:
No glorious feats of War
His happy Skill, and Arms declare
When He hath broke the pride,
And baffled dreadful threats of haughty Foes.

But fruitful Tibur's shady Groves,
Its pleasant Springs and purling Streams,
Shall raise a lasting name,
And set him high in sounding same,
For Lyric Verse the noblest Themes,
Great as his Mind, and various as his Loves.

Rome Empress of the Nation's Writes,
Writes me amongst the Lyrick Train;
And hence I Honor raise,
Immortal Love and lasting praise
Secure from fears, and pain,
For sharp-tooth'd Envy now but faintly bites.

Sweet Muse that tun'st the charming Lyre,
And draw'st soft sounds from stubborn string,
That can'st the Envious please
And soften fury into ease,
Teach silent Fish to sing,
And tunes as sweet as dying Swans inspire.

'Tis thine, sweet Muse, thy gift alone,
That as I walk all cry 'tis He;
That warms with Lyrick fire,
'Tis He that tunes the Roman Lyre;
And that I please, I own,
Suppose I please, I have it all from Thee.