Odes 4.3 (Martin): Quem Tu, Melpomene

The man whom thou, bright Muse of song,
Didst at his birth regard with smiling calm,
Shall win no glory in the Isthmian throng.
From lusty wrestlers bearing off the palm,
Nor ever, reining steed of fire, shall he
In swift Achaian car roll on victoriously.

Nor him shall warfare's stern renown,
Nor baffled menaces of mighty kings,
Bear to the Capitol with laural crown;
But streams that kiss With gentle murmurings
Rich Tibur's vale, — thick wood, and mossy brake,
Him of the Aeolian lyre shall worthy master make.

At Rome, of all earth's cities queen,
Men deign to rank me in the noble press
Of bards beloved of man; and now, I ween,
Doth envy's rancorous tooth assail me less.
O thou loved Muse, who temperest the swell
And modulated noise of the sweet golden shell!

O thou, who canst at will endow
Mute fish with swanlike voices soft and sweet,
'Tis all thy gift, that, as they pass me now.
Men point me to their fellows on the street,
As lord and chief of Roman minstrelsy;
Yes, that I sing and please, if please, is due to thee.