Odes 4.8 (Martin): Donarem Pateras

Cups on my friends I would freely bestow,
Dear Censorinus, and bronzes most rare,
Tripods carved richly, in Greece long ago
The guerdons of heroes, for them I would spare;

Nor should the worst of my gifts be thine own,
If in my household art's marvels were rife,
Hero or god, wrought by Scopas in stone,
Or by Parrhasius coloured to life.

But unto me no such dainties belong,
Nor of them either hast thou any dearth:
Song is thy joy, I can give thee a song.
Teach, too, the gift's all unmatchable worth.

Not marbles graven with glorious scrolls
Penn'd by a nation with gratitude due,
Records, in which our great warriors' souls
Tameless by death ever flourish anew!

Not flying enemies, no, nor with shame
Hannibal's menaces back on him hurl'd,
Not fraudful Carthage expiring in flame,
Blazon his glory more bright to the world,

His surname from Africa vanquish'd who drew,
Than doth the Calabrian Muse by its lays:
Nor, if no song tell your triumphs, will you
Reap the full guerdon of life-giving praise.

What were great Mavors' and Ilia's son,
Had envious silence his merits suppress'd?
Styx's dark flood had o'er Aeacus run,
But song bore hun on to the Isles of the Blest.

Dower'd by the Muse with a home in the sky,
Ne'er can he perish, whom she doth approve:
Dauntless Alcides thus revels on high,
Guest at the coveted banquets of Jove.

So the Twin Stars, as through tempests they glow,
Save the spent seaman, when most he despairs;
Bacchus, with vine-leaves fresh garlanded, so
Brings to fair issues his votary's pray'rs.