Book III, Elegy 9

Maecenas, knight sprung from the blood of Tuscan kings, that wouldst fain abide within thy fortune's scope, why dost thou launch me on so wide a sea of song? Such spreading canvas suits not a bark like mine.

It brings but shame to take upon thine head a burden that thou canst not bear, and soon to bow the knee and turn in flight. All things are not meet alike for all men; from different heights the palm of fame is won. 'Tis Lysippus' glory to mould statues with all the fire of life; Calamis, methinks, boasts the perfection of his carven steeds; Apelles claims his highest glory from his painting of Venus; Parrhasius asserts his place by his miniature art; groups rather are the themes of Mentor's mould; in the works of Mys the acanthus winds on its brief way; the Jove of Phidias arrays himself in a statue of ivory; the marble in Triops' city gives Praxiteles glory. Some race their victorious chariots at Elis; for the swift feet of some was glory born; one was begotten for peace, another is meet for the weapons of war; each man follows the seeds of his own nature.

But I, Maecenas, have taken to heart thy rule of life, and am driven to vanquish thee with thine own example. Though as a magistrate of Rome thou mightest plant thine imperious axes where thou wouldst and deal justice in the Forum's midst; though thou mightest pass through the fierce Medians' spears and load thy house with trophies of arms; though Caesar gives thee strength for success, and at all seasons ready wealth pours into thy purse, yet holdest thou back and dost withdraw in lowly wise to modest shades, and of thine own choice furlest the swelling canvas of thy sails. Believe me, thy resolve shall rival the great deeds of Camillus, and thou also shalt be a name upon the lips of men, and thy footsteps shall accompany the fame of Caesar; thy loyalty, Maecenas, shall be thy true trophy of triumph. I cleave not the swelling sea with sail-borne keel: I do but loiter in the shelter of a little stream. I will not tell in tearful strain how Cadmus' citadel sank into ashes beneath the Father's fire, nor of the seven fights, each closed with like disaster; I will not tell of the Scaean gate and Pergama, Apollo's citadel, nor how the Danaan ships returned in the tenth spring, when the wooden horse, wrought by the cunning of Pallas, won the day and made the walls, that Neptune built, to be razed by the Greek plough. Enough for me to have found acceptance among the books of Callimachus and to have sung, O Dorian poet, in strains like thine. Let my writings kindle boys and girls to love! Let them acclaim me as a god and bring me sacrifice!

Be thou my leader, then will I sing of the arms of Jove, of Coeus threatening heaven and Eurymedon on Phlegra's hills: then will I set forth to tell of the kings that were reared together at the wild beast's teat, of the walls that were established by the slaying of Remus, and of the lofty Palatine grazed by the steers of Rome; and my wit shall grow to the height of thy commands. I will hymn thy chariots that triumph from the East and from the West, the shafts now idle of the Parthian's crafty flight, the camp of Pelusium o'erthrown by the sword of Rome, and Antony whose own hands wrought his doom.

Do thou but grant thy kindly favour, take the reins that guide my youthful course and give me favouring applause when my wheels speed forth in the race. This is the glory thou grantest me, Maecenas, and to thee 'tis due that men shall say that I, even I, have followed thine example.