Horace, Book IV, Ode IX; Addressed To Humphry French, Esq.[1] Late Lord Mayor Of Dublin

Patron of the tuneful throng,         O! too nice, and too severe!     Think not, that my country song         Shall displease thy honest ear.     Chosen strains I proudly bring,         Which the Muses' sacred choir,     When they gods and heroes sing,         Dictate to th' harmonious lyre.     Ancient Homer, princely bard!         Just precedence still maintains,     With sacred rapture still are heard         Theban Pindar's lofty strains.     Still the old triumphant song,         Which, when hated tyrants fell,     Great Alcus boldly sung,         Warns, instructs, and pleases well.     Nor has Time's all-darkening shade         In obscure oblivion press'd     What Anacreon laugh'd and play'd;         Gay Anacreon, drunken priest!     Gentle Sappho, love-sick muse,         Warms the heart with amorous fire;     Still her tenderest notes infuse         Melting rapture, soft desire.     Beauteous Helen, young and gay,         By a painted fopling won,     Went not first, fair nymph, astray,         Fondly pleased to be undone.     Nor young Teucer's slaughtering bow,         Nor bold Hector's dreadful sword,     Alone the terrors of the foe,         Sow'd the field with hostile blood.     Many valiant chiefs of old         Greatly lived and died before     Agamemnon, Grecian bold,         Waged the ten years' famous war.     But their names, unsung, unwept,         Unrecorded, lost and gone,     Long in endless night have slept,         And shall now no more be known.     Virtue, which the poet's care         Has not well consign'd to fame,     Lies, as in the sepulchre         Some old king, without a name.     But, O Humphry, great and free,         While my tuneful songs are read,     Old forgetful Time on thee         Dark oblivion ne'er shall spread.     When the deep cut notes shall fade         On the mouldering Parian stone,     On the brass no more be read         The perishing inscription;     Forgotten all the enemies,         Envious G -    - n's cursed spite,     And P -    - l's derogating lies,         Lost and sunk in Stygian night;     Still thy labour and thy care,         What for Dublin thou hast done,     In full lustre shall appear,         And outshine th' unclouded sun.     Large thy mind, and not untried,         For Hibernia now doth stand,     Through the calm, or raging tide,         Safe conducts the ship to land.     Falsely we call the rich man great,         He is only so that knows     His plentiful or small estate         Wisely to enjoy and use.     He in wealth or poverty,         Fortune's power alike defies;     And falsehood and dishonesty         More than death abhors and flies:     Flies from death! - no, meets it brave,         When the suffering so severe     May from dreadful bondage save         Clients, friends, or country dear.     This the sovereign man, complete;         Hero; patriot; glorious; free;     Rich and wise; and good and great;         Generous Humphry, thou art he.