Once had that king great power,
And proudly he ruled the land—
His crown e'en now is on his brow
And his sword is in his hand!
How sweetly sleeps the singer
With calmly folded eyes,
And on the breast of the bard at rest
The harp that he sounded lies.
The castle walls are falling
And war distracts the land,
But the sword leaps not from that mildewed spot—
There in that dead king's hand!
But with every grace of nature
There seems to float along—
To cheer the hearts of men—
The singer's deathless song!
HORACE I, 31.
As forth he pours the new made wine,
What blessing asks the lyric poet—
What boon implores in this fair shrine
Of one full likely to bestow it?
Not for Sardinia's plenteous store,
Nor for Calabrian herds he prayeth,
Nor yet for India's wealth galore,
Nor meads where voiceless Liris playeth.
Let honest riches celebrate
The harvest earned—I'd not deny it;
Yet am I pleased with my estate,
My humble home, my frugal diet.
Child of Latonia, this I crave;
May peace of mind and health attend me,
And down into my very grave
May this dear lyre of mine befriend me!