Where beauties in a poem faults outshine, I am not angry if a casual line (That with some trivial blot unequal flows) A careless hand or human frailty shows. Then shall I angrily see no excuse If honest Homer slumber o'er his muse? Yet surely sometimes an indulgent sleep O'er works of length allowably may creep! A HIGH STANDARD MUST BE EXACTED In certain subjects, Piso, be assured, Tame mediocrity may be endured. But god, and man, and booksellers deny A poet's right to mediocrity! ARE POETS BORN OR MADE? 'Tis long disputed whether poems claim From art or nature their best right to fame; But art, if un-enriched by nature's vein, And a rude genius of uncultured strain, Are useless both: they must be fast combined And mutual succour in each other find. _Odes_ A DEDICATION Mæcenas, sprung from regal line, Bulwark and dearest glory mine! Some love to stir Olympic dust With glowing chariot-wheels which just Avoid the goal, and win a prize Fit for the rulers of the skies. One joys in triple civic fame Conferred by fickle Rome's acclaim; Another likes from Libya's plain To store his private barns with grain; A third who, with unceasing toil, Hoes cheerful the paternal soil, No promised wealth of Attalus Shall tempt to venture timorous Sailing in Cyprian bark to brave The terrors of Myrtoan wave. Others in tented fields rejoice, Trumpets and answering clarion-voice. Be mine the ivy, fair reward, Which blissful crowns the immortal bard; Be mine amid the breezy grove, In sacred solitude to rove-- To see the nymphs and satyrs bound, Light dancing in the mazy round, While all the tuneful muses join Their various harmony divine. Count me but in the lyric choir-- My crest shall to the stars aspire. TO PYRRHA What slender youth bedewed with liquid odours Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave, Pyrrha? For whom bind'st thou In wreaths thy golden hair, Plain in thy neatness? Oh, how oft shall he On faith and changed gods complain, and seas Rough with black winds, and storms Unwonted shall admire! Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold, Who always vacant, always amiable Hopes thee, of flattering gales Unmindful. Hapless they To whom thou untried seem'st fair. Me, in my vowed Picture, the sacred wall declares to have hung My dank and dropping weeds To the stern god of sea. WINTER CHEER Seest thou yon mountain laden with deep snow The groves beneath their fleecy burthen bow, The streams congealed, forget to flow? Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile Of fuel on the hearth; Broach the best cask and make old winter smile With seasonable mirth.