Oh, Him Whom At Birth You With Favor Regarded Melpomene! Never An Isthmian Game Shall Render Renowned, Though He's Skilled As A Boxer, Nor Shall A Swift Horse Lead Him Onward To Fame. Though A Victor He Rides In A Chariot Achaian, Not Him Shall The Fortune Of War Ever Show. In The Capitol Wearing The Garland Of Laurel Because The Proud Threatenings Of Kings He Laid Low. But Every Stream Flowing Over The Country Fertile Tibur Around, And So Every Grove With Its Thick-Growing Leaves Shall Ennoble The Poet, In 'Olian Song He Ennobled Shall Prove. The Offspring Of Rome, That Is Queen Among Cities, Me Have Deemed As A Bard To Be Worthy A Place In Her Glorious Choir, And Less And Less Keenly Already The Sharp Bite Of Envy I Trace. Oh - Pieris! Oh Muse, Who The Sweet Tone Controllest Of The Golden-Tongued Lyre, Able Too, To Endow The Dumb Fishes As Well, If It Happen To Please Thee, With The Notes Of The Swan, 'Tis From Thee It Comes Now, That I By The Finger Of Those Who Are Passing The Lord Of Our Own Roman Lyre Am Shown, For All Inspiration, For All That Is Pleasing, If It Happen To Please, Thou Hast Made It My Own.