A monument, more durable than brass
And higher than the pyramids that stand
Laid out for kings, I’ve built with pen in hand,
Which neither greedy rain nor frantic thrash
Of wind can overthrow, nor flights of years
Unnumbered, nor the seasons’ gyring gears.
I shall not wholly die, but cheat the lash
Of Death in greater part: for future tongues
Shall cultivate my praise, as long as vestal
Maid and priest ascend the Capitol
In silence. I’ll be heard, my praises sung,
Both where the rapid Aufid river roars,
And where king Daunus, from his sapless shores,
Once ruled a rustic tribe: though I am sprung
From Apulian clay, yet I command
Great power in my prime: I was the first
To bend to Roman measure Grecian verse.
With conscious pride and honor, take upon
Yourself, Melpomene, the glory thine
That I have earned, and graciously entwine
My brow with verdant Delphi’s laurel strands.
— Horace, Ode XXX