But these are not my riches: your desireSuch luxury craves not, and your means disdain:A poet's strain you love; a poet's strainAccept, and learn the value of the lyre.Not public gravings on a marble base,Whence comes a second life to men of mightE'en in the tomb: not Hannibal's swift flight,Nor those fierce threats flung back into his face,Not impious Carthage in its last red blaze,In clearer light sets forth his spotless fame,Who from crush'd Afric took away—a name,Than rude Calabria's tributary lays.Let silence hide the good your hand has wrought,Farewell, reward! Had blank oblivion's powerDimm'd the bright deeds of Romulus, at this hour,Despite his sire and mother, he were nought.Thus Aeacus has 'scaped the Stygian wave,By grace of poets and their silver tongue,Henceforth to live the happy isles among.No, trust the Muse: she opes the good man's grave,