Henceforth to live the happy isles among.No, trust the Muse: she opes the good man's grave,And lifts him to the gods. So Hercules,His labours o'er, sits at the board of Jove:So Tyndareus' offspring shine as stars above,Saving lorn vessels from the yawning seas:So Bacchus, with the vine-wreath round his hair,Gives prosperous issue to his votary's prayer.Think not those strains can e'er expire,Which, cradled 'mid the echoing roarOf Aufidus, to Latium's lyreI sing with arts unknown before.