His real self will remain among men, ever springing afresh in their words of praise: 

  N_ot lasting bronze nor pyramid upreared_
  B_y princes shall outlive my powerful rhyme_. 
  T_he monument I build, to men endeared_,
  N_ot biting rain, nor raging wind, nor time_,
  E_ndlessly flowing through the countless years_,
  S_hall e’er destroy.  I shall not wholly die_;
  T_he grave shall have of me but what appears_;
  F_or me fresh praise shall ever multiply_. 
  A_s long as priest and silent Vestal wind_
  T_he Capitolian steep, tongues shall tell o’er_
  H_ow humble Horace rose above his kind_
  W_here Aufidus’s rushing waters roar_
  I_n the parched land where rustic Daunus reigned_,
  A_nd first taught Grecian numbers how to run_
  I_n Latin measure.  Muse! the honor gained_
  I_s thine, for I am thine till time is done_. 
  G_racious Melpomene, O hear me now_,
  A_nd with the Delphic bay gird round my brow_.

Yet Horace does not always refer to his poetry in this serious vein; if indeed we are to call serious a manner of literary prophecy which has always been more or less conventional.  His frequent disclaimers of the higher inspiration are well known.  The Muse forbids him to attempt the epic strain or the praise of Augustus and Agrippa.  In the face of grand themes like these, his genius is slight.  He will not essay even the strain of Simonides in the lament for an Empire stained by land and sea with the blood of fratricidal war.  His themes shall be rather the feast and the mimic battles of revelling youths and maidens, the making of love in the grots of Venus.  His lyre shall be jocose, his plectrum of the lighter sort.

He not only half-humorously disclaims the capacity for lofty themes, but, especially as he grows older and more philosophic, and perhaps less lyric, half-seriously attributes whatever he does to persevering effort.  He has

  “N_or the pride nor ample pinion_
    T_hat the Theban eagle bear_,
  S_ailing with supreme dominion_
    T_hrough the azure deep of air_;”

he is the bee, with infinite industry flitting from flower to flower, the unpretending maker of verse, fashioning his songs with only toil and patience.  He believes in the file, in long delay before giving forth to the world the poem that henceforth can never be recalled.  The only inspiration he claims for Satire and Epistle, which, he says, approximate the style of spoken discourse, lies in the aptness and patience with which he fashions his verses from language in ordinary use, giving to words new dignity by means of skillful combination.  Let anyone who wishes to be convinced undertake to do the same; he will find himself perspiring in a vain attempt.