human contact. He is surely to be classed among examples of what for
want of a better term we call inspiration. The poet _is_ born. We may
account for the inspiration of Horace by supposing him of Greek descent
(as if Italy had never begotten poets of her own), but the mystery
remains. In the case of any poet, after everything has been said of the
usual influences, there is always something left to be accounted for
only on the ground of genius. It was the possession of this that set
Horace apart from other men of similar experience.

The poet, however, is not the mere accident of birth. Horace is aware of
a power not himself that makes for poetic righteousness, and realizes
the mystery of inspiration. The Muse cast upon him at birth her placid
glance. He expects glory neither on the field nor in the course, but
looks to song for his triumphs. To Apollo,

"L_ord of the enchanting shell_,
P_arent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs_,"

who can give power of song even unto the mute, he owes all his power and
all his fame. It is the gift of Heaven that he is pointed out by the
finger of the passer-by as the minstrel of the Roman lyre, that he
breathes the divine fire and pleases men. But he is as perfectly
appreciative of the fact that poets are born and also made, and condemns
the folly of depending upon inspiration unsupported by effort. He calls
himself the bee of Matinum, industriously flitting with honeyed thigh
about the banks of humid Tibur. What nature begins, cultivation must
develop. Neither training without the rich vein of native endowment, nor
natural talent without cultivation, will suffice; both must be friendly
conspirators in the process of forming the poet. Wisdom is the beginning
and source of writing well. He who would run with success the race that