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.

And if Horace did not always conceive of his inspiration as purely
ethereal, neither did he always dream of the path to immortality as
leading through the spacious reaches of the upper air. At forty-four, he
is already aware of a more pedestrian path. He has observed the ways of
the public with literature, as any writer must observe them still, and
knows also of a certain use to which his poems are being put. Perhaps
with some secret pride, but surely with a philosophic resignation that