Eternal ages, roaming at his will
From sphere to sphere the tenfold heavens; or dwell On the moon's side that nearest neighbours earth;
Or torpid on the banks of Lethe sit
Among the multitude of souls ordained
To flesh and blood, or whether (as may chance) That vast and giant model of our kind In some far distant region of this globe Sequestered stalk, with lifted head on high O'ertowering Atlas on whose shoulders rest The stars, terrific even to the gods.
Never the Theban seer, whose blindness proved His best illumination, him beheld
In secret vision: never him the son Of Pleione, amid the noiseless night
Descending, to the prophet-choir revealed; Him never knew the Assyrian priest, who yet The ancestry of Ninus chronicles,
And Belus, and Osiris far-renowned;
Nor even thrice-great Hermes, although skilled So deep in mystery, to the worshippers Of Isis showed a prodigy like him.
And thou, who hast immortalised the shades
Of Academus,-if the schools received This monster of the fancy first from thee,- Either recall at once the banished bards
To thy republic, or, thyself evinced
A wilder fabulist, go also forth.
OH that Pieria's spring would through my breast Pour its inspiring influence, and rush
No rill, but rather an o'erflowing flood!
That, for my venerable father's sake
All meaner themes renounced, my muse, on wings Of duty borne, might reach a loftier strain. For thee, my father! howsoe'er it please,
She frames this slender work; nor know I aught That may thy gifts more suitably requite; Though to requite them suitably would ask Returns much nobler, and surpassing far The meagre stores of verbal gratitude : But, such as I possess, I send thee all.
This page presents thee in their full amount With thy son's treasures, and the sum is nought; Nought, save the riches that from airy dreams In secret grottoes, and in laurel bowers,
I have, by golden Clio's gift, acquired. Verse is a work divine; despise not thou Verse therefore, which evinces (nothing more)
Man's heavenly source, and which, retaining still Some scintillations of Promethean fire,
Bespeaks him animated from above.
The gods love verse; the infernal powers themselves Confess the influence of verse, which stirs
The lowest deep, and binds in triple chains
Of adamant both Pluto and the Shades.
In verse the Delphic priestess, and the pale Tremulous Sibyl, make the future known;
And he who sacrifices, on the shrine
Hangs verse, both when he smites the threatening bull, And when he spreads his reeking entrails wide
To scrutinize the fates enveloped there.
We too, ourselves, what time we seek again Our native skies, and one eternal Now Shall be the only measure of our being,
Crowned all with gold, and chanting to the lyre Harmonious verse, shall range the courts above, And make the starry firmament resound. And, even now, the fiery spirit pure
That wheels yon circling orbs, directs, himself, Their mazy dance with melody of verse Unutterable, immortal, hearing which Huge Ophiuchus holds his hiss suppressed, Orion, softened, drops his ardent blade, And Atlas stands unconscious of his load. Verse graced of old the feasts of kings, ere yet Luxurious dainties, destined to the gulf Immense of gluttony, were known, and ere Lyæus deluged yet the temperate board. Then sat the bard a customary guest
To share the banquet, and, his length of locks
With beechen honours bound, proposed in verse The characters of heroes and their deeds
To imitation; sang of Chaos old,
Of Nature's birth, of gods that crept in search Of acorns fallen, and of the thunder-bolt Not yet produced from Ætna's fiery cave. And what avails, at last, tune without voice, Devoid of matter? Such may suit perhaps
The rural dance, but such was ne'er the song Of Orpheus, whom the streams stood still to hear, And the oaks followed. Not by chords alone Well touched, but by resistless accents more, To sympathetic tears the ghosts themselves He moved: these praises to his verse he owes.. Nor thou persist, I pray thee, still to slight The sacred Nine, and to imagine vain And useless, powers, by whom inspired thyself Art skilful to associate verse with airs
Harmonious, and to give the human voice A thousand modulations, heir by right Indisputable of Arion's fame.
Now say, what wonder is it if a son Of thine delight in verse, if, so conjoined In close affinity, we sympathise
In social arts, and kindred studies sweet? Such distribution of himself to us
Was Phoebus' choice; thou hast thy gift, and I Mine also, and between us we receive, Father and son, the whole inspiring god.
No! howsoe'er the semblance thou assume Of hate, thou hatest not the gentle Muse, My father! for thou never badest me tread The beaten path and broad that leads right on To opulence, nor didst condemn thy son To the insipid clamours of the bar,
To laws voluminous and ill observed;
But, wishing to enrich me more, to fill
My mind with treasure, led'st me far away From city din to deep retreats, to banks And streams Aonian, and with free consent Didst place me happy at Apollo's side. I speak not now, on more important themes Intent, of common benefits and such As nature bids, but of thy larger gifts, My father! who, when I had opened once The stores of Roman rhetoric, and learned
The full-toned language of the eloquent Greeks, Whose lofty music graced the lips of Jove,
Thyself didst counsel me to add the flowers
That Gallia boasts, those too with which the smooth
Italian his degenerate speech adorns,
That witnesses his mixture with the Goth, And Palestine's prophetic songs divine.
To sum the whole, whate'er the heaven contains,
The earth beneath it, and the air between,
The rivers and the restless deep, may all Prove intellectual gain to me, my wish Concurring with thy will; science herself, All cloud removed, inclines her beauteous head, And offers me the lip, if, dull of heart,
I shrink not and decline her gracious boon. Go now and gather dross, ye sordid minds That covet it: what could my father more? What more could Jove himself, unless he gave His own abode, the heaven in which he reigns? More eligible gifts than these were not Apollo's to his son, had they been safe As they were insecure, who made the boy The world's vice-luminary, bade him rule The radiant chariot of the day, and bind
To his young brows his own all-dazzling wreath? I therefore, although last and least, my place Among the learned in the laurel grove Will hold, and where the conqueror's ivy twines, Henceforth exempt from the unlettered throng Profane, nor even to be seen by such. Away, then, sleepless care; complaint, away; And, envy, with thy "jealous leer malign! Nor let the monster calumny shoot forth Her venomed tongue at me. Detested foes! Ye all are impotent against my peace, For I am privileged, and bear my breast Safe, and too high for your viperean wound. But thou, my father! since to render thanks Equivalent, and to requite by deeds Thy liberality, exceeds my power, Suffice it that I thus record thy gifts,
And bear them treasured in a grateful mind!
Ye too, the favourite pastime of my youth, My voluntary numbers, if ye dare
To hope longevity and to survive
Your master's funeral pile not soon absorbed, In the oblivious Lethæan gulf,
Shall to futurity perhaps convey
This theme, and by these praises of my sire Improve the fathers of a distant age!
A ROMAN POET, MUCH INDISPOSED
The original is written in a measure called Scazon, which signifies limping, and the measure is so denominated because, though in other respects Iambic, it terminates with a Spondee, and has consequently a more tardy movement.
The reader will immediately see that this property of the Latin verse cannot be imitated in English.
My halting Muse, that dragg'st by choice along
Thy slow, slow step, in melancholy song, And likest that pace expressive of thy cares Not less than Deiopeia's sprightlier airs,
When in the dance she beats with measured tread Heaven's floor, in front of Juno's golden bed; Salute Salsillus, who to verse divine Prefers, with partial love, such lays as mine. Thus writes that Milton, then, who, wafted o'er From his own nest on Albion's stormy shore Where Eurus, fiercest of the Æolian band, Sweeps with ungoverned rage the blasted land, Of late to more serene Ausonia came To view her cities of illustrious name, To prove, himself a witness of the truth,
How wise her elders and how learn'd her youth. Much good, Salsillus! and a body free From all disease, that Milton asks for thee, Who now endurest the languor and the pains That bile inflicts, diffused through all thy veins, Relentless malady! not moved to spare By thy sweet Roman voice and Lesbian air! Health, Hebe's sister, sent us from the skies, And thou, Apollo, whom all sickness flies, Pythius, or Pæan, or what name divine Soe'er thou choose, haste, heal a priest of thine! Ye groves of Faunus, and ye hills that melt With vinous dews, where meek Evander dwelt, If aught salubrious in your confines grow,
Strive which shall soonest heal your poet's woe, That, rendered to the Muse he loves, again He may enchant the meadows with his strain. Numa, reclined in everlasting ease
Amid the shade of dark embowering trees, Viewing with eyes of unabated fire
His loved Ægeria, shall that strain admire :
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