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At length with skill great Ennius struck the lyre,
Lucilius glow'd with all the Muse's fire;
Politer Horace blended strength with art,
And ere he chid, was master of the heart;
Ardent, impressive, eloquent, sublime,
Th’Aquinian brook'd no compromise with crime:
Nor with less lustre that stern satirist shone,
Whose moral thunders roll’d around the throne,
Whose vengeful bolts at Rome's oppressor hurl'd,
Alarm'd the tyrant, and amazed his world.

1

Late as I slumber'd in yon woodbine bower,
And Fancy ruled the visionary hour;
Methought, conducted by an unknown hand,
I roam’d delighted o'er Liguria's land ;
Beheld its forests spread before my eyes,
Its fanes, its palaces, its temples rise :
When lo, the sun-burnt Genius of the soil,
Ruddy his cheek, his arm inured to toil,
Before me walk'd, and to a gloomy shade,
O'ergrown with herbage wild, my steps convey'd;
Clear'd the rude path, and with his beechen spear
Show'd where a laurel, half conceal'd, grew near.

“ Behold that tree,” he cried, “ neglected pine, “ Hang its green bays, its drooping head decline; « The Muses bade it for their Persius bloom, “ O'ershade his hes, and adorn his tomb. “ Rapt Meditation oft by moonlight eve, “ To wander here, a world unloved would leave, “ Self-communing: here patient Grief would fly, “ And lift to heaven the tear-unsullied eye: “ Here stern Philosophy would muse alone, “ And Wisdom call’d this peaceful grove her own: “ Religion too would quit celestial bowers, “ In this fair spot to gather earthly flowers. “ But envious thorns, that none its worth might see,

Sprang from the ground to hide this beauteous tree; “ Haste then, O stranger, to this place draw nigh, “ To kill the brambles, lest the laurel die.” Straight, as he spake, methought an axe I seized, (For Fancy smiled, and with the work was pleased.) Already the rude wilderness was clear'd, And the green laurel full in view appear'd; When his dark wings retiring Morpheus spread, And the loved vision with my slumbers fled. Oft since that hour I've linger'd o'er thy page, O youth lamented, at too green an age !

And if the Muse, propitious, hear my strains,
Assist the labour, or reward the pains,
That laurel, Persius, which once bloom'd for thee,
Again shall flourish, and revive for me.

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THE

SI X SA TI R E S

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PERSIUS.

PROLOGUS.

Nec fonte labra prolui Caballino :
Nec in bicipiti somniasse Parnasso
Memini, ut repente sic Poëta prodirem.
Heliconiadasque, pallidamque Pyrenen
Illis remitto, quorum imagines lambunt
Hederæ sequaces : ipse semipaganus
Ad sacra vatum carmen affero nostrum.
Quis expedivit psittaco suum gañge,
Picasque docuit nostra verba conari ?
Magister artis, ingeniique largitor
Venter, negatas artifex sequi voces.
Quod si dolosi spes refulserit nummi, .
Corvos poëtas, et poëtrias picas
Cantare credas Pegaseium melos.

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