Callimachi Manes et Coi sacra Philetae.
SHADE of Callimachus! and thou, sweet spirit,
Coan Philetas! let me tread your grove :
Pure is your font, and I, first priest to stir it,
'Mid Grecian choirs in Latin orgies rove.
Say where ye trimmed your lays—in what charmed grotto?
How trod ye thither? drank what stream divine?
Avaunt, the bard who makes the camp his motto!
Smooth from the pumice flow my tender line!
Thus Fame uplifts me from earth's lower level;
My Muse on flower-crowned steeds in triumph reels;
Borne in my car the little Cupids revel;
And crowds of poets run behind my wheels.
Why press with slackened rein? O vain endeavour!
Steep is the Muses' hill, nor wide the way :
Many will bid Rome's glory shine for ever,
And Asian Bactra bound the Imperial sway:
But lays of peace I bring from Song's green mountain
By path untrodden; twine soft garlands now,
Ye Nine! who haunt the Pegasaean fountain :
'Tis no rough wreath will suit your poet's brow.
Though now dark envy rob me, double wages
Await me when I'm wasting in the tomb :
Time magnifies the things of bygone ages;
And o'er the grave far fairer honours bloom.
Witness the weary siege the fir-horse ended-
Achilles wrestling with Scamander's flood-
[Idaean Simois where young Jove was tended]-
The plains the wheels thrice stained with Hector's blood--
Deiphobus, Polydamas, Troy's prophet,
Paris, nigh nameless in his native soil-
Ilium-we else had heard but little of it,
And Troy, twice o'er the Oetaean hero's spoil.
Great Homer, too, who sang her rueful story,
Hath grown in honour in the mouths of men ;
And Rome in times unborn shall laud my glory :
When I am dust: yea, I shall triumph then.
Apollo smiles; the ages will not spurn me,
Or merely rear a slab my bones above:
Now to my olden theme once more I'll turn me,
And thrill my charmer with the lays of love.
THE IMMORTALITY OF GENIUS.
Orphea delenisse feras et concita dicunt.
ORPHEUS 'tis said the Thracian lyre-strings sweeping,
Stayed the swift stream and soothed the savage brute ;
Cithaeron's rocks, to Thebes spontaneous leaping,
Rose into walls before Amphion's lute.
With dripping steeds did Galatea follow,
'Neath Aetna's crags, lone Polyphemus' song: Is't strange the loved of Bacchus and Apollo Leads captive with his lay the maiden throng?
Though no Taenarian blocks uphold my dwelling,
Nor ivory panels shine 'tween gilded beams;
No orchards mine Phaeacia's woods excelling,
No chiselled grots where Marcian water streams,-
Yet Song is mine; my strain the heart engages;
Faint from the dance sinks the lithe Muse with me,-
O happy maid! whose name adorns my pages,
Each lay a lasting monument to thee!
The pyramids that cleave heaven's jewelled portal;
Elëan Jove's star-spangled dome; the tomb
Where rich Mausolus sleeps,-are not immortal,
Nor shall escape inevitable doom.
Devouring fire and rains will mar their splendour-
The weight of years will drag the marble down :
Genius alone a name can deathless render,
And round the forehead wreathe the unfading crown.
Visus eram molli recubans Heliconis in umbra.
METHOUGHT, in Helicon's soft shade reclining,
Where the clear fount of Hippocrenë springs,-
Thy kings, O Alba! and their deeds enshrining—
A lofty task,—I smote the tuneful strings;
I'd moved my lips anear those wondrous waters,
Whence father Ennius, thirsting, drank of yore,
Then sang the Curian and Horatian slaughters,
And regal spoils Aemilius' vessel bore-
Fabius' delay that proved the foe's undoing,
Cannae's fell field, heaven turned by holy vows,
The Lares Hannibal from Rome pursuing,
And Jove by goose-note saved-when through the boughs
Of the Castalian laurel Phoebus peering,
Leaning near a grot upon his golden lyre,
Addressed me: "Fool! wouldst quaff this stream unfearing?
Who bade thee wake the strings to epic fire?
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