There pip'd the shepherd to his nibbling sheep,
When th' humble roof Anchises’ son explord
Of good Evander, wealth-despising king,
Amid the thickets : so revolves the scene;
So Time ordains, who rolls the things of pride
From duft again to dust, Behold that heap
Of mould'ring urns (their ashes blown away,
Duft of the mighty) the same story tell ;
And at its base, from whence the serpent glides
Down the green desert street, yon hoary monk
Laments the fame, the vision as he views,
The solitary, filent, folemn scene,
Where Cæsars, heroes, peasants, hermits lie,
Blended in dust together ; where the Nave
Rests from his labours; where th' insulting proud
Resigns his pow'r; the miser drops his hoard;
Where human folly sleeps.—There is a mood,
(I sing not to the vacant and the young)
There is a kindly mood of melancholy,
That wings the soul, and points her to the skies;
When tribulation cloaths the child of man,
When age descends with sorrow to the grave,
'Tis sweetly-foothing sympathy to pain,
A gently wak’ning call to health and ease.
How
How musical! when all-devouring Time,
Here sitting on his throne of ruins hoar,
While winds and tempests sweep his various lyre,
How sweet thy diapason, Melancholy !
Cool ev’ning comes; the setting fun displays
His visible great round between yon tow'rs,
As through two shady cliffs ; away, my Muse,
Though yet the prospect pleases, ever new
In vast variety, and yet delight
The many-figur’d sculptures of the path
Half beauteous, half effacd; the traveller
Such antique marbles to his native land
Oft hence conveys; and every realm and state
With Rome's august remains, heroes and gods,
Deck their long galleries and winding groves ;
Yet miss we not th’ innumerable thefts,
Yet still profuse of graces teems the waste...
Suffice it now th’Esquilian mount to reach
With weary wing, and seek the sacred refts
Of Maro's humble tenement; a low
Plain wall remains ; a little fun-gilt heap,
Grotesque and wild ; the gourd and olive brown
Weave the light roof; the gourd and olive fan
Their am'rous foliage, mingling with the vine,
Who
Who drops her purple clusters through the green.
Here let me lie, with pleasing fancy sooth’d:
Here fow'd his fountain ; here his laurels grew;
Here oft the meek good man, the lofty bard,
Fram'd the celestial song, or social walk'd
With Horace and the ruler of the world;
Happy Auguftus! who fo well inspir'd
Could'st throw thy pomps and royalties aside,
Attentive to the wise, the great of foul,
And dignify thy mind. Thrice glorious days,
Auspicious to the Muses! then rever'd,
Then hallow'd was the fount, or fecret shade,
Or open mountain, or whatever scene
The poet chose to tune th’ ennobling rhime
Melodious; ev'n the rugged sons of war,
Ev'n the rude hinds rever'd the Poet's name:
But now - another age, alas! is ours
Yet will the Mufe a little longer foar,
Unless the clouds of care weigh down her'wing,
Since nature's stores are shut with cruel hand,
And each aggrieves his brother; fince in vain
The thirsty pilgrim at the fountain asks
Th' o'erflowing wave-Enough-the plaint disdain.
See'st
See'st thou yon fane? ev'n now incessant Time Sweeps her low mould’ring marbles to the dust; And Phoebus' temple, nodding with its woods Threatens huge ruin o’er the small rotund. 'Twas there beneath a fig-tree's umbrage broad, Th' astonish'd swains with rev'rend awe beheld Thee, o Quirinus, and thy brother-twin, Pressing the teat within a monster's grasp Sportive; while oft the gaunt and rugged wolf Turn'd herstretch'd neck, and form’d your tender limbs: So taught of Jove, ev'n the fell favage fed Your sacred infancies, your virtues, toils, The conquests, glories, of th’ Ausonian state, Wrapp'd in their secret seeds. Each kindred soul. Robust and stout, ye grapple to your hearts, And little Rome appears. Her cots arise, Green twigs of osier weave the slender walls, Green rushes spread the roofs; and here and there Opens beneath the rock the gloomy cave. Elate with joy Etruscan Tiber views Her spreading scenes enamelling his waves, Her huts and hollow dells, and flocks and herds, ..
And gath’ring swains ; and rolls his yellow car
To Neptune's court with more majestic train.
Her speedy growth alarm'd the states around
Jealous, yet soon by wond'rous virtue won,
They sink into her bosom. From the plough in
Rose her dictators; fought, o'ercame, return'd,
Yes, to the plough return'd, and haild their peers;
For then no private pomp, no houshold state,
The public only swelld the gen'rous breast.
Who has not heard the Fabian heroes sung?
Dentatus’ scars, or Mutius’ Aaming hand ?
How Manlius sav'd the Capitol ? the choice
Of steady Regulus? As yet they stood,
Simple of life ; as yet seducing wealth
Was unexplor'd, and shame of poverty
Yet unimagin’d. --Shine not all the fields
With various fruitage? murmur not the brooks
Along the flow'ry vallies ? They, content,
Feasted at nature's hand, indelicate,
Blithe, in their easy tafte ; and only fought
To know their duties; that their only strife,
Their gen'rous strife, and greatly to perform.
They through all shapes of peril and of pain,
Vol. I.
S
Intent
|