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INTRODUCTION.

THERE can be no doubt that after Roman authors had been schooled by Grecian art, they forfeited in large measure so much of instinctive sublimity as was theirs by birthright. Had it ever been at their command and such writers as Lucretius, nay, even Catullus, show that the assumption is not an idle one the 'large utterance of the early gods' was gone with the coming of the foreign Olympians and of all that the latter represented. Henceforth, save for the frigid mouthings of imperfectly naturalized Spaniards, the ideal of the poet was grace, moderation, fine workmanship.

But not only did the Romans lose with their political and literary independence a large share of their ancient earnestness and fervor, but they failed to acquire some of the most important qualities in which their Greek masters excelled. It would be too much to say that they were cheated, or that they cheated themselves, in their appropriation of Hellenic spoils, but it cannot be gainsaid that, in their quest for beauty, proportion, and delicacy in style and composition, they omitted certain of the weightier matters which they might have found in their models, the simplicity, rapidity, and sustained nobleness of the Greek epic, the opulence, elevation, strength, and swiftness of the Greek triumphal ode.

In a certain sense, then, the Hellenic discipline made the Romans un-Hellenic. Nor is the explanation far to seek. The imitable and compassable qualities of a work of art are always

matters of detail, rarely or never the vital and animating principle. Hence, where grandeur is present in a composition, it springs directly from the soul of the artist. Taking thought will add no cubit to the moral stature of the thinker, and just as little to that of his literary product. The labor of the file confers no majesty, and indeed we have seen works, like those of Michael Angelo in the Chapel of the Medici, in which the sublimest ideality is attained by incompleteness. Self-restraint may be the condition of irreproachable beauty, but a certain splendid audacity is essential to the expression of sublimity. This view is abundantly confirmed by the writers of the Augustan age of Rome. Where is Virgil most impressive? Is it not in passages where the lines are dictated by a proud patriotism, passages which fling a scornful defiance at the elder civilization? Is it not where he reverts to the ancient Roman strain, and falls back upon that which was primitive and fundamental in the Roman nature, the consciousness of imperial function and destiny?

Excudent alii spirantia mollius aera,

Credo equidem, vivos ducent de marmore vultus,
Orabunt causas melius, caelique meatus

Describent radio et surgentia sidera dicent:

Tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento;
Hae tibi erunt artes - pacisque inponere morem,
Parcere subjectis, et debellare superbos.

Horace was most assiduous in polishing his compositions, and recommends, as his Art of Poetry teaches us, a similar labor to others, but he was well aware that industry is no substitute for native endowment, and confesses as much in the Second Ode of the Fourth Book, where he compares himself with Pindar.

He who to Pindar's height attempts to rise,

Like Icarus, with waxen pinions tries

His pathless way, and from the venturous theme
Falling shall leave to azure seas his name.

As when a river, swollen by sudden showers,

O'er its known banks from some steep mountain pours,

So in profound, unmeasurable song

The deep-mouthed Pindar, foaming, pours along.

Well he deserves Apollo's laureled crown,
Whether new words he rolls enraptured down
Impetuous through the dithyrambic strains,
Free from all laws but what himself ordains;

Whether in lofty tone sublime he sings

The immortal gods or god-descended kings
With death deserved who smote the Centaurs dire,
And quenched the fierce Chimaera's breath of fire.

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But, like a bee, which through the breezy groves
With feeble wing and idle murmurs roves,

Sits on the bloom, and with unceasing toil

From thyme sweet-breathing culls his flowery spoil,
So I weak bard! -round Tiber's lucid spring,

Of humbler strain laborious verses sing.

And where in Horace shall we meet with the passion that breathes in Sappho's immortal ode?

Speechless I gaze. The flame within
Runs swift o'er all my quivering skin;
My eyeballs swim; with dizzy din

My brain reels round;

And cold drops fall; and tremblings frail
Seize every limb; and grassy pale

I grow; and then- together fail

Both sight and sound.

Where, in any Latin poet, shall we listen to the ethereal rapture, the melodious intoxication, of the Chorus of Aristophanes in the Birds?

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