Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Sons of Virtue mark with high regard
The Muse's laurel'd priest—the holy bard;
Left in the grave their unsung glory fade,
And their cold moan pierce Acheron's dreary shade.
What tho' Aleua's and the Syrian's domes
Saw crouding menials fill their festal rooms;
What tho' o'er Scopas' fields rich plenty flow'd,
And herds innumerous thro' his vallies low'd;
What tho' the bountiful Creondæ drove
Full many a beauteous flock, thro' many a grove;
Yet when expiring life could charm no more,
And their sad spirits sought the Stygian shore;

Their grandeur vanish'd with their vital breath,
And riches could not follow them, in death!
Lo these, for many a rolling age, had lain
In blank oblivion, with the vulgar train,
Had not their Bard, the mighty Ceian, strung
His many-chorded harp, and sweetly sung
In various tones, each high-resounded name,
And giv'n to long posterity their fame!

Verse can alone the steed with glory grace,
Whose wreaths announce the triumph of the race!
Could Lycia's chiefs, or Cycnus' changing hues,
Or Ilion live, with no recording Muse?
Not ev'n Ulysses, who thro' dangers ran
For ten long years, in all the haunts of man;
Who ev'n descended to the depths of hell,
And fled, unmangled, from the Cyclops' cell—
Not he had liv'd, but sunk, Oblivion's prey,
Had no kind Poet stream'd the unfading ray!
Thus too Philoetius had in silence past,
And nameless old Laertes breath'd his last;

And good Eumæus fed his herds in vain,
But for Ionia's life-inspiring strain.

For me, who now pursue the paths of fame,
Rough are these paths, and dim the Muse's flame;
Unless a patron's kind regard inspire,
And Jove's auspicious omens fan the fire.

The unwearied sun still rolls from year to year:
Still shall proud victors in the race appear!
Great as the stern Pelides' self, erelong
A man shall shine, the subject of my song;
Or in the might of towering Ajax rise,
Who fought on Simois' plain, where Ilus lies.
Ev'n now where Libya views the westering day,
Phœnician armies shrink in pale dismay!
Ev'n now, the Syracusians take the field,
Couch the strong spear, and bend the sallow shield;
While, as the chiefs by hymning poets blest,
Great Hiero comes, and nods the horse-hair crest!

Hear, O Minerva, and paternal Jove,
And ye, who honour with your guardian love
The walls of wealthy Syracuse, that throw
Their awful shadows on the lake below—
Hear! and may destiny o'erwhelming sweep
Our foes away, far distant thro' the deep!—
Far from this isle, a scatter'd few, to tell
Widows and orphan sons, what myriads fell!