Classic Poem

The days of our grandfathers to our own great times must yield
And with her mighty Emperor Rome holds a wider field.
Why is it then, you ask, that Virgils never now appear
To sing of war and war's alarms in accents loud and clear?
Well, give me a Maecenas and I'll soon find you a Maro;
Perhaps on your own farm to-day some Virgil guides the harrow.
Young Tityrus in years gone by bewailed his plundered sheep,
And fields by poor Cremona's side his father could not keep,
Until at last the Tuscan knight dispelled his tearful grief
And drove away grim poverty and gave him swift relief.
" Here's gold," he said: " enjoy it and become our greatest poet;
And love my fair Alexis too, if you would like to do it."
That lovely youth, as it would chance, was standing then at table,
Whose mouth ambrosial to tempt e'en Jupiter was able;
And at the words he poured the dark Falernian rosy-lipped
And gave the goblet to the guest wherefrom himself had sipped.
At once the enraptured bard forgot his sun-burnt Thestylis
And stalwart Galatea for a more romantic bliss,
And he who with " The Gnat's Decease" in humble strains began,
Chanted the praise of Italy and sang the " Arms and Man."
Why should I tell of Varius and Marsus and the rest,
How many a singer has a patron's benefits confessed?
You say — " Were I Maecenas, then would you have Virgil's art?"
No, no: but I'm a Marsus and I well could play his part.