Classic Poem

For thee, the muses meditate the song,
For thee, the first of the Pierian throng;
Manso, on thee shall Phœbus mildly shine,
And gild thy fortunes with a ray benign;
Such was Mæcenas crown'd with deathless bays,
And Gallus such, in Cæsar's golden days.
O could our lyre eternal fame bestow,
Unfading chaplets should adorn thy brow!
Thee, sacred friendship, to great Tasso join'd,
Gave the same taste, and elegance of mind;
The splendid page receiv'd each honour'd name;
Consign'd each worthy to immortal fame.
Thy genial smile Marino's breast illum'd,
With him the fairest flow'rs of fancy bloom'd:
He sooth'd the Latian virgins with his rhymes,
The flowing fictions of Assyrian climes:
Thy friendship cheer'd him in the arms of death,
He bless'd his Manso with his latest breath:
Thy tender soul no fond request denies,
Thy friendly hand was near to close his eyes;
Thy pious care enshrin'd his honor'd dust,
And rais'd of labour'd bronze the breathing bust.
Beyond the gloomy grave thy care extends,
Nor shall oblivion's shade obscure thy friends;
Their birth, their genius, manners you relate
With all their evil, and their prosp'rous fate;
Born near sublime Mycale, History's Sire
Thus paints with eloquence th' Homeric lyre.
A youth, the humblest of the muse's train,
From where Boötes guides his tardy wain,
Bids ev'ry glory Manso's name emblaze,
Auspicious fortune, and a length of days.

Nor shall great Manso's gen'rous breast despise
My muse, though bred beneath the Boreal skies;
Who boldly dares to soar on vent'rous wing,
Where once Torquato wak'd the trembling string.
We too, when night the skies had shaded o'er,
Have heard swans sing along the winding shore;
Where silver Thames displays his mazy pride,
And to old ocean rolls his swelling tide;
We feel the ray of no unfriendly muse,
We bathe our temples in Castalian dews,
Tho' suns illume us with a slanting beam,
And thro' thick clouds their languid splendours stream:
We honor Phœbus, we to Phœbus bring
The earliest promise of the purple spring;
The yellow crocus, ev'ry od'rous flow'r,
That paints the dale, or decks the rural bow'r.
Ours were the Druids, men by heav'n approv'd,
By strangers rev'renc'd, by their Britons lov'd;
They taught the youth in virtue's cause to bleed,
They sung the hero, and heroic deed.

O happy sage, thy name shall ever live,
Remotest climes the meed of praise shall give;
Where'er Torquato shall be hail'd divine,
Where'er Marino's growing fame shall shine;
Cinthius himself thy festive board has grac'd,
The laurel'd muses round their god were plac'd;
And wit refin'd, and manly sense were there,
With bright-ey'd fancy, fairest of the fair.

On Manso's birth the gods propitious smil'd,
And Jove and Phœbus own'd the infant child;
While Hermes gave each winning grace to please,
A love for letters, elegance and ease.
Hence, florid health, a late autumnal bloom,
And sunny prospects for the years to come.
Still from his head the graceful honors flow,
Still in his eye beams fancy's ripest glow;
A vig'rous genius, ev'ry polish'd art,
The keenest judgment, with the kindest heart.

O if my fate should such a friend consign,
Who loves a vot'ry of the sacred nine;
When British kings shall dignify my verse,
Great Arthur's conquests, and his laurel'd hearse;
When Launcelot, and each advent'rous knight,
Shall shine illustrious in the ranks of fight;
(O may the heav'ns allow a length of days,
And Phœbus warm me with poetic rays)
When banner'd hosts shall crowd the chalky shore,
And British swords shall blush with Saxon gore.
When all the pageantry of life is past,
And, full of years, I yield my breath at last;
That friend should heave the agonizing sigh
(The tear of sorrow trembling in his eye),
With tender care inter my lov'd remains,
And tell my fortunes to the lift'ning swains;
With ev'ry virtue in full light display'd,
And o'er my errors throw a soften'd shade.
Perhaps the artist might my features trace
In living marble, and recal each grace;
With bays or myrtle bind my flowing hair,
And o'er the whole breathe Grecia's noblest air;
But I shall rest secure in endless peace,
And ev'ry passion of the man shall cease.

If certain honours shall the just await,
Mine, too, the glories of a future state;
My spirit shall ascend the bless'd abodes,
And dwell with those, whose virtues made them gods;
Then will I traverse yon ethereal sky,
And view this speck of earth with pitying eye;
See the vain toils of mortals here below,
And what the fates permit, shall clearly know;
Youth's purple lustre shall my brow invest,
And cloudless sunshine gild my placid breast.