Classic Poem

To hear our solemn vows, O Phaebus! deign:
A novel pontiff treads thy sacred fane;
Nor distant hear, dread power! 'tis Rome's request,
That with thy golden lyre thou stand'st confess'd:
Deign, mighty bard! to strike the vocal string,
And praise thy pontiff; we, his praises sing;
Around thy brows triumphant laurels twine,
Thine altar visit, and thy rites divine:
New flush thy charms, new curl thy waving hair;
O come the god, in vestment and in air!
When Saturn was dethron'd; so crown'd with bays,
So rob'd, thou sungst the' almighty victor's praise.
What fate, from gods and man, has wrapt in night,
Prophetic flashes on thy mental sight:
From thee, diviners learn their prescient lore,
On reeking bowels, as they thoughtful pore:
The seer thou teachest the success of things,
As flies the bird, or feeds, or screams, or sings:
The sibyl-leaves if Rome ne'er sought in vain;
Thou gav'st a meaning to the mystic strain:
Thy sacred influence may this pontiff know,
And as he reads them, with the prophet glow.
When grew Æneas snatch'd his aged sire,
And burning Lares, from the Grecian fire;
She, she foretold this empire fix'd by fate,
And all the triumphs of the Roman state;
Yet when he saw his Ilion wrap'd in flame,
He scarce could credit the mysterious dame.
(Quirinus had not plan'd eternal Rome,
Nor had his brother met his early doom;
Where now Jove's temple swells, low hamlets stood,
And domes ascend, where heifers crop'd their food.
Sprinkled with milk, Pangrac'd an oak's dunshade,
And scythe-arm'd Pales watch'd the mossy glade;
For help from Pan, to Pan on every bough
Pipes hung, the grateful shepherd's vocal vow,
Of reeds, still lessening, was the gift compos'd,
And friendly wax the' unequal junctures clos'd.
So where Velabrian streets like cities seem,
One little wherry plied the lazy stream,
O'er which the wealthy shepherd's favourite maid
Was to her swain, on holidays, convey'd;
The swain, his truth of passion to declare,
Or lamb, or cheese, presented to the fair.)

The Cumaean Sibyl speaks.

" Fierce brother of the power of soft desire,
Who fly'st, with Trojan gods, the Grecian fire!
Now Jove assigns thee Laurentine abodes,
Those friendly plains invite thy banish'd gods:
There shall a nobler Troy herself applaud,
Admire her wanderings, and the Grecian fraud!
There, thou from yonder sacred stream shalt rise
A god thyself, and mingle with the skies!
No more thy Phrygians for their country sigh,
See conquest o'er your shatter'd navy fly!
See the Rutulian tents, a mighty blaze!
Thou, Turnus, soon shalt end thy hateful days!
The camp I see, Lavinium greets my view,
And Alba, brave Ascanius! built by you:
I see thee, Ilia! leave the vestal fire;
And, clasp'd by Mars, in amorous bliss expire!
On Tyber's bank, thy sacred robes I see,
And arms abandon'd, eager god! by thee.
Your hills crop fast, ye herds! while fate allows;
Eternal Rome shall rise, where now ye brouze:
Rome, that shall stretch her irresistless reign,
Wherever Ceres views her golden grain:
Far as the east extends his purple ray,
And where the west shuts up the gates of day.
The truth I sing: so may the laurels prove
Safe food, and I be screen'd from guilty love."
Thus sung the Sibyl, and address'd her prayer,
Phaebus! to thee; and, madding, loos'd her hair.
Nor, Phaebus! give him only these to know,
A further knowledge on thy priest bestow:
Let him interpret what thy favourite maid,
What Amalthea, what Mermessia said:
Let him interpret what Albuna bore
Through Tyber's waves, unwet, to Tyber's furthest shore.
When stony tempests fell, when comets glar'd,
Intestine wars their oracles declar'd:
The sacred groves (our ancestors relate)
Foretold the changes of the Roman state:
To charge the clarion sounded in the sky,
Arms clash'd, blood ran, and warriors seem'd to die:
With monstrous prodigies the year began;
An annual darkness the whole globe o'erran;
Apollo, shorn of every beamy ray,
Oft strove, but strove in vain, to light the day:
The statues of the gods wept tepid tears;
And speaking oxen fill'd mankind with fears!
These were of old: no more, Apollo! frown;
But in the waves each adverse omen drown.
O! let thy bays, in crackling flames ascend;
So shall the year with joy begin and end!
The bays give prosperous signs; rejoice, ye swains!
Propitious Ceres shall reward your pains.
With must the jolly rustic purpled o'er,
Shall squeeze rich clusters, which their tribute pour,
Till vats are wanting, to contain their store.
Far hence, ye wolves! the mellow shepherds bring
Their gifts to Pales, and her praises sing.
Now, fir'd with wine, they solemn bonfires raise,
And leap, untimorous, through the strawy blaze!
From every cot unnumber'd children throng,
Frequent the dance, and louder raise the song:
And while in mirth the hours they thus employ,
At home the grandsire tends his little boy;
And, in each feature pleas'd himself to trace,
Foretels his prattler will adorn the race.
The sylvan youth, their grateful homage paid,
Where plays some streamlet, seek the' embowering shade;
Or stretch'd on soft enamell'd meadows lie,
Where thickest umbrage cools the summer sky:
With roses, see! the sacred cup is crown'd,
Hark! music breathes her animating sound:
The couch of turf, and festal tables stand
Of turf, erected by each shepherd-hand;
And all well-pleas'd, the votive feast prepare,
Each one his goblet, and each one his share.
Now drunk, they blame their stars, and curse the maid;
But sober, deprecate whate'er they said.
Perish thy shafts, Apollo! and thy bow!
If love unarmed in our forests go.
Yet since he learn'd to wing the' unerring dart,
Much cause has man to curse his fatal art;
But most have I: — the sun has wheel'd his round
Since first I felt the deadly festering wound;
Yet, yet I fondly, madly, wish to burn,
Abjure indifference, and at comfort spurn;
And though from Nemesis my genius flows,
Her scarce I sing, so weighty are my woes!
O cruel love! how joyous should I be,
Your arrows broke, and torch extinct, to see!
From you, my want of reverence to the skies!
From you, my woes and imprecations rise!
Yet I advise you, too relentless fair,
(As heaven protects the bards) a bard to spare!
E'en now, the pontiff claims my loftiest lay,
In triumph, soon he'll mount the sacred way.
Then pictur'd towns shall show successful war,
And spoils and chiefs attend his ivory car:
Myself will bear the laurel in my hand;
And, pleas'd, amid the pleas'd spectators stand:
While war-worn veterans, with laurels crown'd,
With Io-triumphs shake the streets around.
His father hails him, as he rides along,
And entertains with pompous shows the throng.
O Phaebus! kindly deign to grant my prayer;
So may'st thou ever wave thy curled hair;
So ever may thy virgin-sister's name
Preserve the lustre of a spotless fame.