Classic Poem

AN IMITATION OF A GREEK EPIGRAM IN HOMER

When PhÅ?bus and the Nine harmonious maids
Of old assembled in the Thespian shades,
— What theme, — they cry'd, — what high immortal air,
— Besits these harps to sound, and thee to hear? —
Reply'd the god, — Your loftiest notes employ
— To sing young Peleus and the fall of Troy. —
The wondrous song with rapture they rehearse,
Then ask who wrought that miracle of verse.
He answer'd with a srown; — I now reveal
— A truth that Envy bids me not conceal.
— Retiring frequent to this laureat vale,
— I warbled to the lyre that fav'rite tale,
— Which, unobserv'd, a wand'ring Greek, and blind,
— Heard me repeat, and treasur'd in his mind;
— And, fir'd with thirst of more than mortal praise,
— From me, the god of Wit, usurp'd the bays.
— But let vain Greece indulge her growing fame,
— Proud with celestial spoils to grace her name;
— Yet when my arts shall triumph in the West,
— And the White Isle with female pow'r is blest,
— Fame, I foresee, will make reprisals there,
— And the translator's palm to me transfer:
— With less regret my claim I now decline;
— The world will think this English Iliad mine. —