A Song to the Singers

Should you descend the stairway of old Time,
And search the webbed wine-cellars of the years,
The breaking of each vessel of sweet rhyme
Will make most merry music for thine ears.
No time is dead that gave the world a song:
The larger hours were wet with music's flagon;
And half the garlands of the brave belong
To runes that calmed the courage of the dragon.

The clouds that flowed o'er robust Rome have found
Another prop to lean on than her stone.
But in the heart of music still abound
Sweet traces of her tragic poet's tone.
And yonder tower, that crowds the ampler air,
Shall pass away before this rhyming story.
Let those who build arise where eagles dare:
I'll mount, on this white page, to surer glory.

What arrow ever pierced a traitor's crown
That winged not out from some fair singer's heart?
What courage on the ramparts of a town
But fired its vigor with our choric art?
To-morrow one shall ride the steel-lipped way,
Or fold his arms when mast and helm are sinking,
Who wandered by the Muse's rill to-day,
And roused his valor at my fountain drinking.
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