OH, were we good when we are wise! -- Or haply, wise when we are good! But, fool or sage, some comfort lies In knowing Horace understood Our follies in their olden guise! Of all the full Augustan choir Our one contemporary bard, Who strikes upon a silver lyre, Where not a note is harsh or hard, The human chords that never tire. Live how he may, whene'er he sings A poet is a democrat; Down two millenniums there rings The song of Leisure's Laureat In praise of all the simple things. What deep contentment broods above That refuge in the Sabine Hills From all that Rome was fashioned of -- Strife, envy, the luxurious ills Men, town-imprisoned, learn to love! Though oft he dwells on death, 't is e'er With swift recoil to life. Joy, joy Is all his goal! Though reefed sails dare The dreaded seas to Tyre or Troy, His placid song is foe to care. Poor hater was he, save of greed And gluttons and the vulgar mind -- (Thou votary of thy surer creed, Ask heaven if thou be more kind Than was that heart of pagan breed!) Vowed to the laurel from the day The doves descried his lids supine And hid his limbs in leafy play; A nursling of the dancing vine, His verse was vintage gold and gay. Give me the glowing heart, or none -- Not friendship's altar but its fire. In his red veins how life did run! Had ever poet wiser sire? Had ever sire tenderer son? -- He, humble, candid, sane and free, Whom e'en Maecenas could not spoil; Who wooed his fields with minstrelsy As rich as wine, as smooth as oil, And kept a kiss for Lalage. Ah, dear to me one night supreme -- A voice he would have joyed to hear, Its music married to his theme -- When two new-mated minds drew near And mingled in his lilting stream. Oh, lover of sweet-sounding words, That in thy tones but glow and soar, Come! * * Horace with his flocks and herds Waits thy revealing voice. Once more Bring back to me the brooks and birds! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...POETS ARE BORN NOT MADE by ROBERT FROST THE SHELL TO THE PEARL by LOUIS UNTERMEYER EPITAPH ON THE MONUMENT OF SIR WILLIAM DYER by KATHERINE DYER LATE LEAVES by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 2. TO SLEEP by MARK AKENSIDE |