To My Father.

Oh that Pieria's spring1 would thro' my breast     Pour its inspiring influence, and rush     No rill, but rather an o'erflowing flood!     That, for my venerable Father's sake     All meaner themes renounced, my Muse, on wings     Of Duty borne, might reach a loftier strain.     For thee, my Father! howsoe'er it please,     She frames this slender work, nor know I aught,     That may thy gifts more suitably requite;     Though to requite them suitably would ask     Returns much nobler, and surpassing far     The meagre stores of verbal gratitude.     But, such as I possess, I send thee all.     This page presents thee in their full amount     With thy son's treasures, and the sum is nought;     Naught, save the riches that from airy dreams     In secret grottos and in laurel bow'rs,     I have, by golden Clio's2 gift, acquir'd.     Verse is a work divine; despise not thou     Verse therefore, which evinces (nothing more)     Man's heav'nly source, and which, retaining still     Some scintillations of Promethean fire,     Bespeaks him animated from above.     The Gods love verse; the infernal Pow'rs themselves     Confess the influence of verse, which stirs     The lowest Deep, and binds in triple chains     Of adamant both Pluto and the shades.     In verse the Delphic priestess, and the pale     Tremulous Sybil make the Future known,     And He who sacrifices, on the shrine     Hangs verse, both when he smites the threat'ning bull,     And when he spreads his reeking entrails wide     To scrutinize the Fates envelop'd there.     We too, ourselves, what time we seek again     Our native skies, and one eternal Now     Shall be the only measure of our Being,     Crown'd all with gold, and chanting to the lyre     Harmonious verse, shall range the courts above,     And make the starry firmament resound.     And, even now, the fiery Spirit pure     That wheels yon circling orbs, directs, himself,     Their mazy dance with melody of verse     Unutt'rable, immortal, hearing which     Huge Ophiuchus3 holds his hiss suppress'd,     Orion, soften'd, drops his ardent blade,     And Atlas stands unconscious of his load.     Verse graced of old the feasts of kings, ere yet     Luxurious dainties destin'd to the gulph     Immense of gluttony were known, and ere     Lyaeus4 deluged yet the temp'rate board.     Then sat the bard a customary guest     To share the banquet, and, his length of locks     With beechen honours bound, proposed in verse     The characters of Heroes and their deeds     To imitation, sang of Chaos old,     Of Nature's birth, of Gods that crept in search     Of acorns fall'n, and of the thunderbolt     Not yet produc'd from Aetna's fiery cave.     And what avails, at last, tune without voice,     Devoid of matter? Such may suit perhaps     The rural dance, but such was ne'er the song     Of Orpheus, whom the streams stood still to hear     And the oaks follow'd. Not by chords alone     Well-touch'd, but by resistless accents more     To sympathetic tears the Ghosts themselves     He mov'd: these praises to his verse he owes.     Nor Thou persist, I pray thee, still to slight     The sacred Nine, and to imagine vain     And useless, Pow'rs by whom inspir'd, thyself     Art skillfill to associate verse with airs     Harmonious, and to give the human voice     A thousand modulations, heir by right     Indisputable of Arion's fame.5     Now say, what wonder is it, if a son     Of thine delight in verse, if so conjoin'd     In close affinity, we sympathize     In social arts and kindred studies sweet?     Such distribution of himself to us     Was Phoebus' choice; thou hast thy gift, and I     Mine also, and between us we receive,     Father and son, the whole inspiring God.     No. Howsoe'er the semblance thou assume     Of hate, thou hatest not the gentle Muse,     My Father! for thou never bad'st me tread     The beaten path and broad that leads right on     To opulence, nor did'st condemn thy son     To the insipid clamours of the bar,     To laws voluminous and ill observ'd,     But, wishing to enrich me more, to fill     My mind with treasure, led'st me far away     From city-din to deep retreats, to banks     And streams Aonian,6 and, with free consent     Didst place me happy at Apollo's side.     I speak not now, on more important themes     Intent, of common benefits, and such     As Nature bids, but of thy larger gifts     My Father! who, when I had open'd once     The stores of Roman rhetoric, and learn'd     The full-ton'd language, of the eloquent Greeks,     Whose lofty music grac'd the lips of Jove,     Thyself did'st counsel me to add the flow'rs     That Gallia7 boasts, those too with which the smooth     Italian his degentrate speech adorns,     That witnesses his mixture with the Goth,     And Palestine's prophetic songs divine.8     To sum the whole, whate'er the Heav'n contains,     The Earth beneath it, and the Air between,     The Rivers and the restless deep, may all     Prove intellectual gain to me, my wish     Concurring with thy will; Science herself,     All cloud removed, inclines her beauteous head     And offers me the lip, if, dull of heart,     I shrink not and decline her gracious boon.     Go now, and gather dross, ye sordid minds     That covet it; what could my Father more,     What more could Jove himself, unless he gave     His own abode, the heav'n in which he reigns?     More eligible gifts than these were not     Apollo's to his son, had they been safe     As they were insecure, who made the boy     The world's vice-luminary, bade him rule     The radiant chariot of the day, and bind     To his young brows his own all dazzling-wreath.     I therefore, although last and least, my place     Among the Learned in the laurel-grove     Will hold, and where the conqu'ror's ivy twines,     Henceforth exempt from th'unletter'd throng     Profane, nor even to be seen by such.     Away then, sleepless Care, Complaint away,     And Envy, with thy "jealous leer malign"     Nor let the monster Calumny shoot forth     Her venom'd tongue at me. Detested foes!     Ye all are impotent against my peace,     For I am privileged, and bear my breast     Safe, and too high, for your viperean wound.     But thou my Father! since to render thanks     Equivalent, and to requite by deeds     Thy liberality, exceeds my power,     Sufffice it, that I thus record thy gifts,     And bear them treasur'd in a grateful mind!     Ye too, the favourite pastime of my youth,     My voluntary numbers, if ye dare     To hope longevity, and to survive     Your master's funeral pile, not soon absorb'd     In the oblivious Lethaean gulph     Shall to Futurity perhaps convey     This theme, and by these praises of my sire     Improve the Fathers of a distant age.