SO far as can a swain, who than a round On oaten-pipe no further boasts his skill, I dare to censure the shrill trumpet's sound, Or other music of the sacred hill: The popular applause hath not so fell, Like Nile's loud cataract, possess'd mine ears But others' songs I can distinguish well And chant their praise despised virtue rears: Nor shall thy buskin'd Muse be heard alone In stately palaces; the shady woods By me shall learn't, and echoes one by one Teach it the hills, and they the silver floods. Our learned shepherds that have us'd tofore Their happy gifts in notes that woo the plains By rural ditties will be known no more; But reach at fame by such as are thy strains. And I would gladly (if the Sisters' spring Had me enabled) bear a part with thee, And for sweet groves, of brave heroës sing, But since it fits not my weak melody, It shall suffice that thou such means dost give, That my harsh lines among the best may live. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 5 by EZRA POUND TO A CONTEMPORARY BUNKSHOOTER by CARL SANDBURG THE OLD BRIDGE by AUGUSTE ANGELLIER HA! HA! HO! HO! by BERTON BRALEY THE WANDERER: 3. IN ENGLAND: BABYLONIA by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON HERE'S HIS HEALTH IN WATER by ROBERT BURNS |