ISCORN and shun the rabble's noise. Abstain from idle talk. A thing That ear hath not yet heard, I sing, The Muses' priest, to maids and boys. To Jove the flocks which great kings sway, To Jove great kings allegiance owe. Praise him: he laid the giants low: All things that are, his nod obey. This man may plant in broader lines His fruit-trees: that, the pride of race Enlists a candidate for place: In worth, in fame, a third outshines His mates; or, thronged with clients, claims Precedence. Even-handed Fate Hath but one law for small and great: That ample urn holds all men's names. He o'er whose doomed neck hangs the sword Unsheathed, the dainties of the South Shall lack their sweetness in his mouth: No note of bird or harpsichord Shall bring him Sleep. Yet Sleep is kind, Nor scorns the huts of labouring men; The bank where shadows play, the glen Of Tempe dancing in the wind. He, who but asks 'Enough,' defies Wild waves to rob him of his ease; He fears no rude shocks, when he sees Arcturus set or Haedus rise: When hailstones lash his vines, or fails His farm its promise, now of rains And now of stars that parch the plains Complaining, or unkindly gales. -- In straitened seas the fish are pent; For dams are sunk into the deep: Pile upon pile the builders heap, And he, whom earth could not content, The Master. Yet shall Fear and Hate Climb where the Master climbs: nor e'er From the armed trireme parts black Care; He sits behind, the horseman's mate. And if red marble shall not ease The heartache; nor the shell that shines Star-bright; nor all Falernum's vines, All scents that charmed Achaemenes: Why should I rear me halls of rare Design, on proud shafts mounting high? Why bid my Sabine vale good-bye For doubled wealth and doubled care? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TIME TO BE WISE by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND: 10. THE FAIR by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM A CALL TO ARMS by MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS THE EMIGRANT LASSIE by JOHN STUART BLACKIE A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 17 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT SOMEBODY'S MOTHER by MARY DOW BRINE POVERTY AND POETRY by WILLIAM BROOME |