Classic Poem

THE TRANSLATION .

Homer seem'd living brass, not destitute
Of genius, and of mind, scarce unpossess'd
Of voice ambrosial: so divine the skill,
That ev'n the brass appear'd a god in form.
For scarcely can I think that labouring hand
Of mortal artist, station'd at his seat,
Could shape that brass, but rather Pallas' self,
Deep-counsell'd, fashion'd it: for she his form
Well-knew: she the rich song of wisdom breath'd
Through Homer, dwelling in his secret soul,
Apollos' partner: then conspicuous stood
My father, god-like Homer: much he seem'd
Some aged man; yet was that age most sweet,
Distilling richer grace with beauty mix'd,
Venerably sweet, that brighten'd all his form.
Behind his bending neck a time-worn lock
Flow'd from his hair, which from beside each ear
Meandring stray'd: beneath extended wide
His beard, which mellow curl'd, not to a point
Tapering, but sloping broad and thick, reflecting charms
Upon his naked breast, and lovely face.
Bald was his forehead: yet that forehead bald
Shew'd wisdom seated, counsellor of youth.
Around his prominent eyebrows wandered art
Considerate: nor in vain: for from his eyes
Fled was the light: yet did he not appear
Like a blind man: for on his sightless orbs
Sat a sweet grace, which viewing one might think
Art labour'd much, to make it seem to all
That from the secret fountain of his heart
The bard sent up the pure ethereal light.
His cheeks were surrow'd o'er with wrinkling age,
And somewhat hollowed, but upon them sat
The graces partner, modesty innate.
The bee Pierian round his sacred mouth
Stray'd wanton, big with honey-dropping sweets;
In mutual embrace his hands were lock'd,
Which, as when living, rested on a staff.
His right ear list'ning seem'd, as though some muse,
Or Phaebus' lyre, were near, likening him to one
With mind intensely fix'd, while here and there
Cenius, from inward light irradiate stray'd,
Various and quick, weaving some war-like theme,
Whose sweet melodious harmonies might charm,
Like Syren warbling-soft Pierian airs.

Drops softest influence, and high N OON in vain
Darts down her gaudiest ray: when N IGHT ascends
Her throne imperial, and bright hosts attend
Of myriad constellations, man in vain
Gazes; and walks a stranger through the world.
For, what may cheer the sight, when th' heart complains?
The MORAL SENSE ; by S ORROW 's softest touch
Chastened and mellowed, like the golden ore
In furnace melted, ponders on distress,
Follies, and human frailties, forming thence
The rules of patience, and the laws prescrib'd
By Justice, and benevolence; curbs preparing,
For headstrong passion: till the soul, sublim'd,
Philosophiz'd, and strengthen'd, grows serene.
Such is the season, when near A VON 's banks
Bards weep at S HAKSPEARE 's tomb, with inward grief
Sorrowing, that such, whose songs have charmed the world,
Lie silent down so quickly, like a harp
Old, broken, useless, whence gay melodies

And, such wast thou, sagacious moralist,
Whose lessons shine not only in thy works,
Thy life was moral: and may I condemn
The man of searching mind, who systems weigh'd
In judgment's nicer scale, and yielded not
His weight of faith, when he durst not believe?

Nor less with grace, and ease, and dignity
Chasten'd the historian shines, tho' not bestarr'd
With luminous conceits, flashing on the eyes
Surprise, conviction none: nor climbing high
With strange huge toil clouds sulky, Titan-wise,
Pelion on Ossa heaping: — yet the page
Spreads a due glory round; nor shall the speck
That lightly passes o'er, eclipse its beams.