Classic Poem

LIB . II. Ode I.— TO POLLIO ON HIS MEDITATED HISTORY.

The story of our civil wars,
Through all the changes that befell us,
To chronicle thy pen prepares,
Dating the record from Metellus;—
Of parties and of chiefs thy page
Will paint the leagues, the plans, the forces;
Follow them through each varied stage,
And trace the warfare to its sources.

And thou wilt tell of swords still wet
With unatoned-for blood;—historian,
Bethink thee of thy risk!…ere yet
Of Clio thou awake the clarion.
Think of the tact which Rome requires
In one who would such deeds unfold her;
Know that thy tread is upon fires
Which still beneath the ashes smoulder.

Of Tragedy the weeping Muse
Awhile in thee may mourn a truant,
Whom varnished fiction vainly woos,
Of stern realities pursuant:
But finish thy laborious task,
Our annals write with care and candour;
Then don the buskin and the mask,
And tread through scenes of tragic grandeur!

Star of the stage! to thee the Law
Looks for her mildest, best expounder—
Thee the rapt senate hears with awe,
Wielding the bolts of patriot thunder—
Thee Glory found beneath the tent,
When from a desert wild and horrid,
Dalmatia back in triumph sent
Her conqueror, with laurelled forehead!

But, hark! methinks the martial horn
Gives prelude to thy coming story;
In fancy's ear shrill trumpets warn
Of battle-fields, hard fought and gory:

Fancy hath conjured up the scene,
And phantom warriors crowd beside her—
The squadron dight in dazzling sheen—
The startled steed—th' affrighted rider!

Hark to the shouts that echo loud
From mighty chieftains, shadowed grimly!
While blood and dust each hero shroud,
Costume of slaughter—not unseemly:
Vainly ye struggle, vanquished brave!
Doomed to see fortune still desert ye,
Till all the world lies prostrate, save
Unconquer'd Cato's savage virtue!

Juno, who loveth Afric most,
And each dread tutelary godhead,
Who guards her black barbaric coast,
Lybia with Roman gore have flooded:
While warring thus the sons of those
Whose prowess could of old subject her,
Glutting the grudge of ancient foes,
Fell—but to glad Jugurtha's spectre!

Where be the distant land but drank
Our Latium's noblest blood in torrents?
Sad sepulchres, where'er it sank,
Bear witness to each foul occurrence.
Rude barbarous tribes have learn'd to scoff,
Sure to exult at our undoing;—
Persia hath heard with joy, far off,
The sound of Rome's gigantic ruin!

Point out the gulf on ocean's verge—
The stream remote, along whose channels
Hath not been heard the mournful dirge
That rose throughout our murderous annals—
Shew me the sea—without its tide
Of blood upon the surface blushing—
Shew me the shore—with blood undyed
From Roman veins profusely gushing.

But, Muse! a truce to themes like these—
Let us strike up some Jocund carol;
Nor pipe with old Simonides
Dull solemn strains, morosely moral:
Teach me a new, a livelier stave—
And that we may the better chaunt it,
Hie with me to the mystic cave,
Grotto of song! by Bacchus haunted.