Page:Satires, Epistles, Art of Poetry of Horace - Coningsby (1874).djvu/181


 * Or is it said that poetry's like wine

Which age, we know, will mellow and refine? Well, let me grant the parallel, and ask How many years a work must be in cask. A bard who died a hundred years ago, With whom should he be reckoned, I would know? The priceless early or the worthless late? Come, draw a line which may preclude debate. "The bard who makes his century up has stood The test: we call him sterling, old, and good." Well, here's a poet now, whose dying day Fell one month later, or a twelvemonth, say: Whom does he count with? with the old, or them Whom we and future times alike contemn? "Aye, call him old, by favour of the court, Who falls a month, or e'en a twelvemonth short." Thanks for the kind permission! I go on, And pull out years, like horse-hairs, one by one, While all forlorn the baffled critic stands, Fumbling a naked stump between his hands, Who looks for worth in registers, and knows No inspiration but what death bestows.
 * Ennius, the stout and wise, in critic phrase

The analogue of Homer in these days, Enjoys his ease, nor cares how he redeems The gorgeous promise of his peacock dreams. Who reads not Nævius? still he lives enshrined A household god in every Roman mind. So as we reckon o'er the heroic band We call Pacuvius learned, Accius grand;