Page:The Poems of John Dyer (1903).djvu/45

 Yet still profuse of graces teems the waste. Suffice it now th' Esquilian Mount to reach With weary wing, and seek the sacred rests Of Maro's humble tenement. A low Plain wall remains; a little sun-gilt heap, Grotesque and wild: the gourd and olive brown Weave the light roof; the gourd and olive fan Their am'rous foliage, mingling with the vine, Who drops her purple clusters thro' the green. Here let me lie, with pleasing fancy sooth'd: Here flow'd his fountain, here his laurels grew; Here oft the meek good man, the lofty bard, Fram'd the celestial song, or social walk'd With Horace and the ruler of the world: Happy Augustus! who so well inspir'd Could'st throw thy pomps and royalties aside, Attentive to the wise, the great of soul, And dignify thy mind. Thrice glorious days, Auspicious to the Muses! then rever'd, Then hallow'd was the fount, or secret shade, Or open mountain, or whatever scene The poet chose to tune th' ennobling rhyme Melodious; ev'n the rugged sons of War, Ev'n the rude hinds, rever'd the poet's name: But now—another age, alas! is ours— Yet will the Muse a little longer soar, Unless the clouds of care weigh down her wing Since Nature's stores are shut with cruel hand, And each aggrieves his brother; since in vain The thirsty pilgrim at the fountain asks Th' o'erflowing wave—Enough—the plaint disdain. Seest thou yon fane? ev'n now incessant time Sweeps her low mould'ring marbles to the dust; And Phœbus' temple, nodding with its woods, Threatens huge ruin o'er the small rotund.