Page:The college beautiful, and other poems.djvu/32

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HO called himself your priest, Immortal Choir? Not Dante, though in ruddiest altar- flame He plunged his torch, and bore it through the shame Of deepening hell to domes of starry fire, In steadfast temple-service. Not that sire Of glorious chant, our Milton, he who came With solemn tread and vestments purged from blame To swing the censer of divine desire. But Horace, sipping at your crystal spring As lightly as he quaffed his Sabine wine, Caught up that lute, about whose golden string The rose and myrtle he was deft to twine, And sweetly sang, in pauses of the feast, " The poet is the gods' anointed priest."

R. Edward Olney, Sir, Of me you shall not win renown; You thought to write an Algebra For pastime ere your sun went down.