Nobilis extremâ gradiens Caledonis ab arâ Tu mihi hærebis comes ambulanti, Mox recumbentis vigilans ad aurem Sacra sopitis superinferens oblivia curis, Stet juxtà Casimirus 2, huic nec parciùs ignem Natura indulsit nec Musa armavit alumnum Sarbivium2 rudiore lyrâ. Quanta Polonum levat aura cygnum ! Sen tu fortè virum tollis ad æthera, Sarbivii ad nomen gelida incalet Jam juga Zionis radens pede M. Cassimirus Sarbiewski, Poeta insignis Polonis. 3 Lib. ii. Od. 5. Elato inter sidera radens vertice Longè despecto mortalia. Quam juvat altisonis volitare per æthera pennis, Quæ mortale genus (heu malè) deperit. Ventosæ sortis ludibrium. En mihi subsidunt terrena à pectore fæces, at vos heroes et arma Et procul este dii, ludicra numina Abstate à carmine nostro. Te, Deus Omnipotens ! te nostra sonabit Jesu Musa, nec assueto cœlestes barbiton ausû Tentabit numeros. Vasti sine limite numen et Immensum sine lege Deum numeri sine lege sonabunt. Sed Musam magna pollicentem destituit viger: divino jubare perstringitur oculorum acies. En labascit pennis, tremit artubus ruit deorsum per inane ætheris, jacet victa, obstupescit, silet, Ignoscas, reverende vir, vano conamini; fragmen hoc rude licet et impolitu æqui boni consulas, et gratitudinis jam diu debitæ in partem reponas. I. W. TRANSLATION. BY DR. GIBBONS. ΤΟ THE REV. MR. JOHN PINHORNE, THE FAITHFUL PRECEPTOR OF MY YOUNGER YEARS. PINHORNE, permit the Muse to' aspire Fain would she tune an equal lay, Through Plato's walks, a flowery road, Thou, too, didst her young steps convey "Twas thine irradiating light The mountains, where the Muses' choir Of high Parnassus' top possess'd, See Homer towering o'er the rest What a stupendous strain ! In battle gods and men contend, My ear imbibes the' immense delight, The country's humble charms; Sounds the loud charge-to arms. The Theban bard' my soul admires, Hail, great triumvirate! your lays When from my labours in the mine I'll seize your works with both my hands, Horace shall with the choir be join'd, Pleas'd, I'll attend his lyric strain, 1 Pindar. Next, cleans'd from his unhallow'd scum, And high his vengeance wield: His satires sound the loud alarm And, cowering, quits the field. In vain should I expect delight Had pierc'd the shades that veil him round, Now Seneca, with tragic lays, In long and regular array, My shelves your volumes shall display, No moth's, no worm's insidious rage Meanwhile, let Martial's blushless Muse With Ovid's verse, that, as it rolls, |