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 370
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, 375
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 380
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,385
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,390
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, 395
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; 400
And Phœbus' temple, nodding with its woods,
Threatens huge ruin o'er the small rotund.