BETA

Roman Virgil, thou that singest
Ilion’s lofty temples robed in fire,
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Ilion falling, Rome arising,
wars, and filial faith, and Dido’s pyre ;
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Landscape-lover, lord of language—
more than he thatsang the Works and Days,
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All the chosen coin of fancy
flashing out from many a golden phrase ;
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Thou that singest wheat and woodland,
tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and heard ;
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All of the charms of all the Muses
often flowering in a lonely word ;
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Poet of the happy Tityrus
piping underneath his beechen bowers ;
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Poet of the poet-satyr
whom the laughing shepherd bound with flowers ;
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Chanter of the Pollio, glorying
in the blissful years again to be,
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Summers of the snakeless meadow,
unlaborious earch and oarless sea ;
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Thou that seest Universal
Nature moved by Universal Mind ;
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Thou Majestic in thy sadness
at the doubtful doom of human kind ;
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Light among the vanish’d ages ;
star that gildest yet this phantom shore ;
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Golden branch amid the shadows,
kings and realms that pass to rise no more ;
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Now thy Forum roars no longer,
fallen every purple Cæsar’s dome
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Though thine ocean-roll of rhythm
sound for ever of Imperial Rome
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Now the Rome of slaves hath perish’d,
and the Rome of freemen holds her place :
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I, from out the Northern Island
sunder’d once from all the human race,
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I salute thee, mighty Mantuan,
I that loved thee since my day began,
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Wielder of the stateliest measure
ever moulded by the lips of man.”
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