THE SESSIONS OF PARNASSUS.
233
Let groundlings bend their strength to fitlier things;
Parnassus' heights are only won by wings!"
"Pass on! What hungry group now stops the way?"
"Sire! these be wights of larger wit than pay;
Some, care-worn scribblers for th' exacting press,
Booksellers' hacks, reviewers, in their stress
Obliged, on hire, applause or blame to utter
At a hard master's beck, for bread and butter;
And some, too noble, 't is relief to think,
To dip their free pens in corrosive ink."
So dense a litter of prolific rhyme,
Parnassus ne'er had harbored at a time:
To whom the Judge: "Forgive unseemly haste!
Most worthy friends! but there 's no time to waste.
Some have done well, though here some doubt may rise;
Some ill—this truth there 's no body denies.
Hail! and farewell! we charge you, to a man,
For Heaven's sake, write better, if you can!
The Court's adjourned!" At once the Muses raise
A joyous choral in Apollo's praise.
The god bows thanks; his dazzling car ascends,
And gives his last charge to his thronging friends:
Parnassus' heights are only won by wings!"
"Pass on! What hungry group now stops the way?"
"Sire! these be wights of larger wit than pay;
Some, care-worn scribblers for th' exacting press,
Booksellers' hacks, reviewers, in their stress
Obliged, on hire, applause or blame to utter
At a hard master's beck, for bread and butter;
And some, too noble, 't is relief to think,
To dip their free pens in corrosive ink."
So dense a litter of prolific rhyme,
Parnassus ne'er had harbored at a time:
To whom the Judge: "Forgive unseemly haste!
Most worthy friends! but there 's no time to waste.
Some have done well, though here some doubt may rise;
Some ill—this truth there 's no body denies.
Hail! and farewell! we charge you, to a man,
For Heaven's sake, write better, if you can!
The Court's adjourned!" At once the Muses raise
A joyous choral in Apollo's praise.
The god bows thanks; his dazzling car ascends,
And gives his last charge to his thronging friends:
"Bards of the West! your country claims your voice.
Mark how old Europe's hills and streams rejoice!
Happy with minstrels to announce their name
To every passing age, with proud acclaim.
Sound! sound the lyre! 't is Phœbus' last command:
Grand, ringing rhymes should peal around the land.
Clear the fogged heavens with new thunder-strokes!
Strike with a fire to rend all hearts like oaks!
Mountains are groaning for a lyric name;
Rivers implore the choral wreath of Fame;
Cataracts are shouting for young minstrelsy
To set their roar to music not to die.
Sound! sound the lyre! your heroes, slain too long,
Start from the field to claim new life of Song.
Your brothers' blood calls loudly from the ground.
Sound! ere the martyred ghosts confound you, sound!
Let them not die a second death, more sad,
From lapse of aught your saving art might add.
Mark how old Europe's hills and streams rejoice!
Happy with minstrels to announce their name
To every passing age, with proud acclaim.
Sound! sound the lyre! 't is Phœbus' last command:
Grand, ringing rhymes should peal around the land.
Clear the fogged heavens with new thunder-strokes!
Strike with a fire to rend all hearts like oaks!
Mountains are groaning for a lyric name;
Rivers implore the choral wreath of Fame;
Cataracts are shouting for young minstrelsy
To set their roar to music not to die.
Sound! sound the lyre! your heroes, slain too long,
Start from the field to claim new life of Song.
Your brothers' blood calls loudly from the ground.
Sound! ere the martyred ghosts confound you, sound!
Let them not die a second death, more sad,
From lapse of aught your saving art might add.
