To Virgil, Written at the Request of the Manuans for the Nineteenth Centenary of Virgil's Death

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