I_n our hearts is the great one of Avon_
E_ngraven_,
A_nd we climb the cold summits once built on_
B_y Milton_;
B_ut at times not the air that is rarest_
I_s fairest_,
A_nd we long in the valley to follow_
A_pollo_.
T_hen we drop from the heights atmospheric_
T_o Herrick_,
O_r we pour the Greek honey, grown blander_,
O_f Landor_,
O_r our cosiest nook in the shade is_
W_here Praed is_,
O_r we toss the light bells of the mocker_
W_ith Locker_.
O_ the song where not one of the Graces_
T_ightlaces_,--
W_here we woo the sweet Muses not starchly_,
B_ut archly_,--
W_here the verse, like a piper a-Maying_
C_omes playing_,--
A_nd the rhyme is as gay as a dancer_
I_n answer_,--
I_t will last till men weary of pleasure_
I_n measure!_
I_t will last till men weary of laughter_ ...
A_nd after!_
Whatever we may say of the indebtedness of things like these to the
letter of the ancient poet, we must acknowledge them all alike as
examples of the dynamic power of Horace.
_ii_. CREATION
But there are other examples whose character as literary creation is
still farther beyond question. Such a one, to mention one brilliant
specimen in prose, is the letter of Andrew Lang to Horace. In verse,
Austin Dobson again affords one of the happiest examples: