He, in Elysium having cast his eye
Upon the figure of a youth, whose hair,
With purple ribands braided curiously,
Hung on his shoulders wond’rous bright and fair,
Said: “Virgin, what is he whose heav’nly face
Shines past all others, as the morn the night;
Whom many marvelling souls, from place to place,
Pursue and haunt with sounds of such delight;
Whose count’nance (were’t not in the Stygian shade)
Would make me, questionless, believe he were
A very God?” The learned virgin made
This answer: “If thou shouldst believe it here,
Thou shouldst not err. He well deserv’d to be
Esteem’d a God; nor held his so-much breast
A little presence of the Deity,
His verse compris’d earth, seas, stars, souls at rest;
In song the Muses he did equalize,
In honour Phœbus. He was only soul,
Saw all things spher’d in nature, without eyes,
And rais’d your Troy up to the starry pole.”
Glad Scipio, viewing well this prince of ghosts,
Said: “O if Fates would give this poet leave
To sing the acts done by the Roman hosts,
How much beyond would future times receive
The same facts made by any other known!
O blest Æacides, to have the grace
That out of such a mouth thou shouldst be shown
To wond’ring nations, as enrich’d the race
Of all times future with what he did know!
Thy virtue with his verse shall ever grow.”
Now hear an Angel sing our poet’s fame,
Whom fate, for his divine song, gave that name.