The goblets are foaming with deep-coloured wine,
Right merry is every guest;
When in comes the Poet the party to join,
Thus adding to good—why, the best;
For nectar itself can no pleasure inspire
In heavenly circles deprived of the lyre.

The Poet by heavenly grace is endued
With a mind which all ages reflects:
Whatever has happened on earth he has viewed,
He can see what the future protects:
The earliest councils of heaven he shared,
To him the inscrutable seed was unbared.

To fancy he gladly abandons the rein
As he looks on existence around;
This earthly abode in itself is a fane
To him—so the Muses expound.
No roof is so humble, no cottage so small
But he pictures them full of divinities all.

And just as that craftsman, the scion of Zeus,
In the circumscribed space of a shield
Could the heavens and earth and the sea introduce
In one single harmonious field,
So the Poet the stamp of unlimited space
Can impress on the moments as onward they race.

He comes from the earliest ages of earth,
When the nations were youthful and green;
And, a jovial traveller ever since birth,
All eras and peoples has seen.
Four ages of men have passed under his eye,
And now to a fifth he is ready to fly.

First Saturn bore rule with his justice and grace,
And day without change followed day;
Then flourished the shepherds, an innocent race,
On whom not a burden could weigh.
They loved—and than love they entreated no more,
And Earth in her bounty replenished their store.

Then labour ensued, and bold mortals began
For monsters and dragons to seek;
The mighty and conquerors pressed to the van,
And the powerful aided the weak.
To the banks of Scamander the battle-cry swirled,
But “the Beautiful” still was the God of the world.

But the battle was ended, and victory came,
And the gentle grew out of the strong;
And the Gods stood forth; and with single acclaim
The Muses broke out into song.
But the spirit of Phantasy never could last—
'Tis an age that is gone—'tis a dream of the past.

The Gods from their thrones in the heavens were torn,
Down clattered their temples and fanes;
And the Virgin's Son to the world was born
To heal man's sins and pains.
The lusts of the senses were grappled and fought,
And man, to his comfort, took refuge in Thought.

And the days of voluptuous pleasures are run,
Young blood from its folly desists;
Abased are the penitent friar and nun,
The warrior takes to the lists.
If life in its aspect were rugged and wild,
Love, at least, remained gentle and charming and mild.

The Muses a sanctified altar divine
All unostentatiously dressed;
Then flourished whatever was noble and fine
In woman's immaculate breast.
And the glory of song was encouraged anew
By the lays of the troubadour loving and true.

Then so, an united harmonious pair,
Let Woman and Poet combine
The girdle, with equal and scrupulous care,
Of Beauty and Justice to twine.
Where Love is judiciously mated with Song
It is able the heyday of life to prolong.