For, not all shall I die, but my greater part still
    Shall survive from the grave, and my fame shall increase
  Long as virgin and priest on the Capitol Hill
    Shall ascend to their altars in silence and peace. 
  Where once Daunus of deserts and rustics was king,
    Where swift Aufidus roars, in my praise shall be told
  That, though humble in birth, I was foremost to bring
    Into Italy’s songs the Greek music of old. 
  Then, Melpomene, take to thyself all the pride
    Of the glory thy merits so justly declare,
  And now freely of Delphian laurel provide
    A fresh coronal wreath to encircle thy hair.

Athenoeum, 1875.

[Footnote 1:  The Melpomene of Horace was, I suppose, the Greek muse of singing, not the muse of tragedy, nor a general muse.]

[Footnote 2:  Died 1880.]

THE SCULPTOR TO HIS STATUE

JOHN J. INGALLS ’55[1]

  “Thou silent, pallid dream, in marble stone! 
    No rare, sweet phantasie which my divine
  And all unearthly-mingled soul has thrown
    Around a glowing form, art thou, where shine,
    As garlands wove about a kindled shrine,
  The beauties of a godlike art and more
    Etherial thought fashioned to high design,
  But a remembrance of that unknown shore
  Where youth and love eterne on spirit pinions soar.

  “O’er the hushed vales and gulfy hills of Greece
    Night brooded on her darkly jewelled wing,
  Binding in drowsy chains of dewy peace
    Sweet birds, white flocks and every living thing,
    And lapsing streams which to the forest sing. 
  Beneath that pillared fane which guards the place
    Where spirits twain sleep in the charmed ring,
  I slept after the banquet, and the rays
  Of a past heaven flashed on my soul’s astonished gaze.

  “The emerald isles that sail a silver sea,
    Caverned by plumy groves of sunny palm,
  Broke on my startled vision suddenly;
    When as but quickly parted, sweet and calm,
    That long forgot yet ever haunting psalm
  Floated from lips that flew to greet me home. 
    A meteor flamed; I woke in rude alarm;
  Above me orbed the temple’s sullen dome;
  Around me swam the early morning’s starless gloom.

  “Of that fair dream thou art the memory,
    My genius, in its wildest fancy, bound
  And petrified to immortality! 
    A holy presence seems to hover round
    The deep, perpetual loveliness, as crowned
  With angel radiance, and plumed for flight,
    Thy pinioned sandals spurn the flowerless ground,
  Striving to gain that far Olympian height
  Towards which in rapturous awe upturns thy longing sight.