Alcaics.O mighty-mouth'd inventor of harmonies,O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity,God-gifted organ-voice of England,Milton, a name to resound for ages;Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel,Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armouries,Tower, as the deep-domed empyreanRings to the roar of an angel onset—Me rather all that bowery loneliness,The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring,And bloom profuse and cedar archesCharm, as a wanderer out in ocean,Where some refulgent sunset of IndiaStreams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle,And crimson-hued the stately palmwoodsWhisper in odorous heights of even.
O you chorus of indolent reviewers,Irresponsible, indolent reviewers,Look, I come to the test, a tiny poemAll composed in a metre of Catullus,All in quantity, careful of my motion,Like the skater on ice that hardly bears him,Lest I fall unawares before the people,Waking laughter in indolent reviewers.Should I flounder awhile without a tumbleThro' this metrification of Catullus,They should speak to me not without a welcome,All that chorus of indolent reviewers.Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to tumble,So fantastical is the dainty metre.Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe meToo presumptuous, indolent reviewers.O blatant Magazines, regard me rather—Since I blush to belaud myself a moment—As some rare little rose, a piece of inmostHorticultural art, or half coquette-likeMaiden, not to be greeted unbenignly.
So Hector said, and sea-like roar'd his host;Then loosed their sweating horses from the yoke,And each beside his chariot bound his own;And oxen from the city, and goodly sheepIn haste they drove, and honey-hearted wineAnd bread from out the houses brought, and heap'dTheir firewood, and the winds from off the plainRoll'd the rich vapor far into the heaven.And these all night upon the [1] bridge of warSat glorying; many a fire before them blazed:As when in heaven the stars about the moonLook beautiful, when all the winds are laid,And every height comes out, and jutting peakAnd valley, and the immeasurable heavensBreak open to their highest, and all the starsShine, and the Shepherd gladdens in his heart:So many a fire between the ships and streamOf Xanthus blazed before the towers of Troy,A thousand on the plain; and close by eachSat fifty in the blaze of burning fire;And champing golden grain, the horses stoodHard by their chariots, waiting for the dawn.[2]Iliad VIII. 542-561.
[1] Or, ridge.[2]Or more literally—
And eating hoary grain and pulse the steedsStood by their cars, waiting the throned morn.