To Q. H. F. (Alcaics by Accent)

O FARMER-POET, Bard of Venusia,
O courtier-poet, pride of the Palatine,
O old-world lover, laughing lyrist,
Singer of Chloe, Leuconoe, Lyde, —

Thy Muse of mountain, vineyard, and rivulet,
Thy cups of Sabine, Massic, Falernian,
Thy praise of Peace, and yellow Plenty
Crowned with the myrtle and purpling cluster, —

These, thee we sing, light wooer of Tyndaris,
In some secluded vale of Lucretilis,
Thee, modern-ancient, magic-simple
Quintus Horatius, Prince of Poets !

Long, long ago, thy liquid-voiced Lalage
Set thy last rippling numbers to melody ;
Long, long ago the loose-zoned Graces,
Pan, and the goddesses, wept thee, wailed thee :

“ Farewell, Soracte, whispering Algidus ;
Farewell, ye sheep-strown plains of Calabria ;
Mourn, O ye fields that slope by Tibur,
Dead is the voice of the Prince of Poets !

“ Silent his golden Lesbian barbiton,
Silent the lays of Cyprus and Erymanth,
Silent his voice for hearts and ages, —
Merriest Moralist, Prince of Poets ! ”

Silent thy voice, but Syrtes and Cyclades,
Fountain and forest, peopled with memories,
Yea, all the round world, echoes, echoes,
Echoes thy harmonies, Prince of Poets.