THE METAMORPHOSES OF PUBLIUS OVIDIUS NASO

I. Jamyue opus ctepi. It was custo
mary, especially with the ancient poets, to
make some reference to themselves at the
close of tlieir poems, and this was done, in
many cases, in no measured tones of self-
laudation. This Peroratio of Ovid is un
worthy of the poet, and the reason is, that
in writing it, he abandoned his own origi
nal genius, to be the copyist of another.
The above is an imitation of a poem by
Horace on a similar occasion. With a few
remarks on the first lines, I will permit
the reader to institute the comparison be
tween them, and make his own conclu
sions. Horace says, "I have finished a
monument more enduring than brass, and
more lofty than the royal site of the pyra
mids." Here is a beautiful metaphor;
like the Pharaohs of old. the poet, during
his lifetime, had been building his own
monument. It was not only more lofty
than ihe pyramids, but more enduring,
though lofty, neither the rain, nor the
storm, nor the flight of time, could destroy
it by force, nor waste it by decay. Ovid
says, " I have finished a work, which nei
ther the anger of Jove, nor fire, nor steel,
nor consuming time can destroy." How
spiritless and prosaic is the word opus,
when compared with monummtum ; and
DOW little of forceful and poetic application
306
PERORATIO.
AMQ.UE opus exegi, quod nee Jovis ira,
nee ignis,
Nee poterit ferrum, nee edax abolere vetustas.
Cum volet ilia dies, quse nil nisi corporis
hujus
Jus habet, incerti spatium mihi finiat JBVI;
Parte tamen meliore mei super alta perennis
5
Astra fcrar; nomenque erit indelebile nos
trum.
Quaque patet domitis Romana potentia
terris,
Ore legar populi; perque omnia siecula
fam a,
Si quid habent veri vatum praesagia, vivam.
NOTJE.
have the "storm," and the "lightning,
and "corroding time," when applied to a
work, in comparison with what they have,
when connected with a monument, lofty
and cloud-capt, exposed to the rushing
hurricane, the driving rain, and the riving
bolt. Thus Horace:
Exegi monumentum cere pcrennius,
Regalique situ pyramidum allius;
Quod non imber edax, non Aquilo impotent
Tossit diruere, aut inuum rabilis
Annornm series, et fugn lemporum.
Non qmnis moriar; multaque pars mei
Vilabit Libitiimm. Uaque epo poster^
Crescam laude recens, dnm Cupilolium
Scandet eum tacitu virgine ponlifex.
Diear, qnn vinlens ohsirepit Aufidus,
Kt qua pauper aqua: Daunia uffrestium
Regnavit popiilorum, ex humili potens
Pnncena JJolium curmeii ad Italps
Deduxisse inodns. Sume suiicrbiam
QutEsitam meritis, et mihi Dclphic£
Lauro cinge volens, Melpomene, coinain.
The Peroratio of Virgil, at the close of
the Gcorgics, is more modest:
While thus I aing of trees, apd flocks, and fields,
Great Cfcsar, thundering, war o'er Kuphrat
wields,
Viclor, o'er willing realms his law extends,
And from the world to opening heaven ascends
I, Virgil, lh , 'mid Naples' syren bowers,
In ease inglorious nursed my studious hours,
I, whose bold >outh the pasloral strain essayed
And sung thee, Tilyrua, in the beechen shade.
We will give three concluding addresses
by modern poets. The first is by Herrick,
an English poet, born in 1591. It was
evidently stiggesied by the poem of Ho
race, and is ingeniously constructed, so as
to resemble a real column, with emablature
and pedestal:
THE PILLAB OF FAME.
Fame's pillar here at last we Bet,
Out-during marble, brass, or jet;
Charmed and enchanted so,
As to withstand the blow
Of overthrow:
Nor shall the seas,
Or outrages
Of storms, o'erbear
What we uproar:
Tho' kingdoms full:
This pillar never shall
Decline, or waste at all;
Hut stand forever by his own
Firm and well-fixed foundation.
The second is by Sir Walter Scott:
Yel, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel harp!
\ et, once again, forgive my feeble sway,
And little reck I of ihe censure sharp
May idly cavil at an idl* lay.
Much have I owed thy strains uii life's long way,
Through secret woes the world has never
known,
When on the weary night dawned wearier day,
And bitterer was the grief devoured alone.
That I o'erlive such woe*, Enchantress, is thine
own.
Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,
Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string!
Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire,
'Tis now the brush of Folly's frolic wing.
Receding now, the dying numbers ring
Fatnler and fainter down the rugged dell,
And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring
A wandering witch-note of the distant spell
And now, 'tis silent all! Enchantress, fare thee
well!
PERORATIO. 307
The following, by the late E. C. Pink-
neyt of Baltimore, is distinguished for its
poetic merit, and the tender melancholy
that pervades it.
The firstlings of my simple song
Were offered 10 thy name}
Again the altar, idle long.
In worship rears its flame.
My sacrifice of sullen years,
My many hecatombs of tears.
No happier hours recall
Yet may thy wandering thoughts restore
To one who ever loved thee more
Than fickle Fortune's all.
How I have lived imports not now;
I am about to die,
Else I might chide thee that my life
Has been a stifled sigh;
Yes life; for time, beyond the line
Our parting traced, appears not mine.
Or of a world gone by ,
And often almost would evince.
My soul had transmigrated since.
Pass, wasted flowers 1 alike the grave,
To which I fast go down,
Will give the joy of nothingness
To me, and to renown:
Unto its careless tenants, lame
Is idle as that gilded name,
Of vanity the crown,
Helvetian hands inscribe upon
The forehead of a skeleton.
List the last cadence of a lay,
That closing as begun,
Is governed by a note of pain,
Oh, lost and worshipped one!
Nnnc shall attend a sadder strain,
Till Memnon's statue stand again
To mourn the setting sun,
Nor sweeter, if my numbers seem
To aliure ihe nature of their theme.