Ars Victrix

YES; when the ways oppose— When the hard means rebel, Fairer the work out-grows,— More potent far the spell. O Poet, then, forbear The loosely-sandalled verse, Choose rather thou to wear The buskin—strait and terse; Leave to the tiro’s hand The limp and shapeless style; See that thy form demand The labor of the file. Sculptor, do thou discard The yielding clay,—consign To Paros marble hard The beauty of thy line;— Model thy Satyr’s face For bronze of Syracuse; In the veined agate trace The profile of thy Muse. Painter, that still must mix But transient tints anew, Thou in the furnace fix The firm enamel’s hue; Let the smooth tile receive Thy dove-drawn Erycine; Thy Sirens blue at eve Coiled in a wash of wine. All passes. Art alone Enduring stays to us; The Bust outlasts the throne,— The Coin, Tiberius; Even the gods must go; Only the lofty Rhyme Not countless years o’erthrow,— Not long array of time. Paint, chisel, then, or write; But, that the work surpass, With the hard fashion fight,— With the resisting mass.