Happily lodged, though, is he, who is by Amor receiv'd.
Thou dost observe the ruins of ancient buildings with wonder,
Thoughtfully wandering on, over each time-hallow'd spot.
Thou dost honour still more the worthy relics created
By the few artists—whom I loved in their studios to seek.
I 'twas fashion'd those forms! thy pardon,—I boast not at present;
Presently thou shalt confess, that what I tell thee is true.
Now that thou serv'st me more idly, where are the beauteous figures,
Where are the colours, the light, which thy creations once fill'd?
Hast thou a mind again to form? The school of the Grecians
Still remains open, my friend; years have not barr'd up its doors.
I, the teacher, am ever young, and love all the youthful,
Love not the subtle and old; Mother, observe what I say!
Still was new the Antique, when yonder blest ones were living;
Happily live,—and, in thee, ages long vanish'd will live!
Food for song, where hop'st thou to find it? I only can give it,
And a more excellent style, love, and love only can teach."
Thus did the Sophist discourse. What mortal, alas! could resist him?
And when a master commands, I have been train'd to obey.
Now he deceitfully keeps his word, gives food for my numbers,