Ars Victrix

Yes; when the ways oppose —     When the hard means rebel, Fairer the work outgrows, —     More potent far the spell.

O POET, then, forbear     The loosely-sandalled verse, Choose rather thou to wear     The buskin — straight and terse;

Leave to the tiro’s hand     The limp and shapeless style, See that thy form demand     The labour 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     In 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.