Prologue (Gifford)

'Twas never yet my luck, I ween,
To drench my lips in Hippocrene;
Nor, if I recollect aright,
On the forked Hill to sleep a night,
That I, like others of the trade,
Might wake--a poet ready made!
Thee, Helicon, with all the Nine,
And pale Pyrene, I resign,
Unenvied, to the tuneful race,
Whose busts (of many a fane the grace)
Sequacious ivy climbs, and spreads
Unfading verdure round their heads.
Enough for me, too mean for praise,
To bear my rude, uncultured lays
To Phœbus and the Muses' shrine,
And place them near their gifts divine.
Who bade the parrot χαῖρε cry;
And forced our language on the pie?
The BELLY: Master, he, of Arts,
Bestower of ingenious parts;
Powerful the creatures to endue
With sounds their natures never knew!
For, let the wily hand unfold
The glittering bait of tempting gold,
And straight the choir of daws and pies,
To such poetic heights shall rise,
That, lost in wonder, you will swear
Apollo and the Nine are there!