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.