Let vulgar souls triumphal arches raise, Or speaking marbles, to record their praise, And picture (to the voice of fame unknown) The mimic feature on the breathing stone; Mere mortals! subject to death's total sway, 5 Reptiles of earth, and beings of a day! 'Tis thine, on ev'ry heart to grave thy praise, A monument which worth alone can raise: Sure to survive, when time shall whelm in dust The arch, the marble, and the mimic bust: 10 Nor till the volumes of th' expanded sky Blaze in one flame, shalt thou and Homer die: Then sink together in the world's last fires, What heav'n created, and what heav'n inspires. If aught on earth, when once this breath is fled, 15 With human transport touch the mighty dead, Shakespear, rejoice! his hand thy page refines; Now ev'ry scene with native brightness shines;[22] Just to thy fame, he gives thy genuine thought; So Tully published what Lucretius wrote; 20 Pruned by his care, thy laurels loftier grow, And bloom afresh on thy immortal brow. Thus when thy draughts, O Raphael! time invades, And the bold figure from the canvas fades, A rival hand recalls from ev'ry part 25 Some latent grace, and equals art with art; Transported we survey the dubious strife, While each fair image starts again to life.[23] How long, untuned, had Homer's sacred lyre Jarred grating discord, all extinct his fire! 30 This you beheld; and taught by heav'n to sing, Called the loud music from the sounding string. Now waked from slumbers of three thousand years, Once more Achilles in dread pomp appears, Towers o'er the field of death; as fierce he turns, 35 Keen flash his arms, and all the hero burns; With martial stalk, and more than mortal might, He strides along, and meets the gods in fight: Then the pale Titans, chained on burning floors, Start at the din that rends th' infernal shores, 40 Tremble the tow'rs of heav'n, earth rocks her coasts, And gloomy Pluto shakes with all his ghosts. To ev'ry theme responds thy various lay; Here rolls a torrent, there meanders play; Sonorous as the storm thy numbers rise, 45 Toss the wild waves, and thunder in the skies; Or softer than a yielding virgin's sigh, The gentle breezes breathe away and die. Thus, like the radiant god who sheds the day, You paint the vale, or gild the azure way; 50 And while with ev'ry theme the verse complies, Sink without grov'ling, without rashness rise. Proceed, great bard! awake th' harmonious string, Be ours all Homer; still Ulysses sing.