(Apologies to T. Babington Macaulay)

Nunc age, Dardaniam prolem quae deinde sequatur

Gloria. . . Expediam dictis, et te tua fata docebo.

Vergil, Aen. vi, 756–9.

The Prologue

Tonight is solemn feasting, as by Epgephia’s shrine

The priests and augurs gather, the future to divine.

Tonight the idle rhymester sits passive, aw’d, and dumb,

For ev’ry eye is strain’d to glimpse the mighty days to come.

In state broods ancient Capys, Capys the moody seer,

Who grinds out reams of dulness each empty, futile year.

And as the scene awakes him, he sees a wondrous gleam

That turns his mind from Georgian verse to high prophetic dream.

Before him yawns a vista of piercing crystal light,

The Hub Club’s coming splendour, irradiate and bright.

So while the feasters tremble at tedium held in store,

The poor old fossil opes his lips and settles down to bore.

The Prophecy

Hail! band of matchless talents, of literate renown,

Whose fame for thirty twelvemonths hath brighten’d Boston town;

Hail! children of the Muses, resplendent in the glow

Of wisdom that the Delian god sent down from long ago.

For you no tawdry pleasures, no tinsel honours wait,

But all the gifts that genius demands from rigid Fate;

Let others count their silver, whilst you immortal shine

Beside the god whose gorgeous fane adorns the Palatine.

I look adown the ages, and spy with curious stare

A novel shrine of marble rear’d high on Copley Square;

Within is many a volume replete with art and wit,

Each one a deathless classic by Hubly author writ.

And on the hills of Allston in majesty there stands

A silent vast rotunda, the work of rev’rent hands;

Beneath the dome of crystal, around the curved wall,

There sit a marble circle presiding o’er the hall;

Each statue bears a tablet whereon the eye may trace

The glory that of old belong’d to one of Hubdom’s race.

Behold in carven grandeur a proud patrician head

That stirr’d the world with melody in ages past and dead,

Whose numbers wak’d the echoes of many a distant clime,

And brought the fairies back to earth in captivating rhyme;

Each day before the statue young poets place a wreath,

While for a thousand marching years the bard hath slept beneath.

Close by there gleams another, that once could charm mankind

With tales whose searching verity explor’d the human mind;

The East and West united to sing their lofty praise,

And daily now the marble bears freshly gather’d bays.

Ten centuries of silence have lessen’d not the fame

Of one belov’d by all the Nine, and heir to Phoebus’ flame.

Next shines a Roman visage where dignity and mirth

Are blent in just proportion to cheer a pensive earth;

And those who gaze upon it of grateful mem’ries quaff,

Recalling that a Dooley’s wit first taught the land to laugh.

Upon a pedestal of bronze, engrav’d with moons and stars,

See now a stately image, wreath’d with white nenuphars;

A prophet of the seven spheres, whom modern sages know

As one who wrested from the sky its secrets long ago.

And here an ivory dais attracts the roving glance,

Whereon there rests a sculptur’d form adorn’d with flow’rs from France.

Unnumber’d tongues have chanted the blest musician’s skill,

And oft at eve admiring choirs the temple shadows thrill.

Impressive in the twilight there looms a scholar’s face,

At once the scion and the sire of an illustrious race;

From Persia’s Gulf to Puget Sound that mighty name is known,

Nor thro’ ten hundred weary years hath it less famous grown.

Bedeck’d with vivid verdure, and pleasing to the sight,

The Celtic form of fiction’s king glows in the temple’s light;

The ages sing his glory, the aeons praise his art;

For it is his informal law that moves the throbbing heart.

Made striking by the shadows cast back beneath its head

There stands a serious statue with aspect stern and dread;

The Congo chants his splendour in sempiternal song,

Who from their age-long bondage once rais’d the sooty throng.

But what is this I gaze on, set somewhat o’er the rest,

Is it Egyptian Pasht transferr’d to regions of the West?

In classic stone supreme there tow’rs, contented, calm, and fat,

The godlike, sleek, and well-fed form of an Egyptian Tat!

‘Tis he! ‘tis he, whose onyx shrine a million souls have deck’d,

God of the latest Asian fad—the holy Khatist sect!

Beyond I spy—but dash it all! where have those feasters gone?

I’ve only made eight prophecies—the most are still undrawn!

Confound the wretches! How is this for base ingratitude?

They’ve left, whilst yet I’m going strong in prophesying mood!

How things have chang’d since Roman times, when I could keep a crowd

Agape with any nonsense, if I but mutter’d loud.

‘Tis hard for any haruspice to meet these modern days

When people will be ennui’d howe’er I puff and praise!

I will not waste mine ancient bunk—I’ll cease to be a prophet,

Or else I’ll teach each cynic soul he’s headed straight for Tophet!