Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Vida's Art of Poetry
    Vida's Art of Poetry
    Vida's Art of Poetry
    Ebook93 pages59 minutes

    Vida's Art of Poetry

    By Marco Girolamo Vida

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Vida's Art of Poetry is an 18th century translation of the famous poet Marco Vida's work.  Vida authored many poems in Latin in the 16th century.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCharles River Editors
    Release dateMar 22, 2018
    ISBN9781537814377
    Vida's Art of Poetry

    Related to Vida's Art of Poetry

    Related ebooks

    Classics For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      The Island (catullus 64)

      Mar 1, 2022

      Back then the evergreens tumbled downriverfrom the glaze-white runoff to the boot-stirred puddlesof amber young men who fulfilled our destiny,who clambered into ships, on horses, and in wagonspainting the newfound landscapes ours.Our calling was nobl

      9 min read

    • Article

      from 36 WAYS OF WRITING A VIETNAMESE POEM

      Feb 28, 2023

      You can’t go far wrong with violence.You’ll go far, my boy.You’ll cross oceans, my boy. Start with the Fall, go back or forth,Through bombs or boats,Across all the killing fields of thought. You can’t make it upBecause it’s all yours—by blood.By righ

      4 min read

    • Article

      Meet Your New Favorite Poet

      Feb 20, 2019

      Meet Your New Favorite Poet
      6 min read

    • Article

      Bard In The Woods

      Nov 30, 2020

      Bard In The Woods
      4 min read

    • Article

      The Call Of The Wild

      Nov 30, 2020

      The Call Of The Wild
      2 min read

    • Article

      The Devil’s Dictionary

      Jul 6, 2021

      Select entries from Ambrose Bierce’s lexicon of cynicism, bitterness, and humor, produced over a 30-year period beginning in 1881. APOLOGIZE, v.i. To lay the foundation for a future offence. BARD, n. A person who makes rhymes. The word is one of the

      4 min read

    • Article

      Tessa Castro

      Jul 26, 2023

      IN COMPETITION No 295 you were invited to write a poem called Roots. Cherry MacGregor started off in medias res: ‘Has the vine died? My husband had asked,/ As we enjoyed lunch in the garden.’ Another excellent opening came from DM Davis: ‘Roots, oh m

      2 min read

    • Article

      Wide Open Wordsmiths

      May 5, 2022

      Wide Open Wordsmiths
      5 min read

    • Article

      from BLACK PASTORAL

      Nov 1, 2023

      somewheres, some lifetimes ago I have run so far, so long.There is nowhere I haven’t beenBut here, in this field, a bodyLength from the ragged brinkThat gives way to forest.I collapsed here, the thin, hard slipOf me whittled at both ends.I want badly

      4 min read

    • Article

      Five Poems

      Jan 1, 2022

      The painting is of a door, its wood so warpedwith moisture it cannot close. It stays ajar leaving a sliver of light—enough to suggestsomething sweet and almost unreachable behind the door—and you sit in yourroom working on the bills or those comforti

      4 min read

    • Article

      Jasmine Fingers

      Aug 22, 2019

      Jasmine Fingers
      14 min read

    • Article

      Spell

      Apr 25, 2018

      Spell
      4 min read

    • Article

      Three Poems by Geoffrey Hill

      Dec 15, 2018

      62. Why such irony in re the mystical context when a graph of even the most commonplace exchange would appear perplexed; when we drop out from the plainest statement in the posture of a bat? So, decide to make something of that, the style to resemble

      2 min read

    • Article

      Stars Come Out

      Nov 3, 2022

      Stars Come Out
      5 min read

    • Article

      On Love

      Mar 7, 2022

      On Love
      7 min read

    • Article

      Wonderful Things

      Sep 7, 2023

      SHORTLISTED IN WM’S TUTANKHAMUN POETRY COMPETITION WERE: Guy Carter, Petersfield, Hampshire; Christine Griffin, Hucclecote, Gloucester; Sarah Das Gupta, Mamuden, Essex; Tracey Kitchen, Daventry, Northamptonshire; Lesley Mason, Norwich, Norfolk; Julie

      5 min read

    • Article

      Two Poems

      Nov 1, 2023

      As when listening to a story, children always want to knowthe next thing before sleep until they wake and the morning becomesancient, so too those beginning at love first ask, Is it real?—and then years later,Was it a memory?—only to stare at a vast

      1 min read

    • Article

      In Memory Of Derek Alton Walcott

      Mar 15, 2018

      1 Island traffic slows to a haltas screeching gulls reluctantto lift heavenwardcongregate like mourners in saltcrustedkelp, as the repellentnews spreads to colder shores: Sir Derek is no more.Bandwidths, clogged by streamingtributes, carry the pitcho

      2 min read

    • Article

      Four Poems by Eavan Boland

      May 1, 2020

      Four Poems by Eavan Boland
      3 min read

    • Article

      Four Poems

      Jul 1, 2022

      The embers of a Thousand YearsUncovered by the HandThat fondled them when they were FireWill stir and understand——from Emily Dickinson’s “1383” Remember when we hurriedourselves into the evening’s sacral blaze: Our coal-covered bridal gownsdrenched i

      6 min read

    • Article

      Echo and Narcissus

      Mar 7, 2022

      Echo and Narcissus
      7 min read

    • Article

      Two Poems

      Jul 1, 2022

      After centuries of deferralto the white sky cloud cover God, who kept me on orange alert,babbling for mercies that were batted away sloppilylike dustballs in the wake of a sock, I turned to the Divine Creatrix,who built the short night, I was convinc

      2 min read

    • Article

      Five Poems

      May 1, 2019

      “My arm is so brown and so beautiful,” is a thought I haveas I’m about to turn off the lamp and go to sleep.I look at it a moment in the soft glow, and see it, briefly,as though it belonged to someone else. A reddishkind of brown, like a toasted almo

      7 min read

    • Article

      AUSTRALOPITHECA1 & STARMAN2

      Sep 1, 2019

      The countdown to you begyns with me, deere Starman, when I wander, dumbly, deep into a space hospittable to Hunger. Now, all’s desert. No milk in syte. Just pitifull sand, what shushes as it slydes through your hande to rejoin itself. I’d join myself

      7 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Vida's Art of Poetry

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      Vida's Art of Poetry - Marco Girolamo Vida

      VIDA’S ART OF POETRY

      ..................

      Marco Girolamo Vida

      Translated by Christopher Pitt

      LACONIA PUBLISHERS

      Thank you for reading. If you enjoy this book, please leave a review or connect with the author.

      All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.

      Copyright © 2016 by Marco Girolamo Vida

      Interior design by Pronoun

      Distribution by Pronoun

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      Book I.

      Book II.

      Book III.

      VIDA’S

      ART of POETRY,

      Translated into

      ENGLISH VERSE,

      By the Reverend

      Mr. CHRISTOPH. PITT, A.M.

      Late Fellow of New-College in Oxford, Rector of Pimpern in Dorsetshire, and Chaplain to the Right Honourable PHILIP, Earl Stanhope, &c.

      To the Right Honourable

      PHILIP,

      Earl Stanhope, Viscount Mahon, and Baron Elvaston,

      THIS

      TRANSLATION,

      OF

      Vida’s Art of Poetry,

      Is Dedicated by

      His Lordship’s

      Humble Servant and Chaplain,

      Christopher Pitt.

      VIDA’S

      ART of POETRY, &c.

      BOOK I.

      ..................

      GIVE me, ye sacred muses, to impart

      The hidden secrets of your tuneful art;

      Give me your awful mysteries to sing,

      Unlock, and open wide, your sacred spring;

      While from his infancy the Bard I lead,

      And seat him on your mountain’s lofty head;

      Direct his course, and point him out the road

      To sing in Epick strains a hero or a god.

      What youth, whose gen’rous bosom pants for praise,

      Will dare with me to beat those arduous ways?

      O’er high Parnassus’ painful steeps to go,

      And leave the grov’ling multitude below:

      Where the glad muses sing, and form the choir,

      Where bright Apollo strikes the silver lyre.

      Approach thou first, great Francis, nor refuse

      To pay due honours to the sacred muse;

      While Gallia waits for thy auspicious reign,

      Till age compleats the monarch in the man;

      Mean time the muse may bring some small relief,

      To charm thy anguish, and suspend thy grief;

      While guilty fortune’s stern decrees detain

      Thee, and thy brother in the realms of Spain;

      Far, far transported from your native place,

      Your country’s, father’s, and your friends’ embrace!

      Such are the terms the cruel fates impose

      On your great father, struggling with his woes,

      These are their hard conditions:–-They require

      The sons, to purchase, and redeem the sire.

      But yet, brave youth, from grief, from tears abstain,

      Fate may relent, and heav’n grow mild again;

      At last perhaps the glorious day may come,

      The day that brings our royal exile home;

      When, to thy native realms in peace restor’d,

      The ravish’d crowds shall hail their passing lord;

      When each transported city shall rejoice,

      And nations bless thee with a public voice;

      To the throng’d fanes the matrons shall repair;

      Absolve their vows; and breathe their souls in pray’r.

      Till then, let ev’ry muse engage thy love,

      With me at large o’er high Parnassus rove,

      Range every bow’r, and sport in ev’ry grove.

      First then observe that verse is ne’er confin’d

      To one fixt measure, or determin’d kind;

      Tho’ at its birth it sung the gods alone,

      And then religion claim’d it for her own;

      In sacred verse addressed the deity,

      And spoke a language worthy of the sky;

      New themes succeeding bards began to chuse,

      And in a wider field engag’d the muse;

      The common bulk of subjects to rehearse

      In all the rich varieties of verse.

      Yet none of all with equal honors shine,

      (But those which celebrate the pow’r divine,)

      To those exalted measures which declare,

      The deeds of heroes, and the sons of war.

      From hence posterity the name bestow’d

      On this rich present of the delphick god;

      Fame says, Phemonoe in this measure gave

      Apollo’s answers from the Pythian cave.

      But e’er you write, consult your strength, and chuse

      A theme proportion’d justly to your muse.

      For tho’ in chief these precepts are bestow’d

      On him, who sings an hero or a god;

      To other themes their gen’ral use extends,

      And serves in different views to different ends.

      Whether the lofty muse with tragick rage

      Would proudly stalk in buskins on the stage;

      Or in soft elegies our pity move,

      And show the youth in all the flames of love;

      Or sing the shepherd’s woes in humble strains,

      And the low humours of contending swains;

      These faithful rules shall guide the bard along

      In every measure, argument, and song.

      Be sure, (whatever you propose to write,)

      Let the chief motive be your own delight,

      And well-weigh’d choice;–A task injoin’d refuse,

      Unless a monarch should command your muse.

      (If we may hope those golden times to see,

      When bards become the care of majesty.)

      Free and spontaneous the smooth numbers glide,

      Where choice determines, and our wills preside;

      But, at command, we toil with fruitless pain,

      And drag th’ involuntary load in vain.

      Nor, at its birth, indulge your warm desire,

      On the first glimm’ring of the sacred fire;

      Defer the mighty task, and weigh your pow’r;

      And every part in every view explore;

      And let the theme in different prospects roll

      Deep in your thoughts, and grow into the soul.

      But e’er with sails unfurld you fly away,

      And cleave the bosom of the boundless sea;

      A fund of words and images prepare,

      And lay the bright materials up with care.

      Which, at due time, occasion may produce,

      All rang’d in order for the poet’s use.

      Some happy objects by meer chance are brought

      From hidden causes to th’ unconscious thought;

      Which if once

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1