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diff --git a/13885-0.txt b/13885-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4b5f0c0 --- /dev/null +++ b/13885-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2436 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13885 *** + +The Writings in Prose and Verse of Eugene Field + +ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM + +by + +ROSWELL MARTIN FIELD AND EUGENE FIELD + +1899 + + + + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +One Sunday evening in the winter of 1890 Eugene Field and the writer +were walking in Lake View, Chicago, on their way to visit the library of +a common friend, when the subject of publishing a book for Field came up +for discussion. + +The Little Book of Western Verse and The Little Book of Profitable Tales +had been privately printed the year before at Chicago, and Field had +been frequently reminded that the writer was ready and willing to stand +sponsor for any new volume he, Field, might desire to bring out. + +"The only thing I have on hand that might make a book," said Field, "are +some few paraphrases of the Odes of Horace which my brother, 'Rose,' and +I have been fooling over, and which, truth to tell, are certainly freely +rendered. There are not enough of them, but we'll do some more, and I'll +add a brief Life of Horace as a preface or introduction." + +It is to be regretted that Field never carried out his intention with +respect to this last, for he had given much thought and study to the +great Roman satirist, and what Eugene Field could have said upon the +subject must have been of interest. It is my belief that as he thought +upon the matter it grew too great for him to handle within the space he +had at first determined, and that tucked away within the recesses of his +literary intentions was the determination, nullified by his early death, +to write, _con amore_, a life of Quintus Horatius Flaccus. + +This determination to write separately an extended account of Horace +greatly reduced the bulk of the material intended for the Sabine Echoes, +and it was with respect to this that Field apologetically and, as was +his wont, humorously wrote: + +"The volume may be rather thin _in corpore_, but think how hefty it will +be intellectually." + +When it came to the discussion of how many copies should be printed it +was suggested that the edition be an exceedingly limited one, in order +to cause as much scrambling and heartburning as possible among our +bibliophilic brethren. And never shall I forget the seriousness of the +man's face, nor the roars of laughter that followed, when he suggested +that fifty copies only should be made, and that we should reserve one +each and burn the other forty-eight! + +It was a biting cold night and we had been loitering by the way, +stopping to debate each point as it arose--but now we plunged on with +excess of motion to keep ourselves warm, breaking out with occasional +peals of laughter as we thought of our plan to make the publication what +the booksellers call "excessively rare." + +Field, elsewhere, has said he did not know why the original intention as +to the destruction of the forty-eight copies was not carried out, but +the answer is not far away. As the time for publication approached it +was found impossible that such and such a friend should be forgotten in +the matter of a copy, and so it went on until it was deemed prudent to +add fifty to the number originally intended to be issued, and that +decision, in the light of what followed, proved to be an eminently wise +one. More than once some to me unknown friend of Field would write a +pleasant lie as a reason to gain possession of the book, and up in a +corner of the letter would be found an endorsement of the request after +this fashion: + + What's writ below + I'd have you know + Nor falsehood nor romance is; + It's solemn truth, + So grant the youth + The boon he seeks, dear Francis. + + EUGENE FIELD. + +It is perhaps unnecessary to add that, however flimsy the pretext upon +which the request for a copy was made, it never failed of its object if +it brought with it Field's endorsement. Among many pleasant utterances +on this subject Field has said that but for the writer the Horatian +verses would not have been given to the world--and this has been taken +to mean more than was intended, and much unearned praise has been +bestowed. But, in allusion to the original issue of the Odes, Field +added, "in this charming guise," which places quite another construction +upon the matter. + +It may be that the enthusiasm displayed not only pleased Field, and +incited him and his brother Roswell to perform that which, otherwise, +might have been indefinitely deferred, but there is no question but that +they intended to publish the Horatian odes at some time or another. +Field was greatly delighted with the reception of this work, and I once +heard him say it would outlive all his other books. He came naturally by +his love of the classics. His father was a splendid scholar who obliged +his sons to correspond with him in Latin. Field's favorite ode was the +Bandusian Spring, the paraphrasing of which in the styles of the various +writers of different periods gave him genuine joy and is perhaps the +choice bit of the collection. The Echoes from the Sabine Farm was the +most ambitious work Field had attempted up to the time of its issue. He +was not at all sure that the public for whom he wrote, what following he +then felt was his own, would accept his efforts in this direction with +any sort of acclaim. Unquestionably, Field, at all times, believed in +himself and in his power ultimately to make a name, as every man must +who achieves success, but he was as far from believing that the public +would accept him as an interpreter of Horatian odes as was Edward +Fitzgerald with respect to Omar Khayyám. In short, he looked upon his +work in the original publication of Echoes from the Sabine Farm as a +labor of love--an effort from which some reputation might come, but +certainly no monetary remuneration. It was because he so regarded it +that he permitted the work to be first issued under the bolstering +influence of a patron. It was, so he thought, an excellent opportunity +to show his friends and acquaintances that his Pegasus was capable of +soaring to classic heights, and he little dreamed that the paraphrasing +of the Odes of Horace over which "Rose and I have been fooling" would be +required for a _popular_ edition. With the announcement of the Scribner +edition of The Sabine Echoes came also the intelligence of Field's +death. + +I have found people who were somewhat puzzled as to the exact intentions +of the Fields with respect to these translations and paraphrases. +However, there can be no chance for mistake even to the veriest +embryonic reader of Horace, if he will but remember that, while some of +these transcriptions are indeed very faithful reproductions or +adaptations of the original, others again are to be accepted as the very +riot of burlesque verse-making. + +The last stanza in the epilogue of this book reads: + + Or if we part to meet no more +This side the misty Stygian river, + Be sure of this: On yonder shore +Sweet cheer awaiteth such as we-- + A Sabine pagan's heaven, O friend-- +And fellowship that knows no end. + +FRANCIS WILSON. + +January 22, 1896. + + + + +TO M.L. GRAY. + +Come, dear old friend, and with us twain + To calm Digentian groves repair; +The turtle coos his sweet refrain + And posies are a-blooming there; +And there the romping Sabine girls +Bind myrtle in their lustrous curls. + +I know a certain ilex-tree + Whence leaps a fountain cool and clear. +Its voices summon you and me; + Come, let us haste to share its cheer! +Methinks the rapturous song it sings +Should woo our thoughts from mortal things. + +But, good old friend, I charge thee well, + Watch thou my brother all the while, +Lest some fair Lydia cast her spell + Round him unschooled in female guile. +Those damsels have no charms for me; +Guard thou that brother,--I'll guard thee! + +And, lo, sweet friend! behold this cup, + Round which the garlands intertwine; +With Massic it is foaming up, + And we would drink to thee and thine. +And of the draught thou shalt partake, +Who lov'st us for our father's sake. + +Hark you! from yonder Sabine farm + Echo the songs of long ago, +With power to soothe and grace to charm + What ills humanity may know; +With that sweet music in the air, +'T is Love and Summer everywhere. + +So, though no grief consumes our lot + (Since all our lives have been discreet), +Come, in this consecrated spot, + Let's see if pagan cheer be sweet. +Now, then, the songs; but, first, more wine. +The gods be with you, friends of mine! + +E.F. + + + + +The Contents of this Book + +WRITTEN IN COLLABORATION WITH ROSWELL MARTIN FIELD + +TO M.L. GRAY E.F. +AN INVITATION TO MÆCENAS. Odes, III. 29 E.F. +CHLORIS PROPERLY REBUKED. Odes, III. 15 R.M.F. +TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA. Odes, III. 13 E.F. +TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA. R.M.F. +THE PREFERENCE DECLARED. Odes, I. 38 E.F. +A TARDY APOLOGY. I. Epode XIV R.M.F. +A TARDY APOLOGY. II. E.F. +TO THE SHIP OF STATE. Odes, I. 14 R.M.F. +QUITTING AGAIN. Odes, III. 26 E.F. +SAILOR AND SHADE. Odes, I. 28 E.F. +LET US HAVE PEACE. Odes, I. 27 E.F. +TO QUINTUS DELLIUS. Odes, II. 3 E.F. +POKING FUN AT XANTHIAS. Odes, II. 4 R.M.F. +TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS. Odes, I. 22 E.F. +TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS. I. Odes, I. 33 E.F. +TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS. II. R.M.F. +To MÆCENAS. Odes, I. 1 R.M.F. +TO HIS BOOK. Epistle XX R.M.F. +FAME _vs._ RICHES. Ars Poetica, line 323 E.F. +THE LYRIC MUSE. Ars Poetica, line 301 E.F. +A COUNTERBLAST AGAINST GARLIC. Epode III. R.M.F. +AN EXCUSE FOR LALAGE. Odes, II. 5 R.M.F. +AN APPEAL TO LYCE. Odes, IV. 13 R.M.F. +A ROMAN WINTER-PIECE I. Odes, I. 9 E.F. +A ROMAN WINTER-PIECE II. R.M.F. +TO DIANA. Odes, III. 22 R.M.F. +TO HIS LUTE. Odes, I. 32 E.F. +TO LEUCONÖE I. Odes, I. 11 R.M.F. +TO LEUCONÖE II. E.F. +TO LIGURINUS I. Odes, IV. 10 R.M.F. +TO LIGURINUS II. E.F. +THE HAPPY ISLES. Epode XIV. line 41 E.F. +CONSISTENCY. Ars Poetica E.F. +TO POSTUMUS. Odes, II. 14 R.M.F. +TO MISTRESS PYRRHA I. Odes, I. 5 E.F. +TO MISTRESS PYRRHA II. R.M.F. +TO MELPOMENE. Odes, III. 30 E.F. +TO PHYLLIS I. Odes, IV. 11. E.F. +TO PHYLLIS II. R.M.F. +TO CHLOE I. Odes, I. 23 R.M.F. +TO CHLOE II. E.F. + A PARAPHRASE. E.F. + ANOTHER PARAPHRASE. E.F. + A THIRD PARAPHRASE. E.F. + A FOURTH PARAPHRASE. E.F. +TO MÆCENAS. Odes, I. 20 E.F. +TO BARINE. Odes, II. 8 R.M.F. +THE RECONCILIATION. I. Odes, III. 9 E.F. +THE RECONCILIATION. II. R.M.F. +THE ROASTING OF LYDIA. Odes, I. 25 R.M.F. +TO GLYCERA. Odes, I. 19 R.M.F. +TO LYDIA. I. Odes, I. 13 E.F. +TO LYDIA. II. R.M.F. +TO QUINTIUS HIRPINUS. Odes, II. 11 E.F. +WINE, WOMEN, AND SONG. Odes, I. 18 E.F. +AN ODE TO FORTUNE. Odes, I. 35 E.F. +TO A JAR OF WINE. Odes, III. 21 E.F. +TO POMPEIUS VARUS. Odes, II. 1 E.F. +THE POET'S METAMORPHOSIS. Odes, II. 20 E.F. +TO VENUS. Odes, I. 30 E.F. +IN THE SPRINGTIME. I. Odes, I. 4 E.F. +IN THE SPRINGTIME. II. R.M.F. +TO A BULLY. Epode VI. E.F. +TO MOTHER VENUS. +TO LYDIA. Odes, I. 8 E.F. +TO NEOBULE. Odes, III. 12 R.M.F. +AT THE BALL GAME. Odes, V. 17. R.M.F. +EPILOGUE. E.F. + + + + + +AN INVITATION TO MÆCENAS + +Dear, noble friend! a virgin cask + Of wine solicits your attention; +And roses fair, to deck your hair, + And things too numerous to mention. +So tear yourself awhile away + From urban turmoil, pride, and splendor, +And deign to share what humble fare + And sumptuous fellowship I tender. +The sweet content retirement brings +Smoothes out the ruffled front of kings. + +The evil planets have combined + To make the weather hot and hotter; +By parboiled streams the shepherd dreams + Vainly of ice-cream soda-water. +And meanwhile you, defying heat, + With patriotic ardor ponder +On what old Rome essays at home, + And what her heathen do out yonder. +Mæcenas, no such vain alarm +Disturbs the quiet of this farm! + +God in His providence obscures + The goal beyond this vale of sorrow, +And smiles at men in pity when + They seek to penetrate the morrow. +With faith that all is for the best, + Let's bear what burdens are presented, +That we shall say, let come what may, + "We die, as we have lived, contented! +Ours is to-day; God's is the rest,-- +He doth ordain who knoweth best." + +Dame Fortune plays me many a prank. + When she is kind, oh, how I go it! +But if again she's harsh,--why, then + I am a very proper poet! +When favoring gales bring in my ships, + I hie to Rome and live in clover; +Elsewise I steer my skiff out here, + And anchor till the storm blows over. +Compulsory virtue is the charm +Of life upon the Sabine farm! + + + + +CHLORIS PROPERLY REBUKED + +Chloris, my friend, I pray you your misconduct to forswear; +The wife of poor old Ibycus should have more _savoir faire_. +A woman at your time of life, and drawing near death's door, +Should not play with the girly girls, and think she's _en rapport_. + +What's good enough for Pholoe you cannot well essay; +Your daughter very properly courts _the jeunesse dorée_,-- +A Thyiad, who, when timbrel beats, cannot her joy restrain, +But plays the kid, and laughs and giggles _à l'Américaine_. + +'T is more becoming, Madame, in a creature old and poor, +To sit and spin than to engage in an _affaire d'amour_. +The lutes, the roses, and the wine drained deep are not for you; +Remember what the poet says: _Ce monde est plein de fous!_ + + + + +TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA + +O fountain of Bandusia! + Whence crystal waters flow, +With garlands gay and wine I'll pay + The sacrifice I owe; +A sportive kid with budding horns + I have, whose crimson blood +Anon shall dye and sanctify + Thy cool and babbling flood. + +O fountain of Bandusia! + The Dog-star's hateful spell +No evil brings into the springs + That from thy bosom well; +Here oxen, wearied by the plow, + The roving cattle here +Hasten in quest of certain rest, + And quaff thy gracious cheer. + +O fountain of Bandusia! + Ennobled shalt thou be, +For I shall sing the joys that spring + Beneath yon ilex-tree. +Yes, fountain of Bandusia, + Posterity shall know +The cooling brooks that from thy nooks + Singing and dancing go. + + + + +TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA + +O fountain of Bandusia! more glittering than glass, +And worthy of the pleasant wine and toasts that freely pass; +More worthy of the flowers with which thou modestly art hid, +To-morrow willing hands shall sacrifice to thee a kid. + +In vain the glory of the brow where proudly swell above +The growing horns, significant of battle and of love; +For in thy honor he shall die,--the offspring of the herd,-- +And with his crimson life-blood thy cold waters shall be stirred. + +The Dog-star's cruel season, with its fierce and blazing heat, +Has never sent its scorching rays into thy glad retreat; +The oxen, wearied with the plow, the herd which wanders near, +Have found a grateful respite and delicious coolness here. + +When of the graceful ilex on the hollow rocks I sing, +Thou shalt become illustrious, O sweet Bandusian spring! +Among the noble fountains which have been enshrined in fame, +Thy dancing, babbling waters shall in song our homage claim. + + + + +THE PREFERENCE DECLARED + +Boy, I detest the Persian pomp; + I hate those linden-bark devices; +And as for roses, holy Moses! + They can't be got at living prices! +Myrtle is good enough for us,-- + For _you_, as bearer of my flagon; +For _me_, supine beneath this vine, + Doing my best to get a jag on! + + + + +A TARDY APOLOGY + +I + +Mæcenas, you will be my death,--though friendly you profess yourself,-- +If to me in a strain like this so often you address yourself: +"Come, Holly, why this laziness? Why indolently shock you us? +Why with Lethean cups fall into desuetude innocuous?" + +A god, Mæcenas! yea, a god hath proved the very curse of me! +If my iambics are not done, pray, do not think the worse of me; +Anacreon for young Bathyllus burned without apology, +And wept his simple measures on a sample of conchology. + +Now, you yourself, Mæcenas, are enjoying this beatitude; +If by no brighter beauty Ilium fell, you've cause for gratitude. +A certain Phryne keeps me on the rack with lovers numerous; +This is the artful hussy's neat conception of the humorous! + + + + +A TARDY APOLOGY + +II + + You ask me, friend, + Why I don't send +The long since due-and-paid-for numbers; + Why, songless, I + As drunken lie +Abandoned to Lethean slumbers. + + Long time ago + (As well you know) +I started in upon that carmen; + My work was vain,-- + But why complain? +When gods forbid, how helpless are men! + + Some ages back, + The sage Anack +Courted a frisky Samian body, + Singing her praise + In metered phrase +As flowing as his bowls of toddy. + + Till I was hoarse + Might I discourse +Upon the cruelties of Venus; + 'T were waste of time + As well of rhyme, +For you've been there yourself, Mæcenas! + + Perfect your bliss + If some fair miss +Love you yourself and _not_ your minæ; + I, fortune's sport, + All vainly court +The beauteous, polyandrous Phryne! + + + + +TO THE SHIP OF STATE + + O ship of state +Shall new winds bear you back upon the sea? +What are you doing? Seek the harbor's lee + Ere 't is too late! + + Do you bemoan +Your side was stripped of oarage in the blast? +Swift Africus has weakened, too, your mast; + The sailyards groan. + + Of cables bare, +Your keel can scarce endure the lordly wave. +Your sails are rent; you have no gods to save, + Or answer pray'r. + + Though Pontic pine, +The noble daughter of a far-famed wood, +You boast your lineage and title good,-- + A useless line! + + The sailor there +In painted sterns no reassurance finds; +Unless you owe derision to the winds, + Beware--beware! + + My grief erewhile, +But now my care--my longing! shun the seas +That flow between the gleaming Cyclades, + Each shining isle. + + + + +QUITTING AGAIN + + The hero of + Affairs of love +By far too numerous to be mentioned, + And scarred as I'm, + It seemeth time +That I were mustered out and pensioned. + + So on this wall + My lute and all +I hang, and dedicate to Venus; + And I implore + But one thing more +Ere all is at an end between us. + + O goddess fair + Who reignest where +The weather's seldom bleak and snowy, + This boon I urge: + In anger scourge +My old cantankerous sweetheart, Chloe! + + + + +SAILOR AND SHADE + +SAILOR + +You, who have compassed land and sea, + Now all unburied lie; +All vain your store of human lore, + For you were doomed to die. +The sire of Pelops likewise fell,-- + Jove's honored mortal guest; +So king and sage of every age + At last lie down to rest. +Plutonian shades enfold the ghost + Of that majestic one +Who taught as truth that he, forsooth, + Had once been Pentheus' son; +Believe who may, he's passed away, + And what he did is done. +A last night comes alike to all; + One path we all must tread, +Through sore disease or stormy seas + Or fields with corpses red. +Whate'er our deeds, that pathway leads + To regions of the dead. + + +SHADE + +The fickle twin Illyrian gales + Overwhelmed me on the wave; +But you that live, I pray you give + My bleaching bones a grave! +Oh, then when cruel tempests rage + You all unharmed shall be; +Jove's mighty hand shall guard by land + And Neptune's on the sea. +Perchance you fear to do what may + Bring evil to your race? +Oh, rather fear that like me here + You'll lack a burial place. +So, though you be in proper haste, + Bide long enough, I pray, +To give me, friend, what boon shall send + My soul upon its way! + + + + +LET US HAVE PEACE + +In maudlin spite let Thracians fight + Above their bowls of liquor; +But such as we, when on a spree, + Should never brawl and bicker! + +These angry words and clashing swords + Are quite _de trop_, I'm thinking; +Brace up, my boys, and hush your noise, + And drown your wrath in drinking. + +Aha, 't is fine,--this mellow wine + With which our host would dope us! +Now let us hear what pretty dear + Entangles him of Opus. + +I see you blush,--nay, comrades, hush! + Come, friend, though they despise you, +Tell me the name of that fair dame,-- + Perchance I may advise you. + +O wretched youth! and is it truth + You love that fickle lady? +I, doting dunce, courted her once; + Since when, she's reckoned shady! + + + + +TO QUINTUS DELLIUS + +Be tranquil, Dellius, I pray; +For though you pine your life away + With dull complaining breath, +Or speed with song and wine each day, + Still, still your doom is death. + +Where the white poplar and the pine +In glorious arching shade combine, + And the brook singing goes, +Bid them bring store of nard and wine + And garlands of the rose. + +Let's live while chance and youth obtain; +Soon shall you quit this fair domain + Kissed by the Tiber's gold, +And all your earthly pride and gain + Some heedless heir shall hold. + +One ghostly boat shall some time bear +From scenes of mirthfulness or care + Each fated human soul,-- +Shall waft and leave its burden where + The waves of Lethe roll. + +_So come, I prithee, Dellius mine; +Let's sing our songs and drink our wine + In that sequestered nook +Where the white poplar and the pine + Stand listening to the brook_. + + + + +POKING FUN AT XANTHIAS + +Of your love for your handmaid you need feel no shame. + Don't apologize, Xanthias, pray; +Remember, Achilles the proud felt a flame + For Brissy, his slave, as they say. +Old Telamon's son, fiery Ajax, was moved + By the captive Tecmessa's ripe charms; +And Atrides, suspending the feast, it behooved + To gather a girl to his arms. + +Now, how do you know that this yellow-haired maid + (This Phyllis you fain would enjoy) +Hasn't parents whose wealth would cast you in the shade,-- + Who would ornament you, Xan, my boy? +Very likely the poor chick sheds copious tears, + And is bitterly thinking the while +Of the royal good times of her earlier years, + When her folks regulated the style! + +It won't do at all, my dear boy, to believe + That she of whose charms you are proud +Is beautiful only as means to deceive,-- + Merely one of the horrible crowd. +So constant a sweetheart, so loving a wife, + So averse to all notions of greed +Was surely not born of a mother whose life + Is a chapter you'd better not read. + +As an unbiased party I feel it my place + (For I don't like to do things by halves) +To compliment Phyllis,--her arms and her face + And (excuse me!) her delicate calves. +Tut, tut! don't get angry, my boy, or suspect + You have any occasion to fear +A man whose deportment is always correct, + And is now in his forty-first year! + + + + +TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS + +Fuscus, whoso to good inclines, + And is a faultless liver, +Nor Moorish spear nor bow need fear, + Nor poison-arrowed quiver. + +Ay, though through desert wastes he roam, + Or scale the rugged mountains, +Or rest beside the murmuring tide + Of weird Hydaspan fountains! + +Lo, on a time, I gayly paced + The Sabine confines shady, +And sung in glee of Lalage, + My own and dearest lady; + +And as I sung, a monster wolf + Slunk through the thicket from me; +But for that song, as I strolled along, + He would have overcome me! + +Set me amid those poison mists + Which no fair gale dispelleth, +Or in the plains where silence reigns, + And no thing human dwelleth,-- + +Still shall I love my Lalage, + Still sing her tender graces; +And while I sing, my theme shall bring + Heaven to those desert places! + + + + +TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS + +I + +Not to lament that rival flame + Wherewith the heartless Glycera scorns you, +Nor waste your time in maudlin rhyme, + How many a modern instance warns you! + +Fair-browed Lycoris pines away + Because her Cyrus loves another; +The ruthless churl informs the girl + He loves her only as a brother! + +For he, in turn, courts Pholoe,-- + A maid unscotched of love's fierce virus; +Why, goats will mate with wolves they hate + Ere Pholoe will mate with Cyrus! + +Ah, weak and hapless human hearts, + By cruel Mother Venus fated +To spend this life in hopeless strife, + Because incongruously mated! + +Such torture, Albius, is my lot; + For, though a better mistress wooed me, +My Myrtale has captured me, + And with her cruelties subdued me! + + + + +TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS + +II + +Grieve not, my Albius, if thoughts of Glycera may haunt you, + Nor chant your mournful elegies because she faithless proves; + If now a younger man than you this cruel charmer loves, +Let not the kindly favors of the past rise up to taunt you. + +Lycoris of the little brow for Cyrus feels a passion, + And Cyrus, on the other hand, toward Pholoe inclines; + But ere this crafty Cyrus can accomplish his designs +She-goats will wed Apulian wolves in deference to fashion. + +Such is the will, the cruel will, of love-inciting Venus, + Who takes delight in wanton sport and ill-considered jokes, + And brings ridiculous misfits beneath her brazen yokes,-- +A very infelicitous proceeding, just between us. + +As for myself, young Myrtale, slave-born and lacking graces, + And wilder than the Adrian tides which form Calabrian bays, + Entangled me in pleasing chains and compromising ways, +When--just my luck--a better girl was courting my embraces. + + + + +TO MÆCENAS + +Mæcenas, thou of royalty's descent, +Both my protector and dear ornament, +Among humanity's conditions are +Those who take pleasure in the flying car, +Whirling Olympian dust, as on they roll, +And shunning with the glowing wheel the goal; +While the ennobling palm, the prize of worth, +Exalts them to the gods, the lords of earth. + +Here one is happy if the fickle crowd +His name the threefold honor has allowed; +And there another, if into his stores +Comes what is swept from Libyan threshing-floors. +He who delights to till his father's lands, +And grasps the delving-hoe with willing hands, +Can never to Attalic offers hark, +Or cut the Myrtoan Sea with Cyprian bark. +The merchant, timorous of Afric's breeze, +When fiercely struggling with Icarian seas +Praises the restful quiet of his home, +Nor wishes from the peaceful fields to roam; +Ah, speedily his shattered ships he mends,-- +To poverty his lesson ne'er extends. + +One there may be who never scorns to fill +His cups with mellow draughts from Massic's hill, +Nor from the busy day an hour to wean, +Now stretched at length beneath the arbute green, +Now at the softly whispering spring, to dream +Of the fair nymphs who haunt the sacred stream. +For camp and trump and clarion some have zest,-- +The cruel wars the mothers so detest. +'Neath the cold sky the hunter spends his life, +Unmindful of his home and tender wife, +Whether the doe is seen by faithful hounds +Or Marsian boar through the fine meshes bounds. + +But as for me, the ivy-wreaths, the prize +Of learned brows, exalt me to the skies; +The shady grove, the nymphs and satyrs there, +Draw me away from people everywhere; +If it may be, Euterpe's flute inspires, +Or Polyhymnia strikes the Lesbian lyres; +And if you place me where no bard debars, +With head exalted I shall strike the stars! + + + + +TO HIS BOOK + + You vain, self-conscious little book, +Companion of my happy days, + How eagerly you seem to look +For wider fields to spread your lays; + My desk and locks cannot contain you, + Nor blush of modesty restrain you. + + Well, then, begone, fool that thou art! +But do not come to me and cry, + When critics strike you to the heart: +"Oh, wretched little book am I!" + You know I tried to educate you + To shun the fate that must await you. + + In youth you may encounter friends +(Pray this prediction be not wrong), + But wait until old age descends +And thumbs have smeared your gentlest song; + Then will the moths connive to eat you + And rural libraries secrete you. + + However, should a friend some word +Of my obscure career request, + Tell him how deeply I was stirred +To spread my wings beyond the nest; + Take from my years, which are before you, + To boom my merits, I implore you. + + Tell him that I am short and fat, +Quick in my temper, soon appeased, + With locks of gray,--but what of that? +Loving the sun, with nature pleased. + I'm more than four and forty, hark you,-- + But ready for a night off, mark you! + + + + +FAME _vs._ RICHES + +The Greeks had genius,--'t was a gift + The Muse vouchsafed in glorious measure; +The boon of Fame they made their aim + And prized above all worldly treasure. + +But _we_,--how do we train _our_ youth? + _Not_ in the arts that are immortal, +But in the greed for gains that speed + From him who stands at Death's dark portal. + +Ah, when this slavish love of gold + Once binds the soul in greasy fetters, +How prostrate lies,--how droops and dies + The great, the noble cause of letters! + + + + +THE LYRIC MUSE + + I love the lyric muse! +For when mankind ran wild in grooves + Came holy Orpheus with his songs +And turned men's hearts from bestial loves, + From brutal force and savage wrongs; +Amphion, too, and on his lyre + Made such sweet music all the day +That rocks, instinct with warm desire, + Pursued him in his glorious way. + + I love the lyric muse! +Hers was the wisdom that of yore + Taught man the rights of fellow man, +Taught him to worship God the more, + And to revere love's holy ban. +Hers was the hand that jotted down + The laws correcting divers wrongs; +And so came honor and renown + To bards and to their noble songs. + + I love the lyric muse! +Old Homer sung unto the lyre; + Tyrtæus, too, in ancient days; +Still warmed by their immortal fire, + How doth our patriot spirit blaze! +The oracle, when questioned, sings; + So our first steps in life are taught. +In verse we soothe the pride of kings, + In verse the drama has been wrought. + + I love the lyric muse! +Be not ashamed, O noble friend, + In honest gratitude to pay +Thy homage to the gods that send + This boon to charm all ill away. +With solemn tenderness revere + This voiceful glory as a shrine +Wherein the quickened heart may hear + The counsels of a voice divine! + + + + +A COUNTERBLAST AGAINST GARLIC + +May the man who has cruelly murdered his sire-- + A crime to be punished with death-- +Be condemned to eat garlic till he shall expire + Of his own foul and venomous breath! +What stomachs these rustics must have who can eat + This dish that Canidia made, +Which imparts to my colon a torturous heat, + And a poisonous look, I'm afraid! + +They say that ere Jason attempted to yoke + The fire-breathing bulls to the plow +He smeared his whole body with garlic,--a joke + Which I fully appreciate now. +When Medea gave Glauce her beautiful dress, + In which garlic was scattered about, +It was cruel and rather low-down, I confess, + But it settled the point beyond doubt. + +On thirsty Apulia ne'er has the sun + Inflicted such terrible heat; +As for Hercules' robe, although poisoned, 't was fun + When compared with this garlic we eat! +Mæcenas, if ever on garbage like this + You express a desire to be fed, +May Mrs. Mæcenas object to your kiss, + And lie at the foot of the bed! + + + + +AN EXCUSE FOR LALAGE + +To bear the yoke not yet your love's submissive neck is bent, +To share a husband's toil, or grasp his amorous intent; +Over the fields, in cooling streams, the heifer longs to go, +Now with the calves disporting where the pussy-willows grow. + +Give up your thirst for unripe grapes, and, trust me, you shall learn +How quickly in the autumn time to purple they will turn. +Soon she will follow you, for age steals swiftly on the maid; +And all the precious years that you have lost she will have paid. + +Soon she will seek a lord, beloved as Pholoe, the coy, +Or Chloris, or young Gyges, that deceitful, girlish boy, +Whom, if you placed among the girls, and loosed his flowing locks, +The wondering guests could not decide which one decorum shocks. + + + + +AN APPEAL TO LYCE + +Lyce, the gods have heard my prayers, as gods will hear the dutiful, +And brought old age upon you, though you still affect the beautiful. +You sport among the boys, and drink and chatter on quite aimlessly; +And in your cups with quavering voice you torment Cupid shamelessly. + +For blooming Chia, Cupid has a feeling more than brotherly; +He knows a handsaw from a hawk whenever winds are southerly. +He pats her pretty cheeks, but looks on you as a monstrosity; +Your wrinkles and your yellow teeth excite his animosity. + +For jewels bright and purple Coan robes you are not dressable; +Unhappily for you, the public records are accessible. +Where is your charm, and where your bloom and gait so firm and sensible, +That drew my love from Cinara,--a lapse most indefensible? + +To my poor Cinara in youth Death came with great celerity; +Egad, that never can be said of you with any verity! +The old crow that you are, the teasing boys will jeer, compelling you +To roost at home. Reflect, all this is straight that I am telling you. + + + + +A ROMAN WINTER-PIECE + +I + +See, Thaliarch mine, how, white with snow, + Soracte mocks the sullen sky; +How, groaning loud, the woods are bowed, + And chained with frost the rivers lie. + +Pile, pile the logs upon the hearth; + We'll melt away the envious cold: +And, better yet, sweet friend, we'll wet + Our whistles with some four-year-old. + +Commit all else unto the gods, + Who, when it pleaseth them, shall bring +To fretful deeps and wooded steeps + The mild, persuasive grace of Spring. + +Let not To-morrow, but To-day, + Your ever active thoughts engage; +Frisk, dance, and sing, and have your fling, + Unharmed, unawed of crabbed Age. + +Let's steal content from Winter's wrath, + And glory in the artful theft, +That years from now folks shall allow + 'T was cold indeed when we got left. + +So where the whisperings and the mirth + Of girls invite a sportive chap, +Let's fare awhile,--aha, you smile; + You guess my meaning,--_verbum sap_. + + + + +A ROMAN WINTER-PIECE + +II + +Now stands Soracte white with snow, now bend the laboring trees, +And with the sharpness of the frost the stagnant rivers freeze. +Pile up the billets on the hearth, to warmer cheer incline, +And draw, my Thaliarchus, from the Sabine jar the wine. + +The rest leave to the gods, who still the fiercely warring wind, +And to the morrow's store of good or evil give no mind. +Whatever day your fortune grants, that day mark up for gain; +And in your youthful bloom do not the sweet amours disdain. + +Now on the Campus and the squares, when evening shades descend, +Soft whisperings again are heard, and loving voices blend; +And now the low delightful laugh betrays the lurking maid, +While from her slowly yielding arms the forfeiture is paid. + + + + +TO DIANA + +O virgin, tri-formed goddess fair, + The guardian of the groves and hills, +Who hears the girls in their despair + Cry out in childbirth's cruel ills, + And saves them from the Stygian flow! +Let the pine-tree my cottage near + Be sacred to thee evermore, +That I may give to it each year + With joy the life-blood of the boar, + Now thinking of the sidelong blow. + + + + +TO HIS LUTE + +If ever in the sylvan shade +A song immortal we have made, +Come now, O lute, I prithee come, +Inspire a song of Latium! + +A Lesbian first thy glories proved; +In arms and in repose he loved +To sweep thy dulcet strings, and raise +His voice in Love's and Liber's praise. +The Muses, too, and him who clings +To Mother Venus' apron-strings, +And Lycus beautiful, he sung +In those old days when you were young. + +O shell, that art the ornament +Of Phoebus, bringing sweet content +To Jove, and soothing troubles all,-- +Come and requite me, when I call! + + + + +TO LEUCONÖE + +I + +What end the gods may have ordained for me, +And what for thee, + Seek not to learn, Leuconöe; we may not know. +Chaldean tables cannot bring us rest. +'T is for the best + To bear in patience what may come, or weal or woe. + +If for more winters our poor lot is cast, +Or this the last, + Which on the crumbling rocks has dashed Etruscan seas, +Strain clear the wine; this life is short, at best. +Take hope with zest, + And, trusting not To-morrow, snatch To-day for ease! + + + + +TO LEUCONÖE + +II + +Seek not, Leuconöe, to know how long you're going to live yet, +What boons the gods will yet withhold, or what they're going to give yet; +For Jupiter will have his way, despite how much we worry,-- +Some will hang on for many a day, and some die in a hurry. +The wisest thing for you to do is to embark this diem +Upon a merry escapade with some such bard as I am. +And while we sport I'll reel you off such odes as shall surprise ye; +To-morrow, when the headache comes,--well, then I'll satirize ye! + + + + +TO LIGURINUS + +I + +Though mighty in Love's favor still, + Though cruel yet, my boy, +When the unwelcome dawn shall chill + Your pride and youthful joy, +The hair which round your shoulder grows + Is rudely cut away, +Your color, redder than the rose, + Is changed by youth's decay,-- + +Then, Ligurinus, in the glass + Another you will spy. +And as the shaggy face, alas! + You see, your grief will cry: +"Why in my youth could I not learn + The wisdom men enjoy? +Or why to men cannot return + The smooth cheeks of the boy?" + + + + +TO LIGURINUS + +II + + O Cruel fair, + Whose flowing hair + The envy and the pride of all is, + As onward roll + The years, that poll + Will get as bald as a billiard ball is; +Then shall your skin, now pink and dimply, +Be tanned to parchment, sear and pimply! + + When you behold + Yourself grown old, + These words shall speak your spirits moody: + "Unhappy one! + What heaps of fun + I've missed by being goody-goody! +Oh, that I might have felt the hunger +Of loveless age when I was younger!" + + + + +THE HAPPY ISLES + +Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles + In the golden haze off yonder, +Where the song of the sun-kissed breeze beguiles + And the ocean loves to wander. + +Fragrant the vines that mantle those hills, + Proudly the fig rejoices, +Merrily dance the virgin rills, + Blending their myriad voices. + +Our herds shall suffer no evil there, + But peacefully feed and rest them; +Never thereto shall prowling bear + Or serpent come to molest them. + +Neither shall Eurus, wanton bold, + Nor feverish drought distress us, +But he that compasseth heat and cold + Shall temper them both to bless us. + +There no vandal foot has trod, + And the pirate hordes that wander +Shall never profane the sacred sod + Of those beautiful isles out yonder. + +Never a spell shall blight our vines, + Nor Sirius blaze above us, +But you and I shall drink our wines + And sing to the loved that love us. + +So come with me where Fortune smiles + And the gods invite devotion,-- +Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles + In the haze of that far-off ocean! + + + + +CONSISTENCY + +Should painter attach to a fair human head + The thick, turgid neck of a stallion, +Or depict a spruce lass with the tail of a bass, + I am sure you would guy the rapscallion. + +Believe me, dear Pisos, that just such a freak + Is the crude and preposterous poem +Which merely abounds in a torrent of sounds, + With no depth of reason below 'em. + +'T is all very well to give license to art,-- + The wisdom of license defend I; +But the line should be drawn at the fripperish spawn + Of a mere _cacoethes scribendi_. + +It is too much the fashion to strain at effects,-- + Yes, that's what's the matter with Hannah! +Our popular taste, by the tyros debased, + Paints each barnyard a grove of Diana! + +Should a patron require you to paint a marine, + Would you work in some trees with their barks on? +When his strict orders are for a Japanese jar, + Would you give him a pitcher like Clarkson? + +Now, this is my moral: Compose what you may, + And Fame will be ever far distant +Unless you combine with a simple design + A treatment in toto consistent. + + + + +TO POSTUMUS + +O Postumus, my Postumus, the years are gliding past, +And piety will never check the wrinkles coming fast, +The ravages of time old age's swift advance has made, +And death, which unimpeded comes to bear us to the shade. + +Old friend, although the tearless Pluto you may strive to please, +And seek each year with thrice one hundred bullocks to appease, +Who keeps the thrice-huge Geryon and Tityus his slaves, +Imprisoned fast forevermore with cold and sombre waves, + +Yet must that flood so terrible be sailed by mortals all; +Whether perchance we may be kings and live in royal hall, +Or lowly peasants struggling long with poverty and dearth, +Still must we cross who live upon the favors of the earth. + +And all in vain from bloody war and contest we are free, +And from the waves that hoarsely break upon the Adrian Sea; +For our frail bodies all in vain our helpless terror grows +In gloomy autumn seasons, when the baneful south wind blows. + +Alas! the black Cocytus, wandering to the world below, +That languid river to behold we of this earth must go; +To see the grim Danaides, that miserable race, +And Sisyphus of Æolus, condemned to endless chase. + +Behind you must you leave your home and land and wife so dear, +And of the trees, except the hated cypresses, you rear, +And which around the funeral piles as signs of mourning grow, +Not one will follow you, their short-lived master, there below. + +Your worthier heir the precious Cæcuban shall drink galore, +Now with a hundred keys preserved and guarded in your store, +And stain the pavements, pouring out in waste the nectar proud, +Better than that with which the pontiffs' feasts have been endowed. + + + + +TO MISTRESS PYRRHA + +I + +What perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah, + With smiles for diet, +Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha, + On the quiet? +For whom do you bind up your tresses, + As spun-gold yellow,-- +Meshes that go with your caresses, + To snare a fellow? + +How will he rail at fate capricious, + And curse you duly, +Yet now he deems your wiles delicious,-- + _You_ perfect, truly! +Pyrrha, your love's a treacherous ocean; + He'll soon fall in there! +Then shall I gloat on his commotion, + For _I_ have been there! + + + + +TO MISTRESS PYRRHA + +II + +What dainty boy with sweet perfumes bedewed +Has lavished kisses, Pyrrha, in the cave? +For whom amid the roses, many-hued, +Do you bind back your tresses' yellow wave? + +How oft will he deplore your fickle whim, +And wonder at the storm and roughening deeps, +Who now enjoys you, all in all to him, +And dreams of you, whose only thoughts he keeps. + +Wretched are they to whom you seem so fair;-- +That I escaped the storms, the gods be praised! +My dripping garments, offered with a prayer, +Stand as a tablet to the sea-god raised. + + + + +TO MELPOMENE + +Lofty and enduring is the monument I've reared: + Come, tempests, with your bitterness assailing; +And thou, corrosive blasts of time, by all things mortal feared, + Thy buffets and thy rage are unavailing! + +I shall not altogether die: by far my greater part + Shall mock man's common fate in realms infernal; +My works shall live as tributes to my genius and my art,-- + My works shall be my monument eternal! + +While this great Roman empire stands and gods protect our fanes, + Mankind with grateful hearts shall tell the story +How one most lowly born upon the parched Apulian plains + First raised the native lyric muse to glory. + +Assume, revered Melpomene, the proud estate I've won, + And, with thine own dear hand the meed supplying, +Bind thou about the forehead of thy celebrated son + The Delphic laurel-wreath of fame undying! + + + + +TO PHYLLIS + +I + +Come, Phyllis, I've a cask of wine + That fairly reeks with precious juices, +And in your tresses you shall twine + The loveliest flowers this vale produces. + +My cottage wears a gracious smile; + The altar, decked in floral glory, +Yearns for the lamb which bleats the while + As though it pined for honors gory. + +Hither our neighbors nimbly fare, + The boys agog, the maidens snickering; +And savory smells possess the air, + As skyward kitchen flames are flickering. + +You ask what means this grand display, + This festive throng and goodly diet? +Well, since you're bound to have your way, + I don't mind telling, on the quiet. + +'T is April 13, as you know, + A day and month devote to Venus, +Whereon was born, some years ago, + My very worthy friend, Mæcenas. + +Nay, pay no heed to Telephus; + Your friends agree he doesn't love you. +The way he flirts convinces us + He really is not worthy of you. + +Aurora's son, unhappy lad! + You know the fate that overtook him? +And Pegasus a rider had,-- + I say he _had_, before he shook him! + +_Hoc docet_ (as you must agree) + 'T is meet that Phyllis should discover +A wisdom in preferring me, + And mittening every other lover. + +So come, O Phyllis, last and best + Of loves with which this heart's been smitten, +Come, sing my jealous fears to rest, + And let your songs be those _I've_ written. + + + + +TO PHYLLIS + +II + +Sweet Phyllis, I have here a jar of old and precious wine, +The years which mark its coming from the Alban hills are nine, +And in the garden parsley, too, for wreathing garlands fair, +And ivy in profusion to bind up your shining hair. + +Now smiles the house with silver; the altar, laurel-bound, +Longs with the sacrificial blood of lambs to drip around; +The company is hurrying, boys and maidens with the rest; +The flames are flickering as they whirl the dark smoke on their crest. + +Yet you must know the joys to which you have been summoned here +To keep the Ides of April, to the sea-born Venus dear,-- +Ah, festal day more sacred than my own fair day of birth, +Since from its dawn my loved Mæcenas counts his years of earth. + +A rich and wanton girl has caught, as suited to her mind, +The Telephus whom you desire,--a youth not of your kind. +She holds him bound with pleasing chains, the fetters of her charms,-- +Remember how scorched Phaëthon ambitious hopes alarms. + +The winged Pegasus the rash Bellerophon has chafed, +To you a grave example for reflection has vouchsafed,-- +Always to follow what is meet, and never try to catch +That which is not allowed to you, an inappropriate match. + +Come now, sweet Phyllis, of my loves the last, and hence the best +(For nevermore shall other girls inflame this manly breast); +Learn loving measures to rehearse as we may stroll along, +And dismal cares shall fly away and vanish at your song. + + + + +TO CHLOE + +I + +Why do you shun me, Chloe, like the fawn, + That, fearful of the breezes and the wood, +Has sought her timorous mother since the dawn, + And on the pathless mountain tops has stood? + +Her trembling heart a thousand fears invites, + Her sinking knees with nameless terrors shake,-- +Whether the rustling leaf of spring affrights, + Or the green lizards stir the slumbering brake. + +I do not follow with a tigerish thought, + Or with the fierce Gætulian lion's quest; +So, quickly leave your mother, as you ought, + Full ripe to nestle on a husband's breast. + + + + +TO CHLOE + +II + +Chloe, you shun me like a hind + That, seeking vainly for her mother, +Hears danger in each breath of wind, + And wildly darts this way and t' other; + +Whether the breezes sway the wood + Or lizards scuttle through the brambles, +She starts, and off, as though pursued, + The foolish, frightened creature scrambles. + +But, Chloe, you're no infant thing + That should esteem a man an ogre; +Let go your mother's apron-string, + And pin your faith upon a toga! + + + + +III + +A PARAPHRASE + +How happens it, my cruel miss, + You're always giving me the mitten? +You seem to have forgotten this: + That you no longer are a kitten! + +A woman that has reached the years + Of that which people call discretion +Should put aside all childish fears + And see in courtship no transgression. + +A mother's solace may be sweet, + But Hymen's tenderness is sweeter; +And though all virile love be meet, + You'll find the poet's love is metre. + + + + +IV + +A PARAPHRASE, CIRCA 1715 + +Since Chloe is so monstrous fair, +With such an eye and such an air, +What wonder that the world complains +When she each am'rous suit disdains? + +Close to her mother's side she clings, +And mocks the death her folly brings +To gentle swains that feel the smarts +Her eyes inflict upon their hearts. + +Whilst thus the years of youth go by, +Shall Colin languish, Strephon die? +Nay, cruel nymph! come, choose a mate, +And choose him ere it be too late! + + + + +V + +A PARAPHRASE, BY DR. I.W. + + +Why, Mistress Chloe, do you bother + With prattlings and with vain ado +Your worthy and industrious mother, + Eschewing them that come to woo? + +Oh, that the awful truth might quicken + This stern conviction to your breast: +You are no longer now a chicken + Too young to quit the parent nest. + +So put aside your froward carriage, + And fix your thoughts, whilst yet there's time, +Upon the righteousness of marriage + With some such godly man as I'm. + + + + +VI + +A PARAPHRASE, BY CHAUCER + +Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken, +Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken; +Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hiding +Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding. +Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder +For to beare swete company with some oder; +Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth, +But that ben not farre enow, God knoweth; +Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes +That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hadys; +But all that do with gode men wed full quicklye +When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly. + + + + +TO MÆCENAS + +Than you, O valued friend of mine, + A better patron _non est_! +Come, quaff my home-made Sabine wine,-- + You'll find it poor but honest. + +I put it up that famous day + You patronized the ballet, +And the public cheered you such a way + As shook your native valley. + +Cæcuban and the Calean brand + May elsewhere claim attention; +But _I_ have none of these on hand,-- + For reasons I'll not mention. + + + + +ENVOY + +So, come! though favors I bestow + Cannot be called extensive, +Who better than my friend should know + That they're at least expensive? + + + + +TO BARINE + +If for your oath broken, or word lightly spoken, +A plague comes, Barine, to grieve you; +If on tooth or on finger a black mark shall linger +Your beauty to mar, I'll believe you. + +But no sooner, the fact is, you bind, as your tact is, +Your head with the vows of untruth, +Than you shine out more charming, and, what's more alarming, +You come forth beloved of our youth. + +It is advantageous, but no less outrageous, +Your poor mother's ashes to cheat; +While the gods of creation and each constellation +You seem to regard as your meat. + +Now Venus, I own it, is pleased to condone it; +The good-natured nymphs merely smile; +And Cupid is merry,--'t is humorous, very,-- +And sharpens his arrows the while. + +Our boys you are making the slaves for your taking, +A new band is joined to the old; +While the horrified matrons your juvenile patrons +In vain would bring back to the fold. + +The thrifty old fellows your loveliness mellows +Confess to a dread of your house; +But a more pressing duty, in view of your beauty, +Is the young wife's concern for her spouse. + + + + +THE RECONCILIATION + +I + +HE + +When you were mine, in auld lang syne, + And when none else your charms might ogle, +I'll not deny, fair nymph, that I + Was happier than a heathen mogul. + +SHE + +Before _she_ came, that rival flame + (Had ever mater saucier filia?), +In those good times, bepraised in rhymes, + I was more famed than Mother Ilia. + +HE + +Chloe of Thrace! With what a grace + Does she at song or harp employ her! +I'd gladly die, if only I + Could live forever to enjoy her! + +SHE + +My Sybaris so noble is + That, by the gods, I love him madly! +That I might save him from the grave, + I'd give my life, and give it gladly! + +HE + +What if _ma belle_ from favor fell, + And I made up my mind to shake her; +Would Lydia then come back again, + And to her quondam love betake her? + +SHE + +My other beau should surely go, + And you alone should find me gracious; +For no one slings such odes and things + As does the lauriger Horatius! + + + + +THE RECONCILIATION + +II + +HORACE + +While favored by thy smiles no other youth in amorous teasing + Around thy snowy neck his folding arms was wont to fling; +As long as I remained your love, acceptable and pleasing, + I lived a life of happiness beyond the Persian king. + +LYDIA + +While Lydia ranked Chloe in your unreserved opinion, + And for no other cherished thou a brighter, livelier flame, +I, Lydia, distinguished throughout the whole dominion, + Surpassed the Roman Ilia in eminence of fame. + +HORACE + +'T is now the Thracian Chloe whose accomplishments inthrall me,-- + So sweet in modulations, such a mistress of the lyre. +In truth the fates, however terrible, could not appall me; + If they would spare her, sweet my soul, I gladly would expire. + +LYDIA + +And now the son of Ornytus, young Calais, inflames me + With mutual, restless passion and an all-consuming fire; +And if the fates, however dread, would spare the youth who claims me, + Not only once would I face death, but gladly twice expire. + +HORACE + +What if our early love returns to prove we were mistaken + And bind with brazen yoke the twain, to part, ah! nevermore? +What if the charming Chloe of the golden locks be shaken + And slighted Lydia again glide through the open door? + +LYDIA + +Though he is fairer than the star that shines so far above you, + Thou lighter than a cork, more stormy than the Adrian Sea, +Still should I long to live with you, to live for you and love you, + And cheerfully see death's approach if thou wert near to me. + + + + +THE ROASTING OF LYDIA + +No more your needed rest at night + By ribald youth is troubled; +No more your windows, fastened tight, + Yield to their knocks redoubled. + +No longer you may hear them cry, + "Why art thou, Lydia, lying +In heavy sleep till morn is nigh, + While I, your love, am dying?" + +Grown old and faded, you bewail + The rake's insulting sally, +While round your home the Thracian gale + Storms through the lonely alley. + +What furious thoughts will fill your breast, + What passions, fierce and tinglish +(Cannot be properly expressed + In calm, reposeful English). + +Learn this, and hold your carping tongue: + Youth will be found rejoicing +In ivy green and myrtle young, + The praise of fresh life voicing; + +And not content to dedicate, + With much protesting shiver, +The sapless leaves to winter's mate, + Hebrus, the cold dark river. + + + + +TO GLYCERA + +The cruel mother of the Loves, + And other Powers offended, +Have stirred my heart, where newly roves + The passion that was ended. + +'T is Glycera, to boldness prone, + Whose radiant beauty fires me; +While fairer than the Parian stone + Her dazzling face inspires me. + +And on from Cyprus Venus speeds, + Forbidding--ah! the pity-- +The Scythian lays, the Parthian meeds, + And such irrelevant ditty. + +Here, boys, bring turf and vervain too; + Have bowls of wine adjacent; +And ere our sacrifice is through + She may be more complaisant. + + + + +TO LYDIA + +I + +When, Lydia, you (once fond and true, + But now grown cold and supercilious) +Praise Telly's charms of neck and arms-- + Well, by the dog! it makes me bilious! + +Then with despite my cheeks wax white, + My doddering brain gets weak and giddy, +My eyes o'erflow with tears which show + That passion melts my vitals, Liddy! + +Deny, false jade, your escapade, + And, lo! your wounded shoulders show it! +No manly spark left such a mark-- + Leastwise he surely was no poet! + +With savage buss did Telephus + Abraid your lips, so plump and mellow; +As you would save what Venus gave, + I charge you shun that awkward fellow! + +And now I say thrice happy they + That call on Hymen to requite 'em; +For, though love cools, the wedded fools + Must cleave till death doth disunite 'em. + + + + +TO LYDIA + +II + +When praising Telephus you sing +His rosy neck and waxen arms, +Forgetful of the pangs that wring +This heart for my neglected charms, + +Soft down my cheek the tear-drop flows, +My color comes and goes the while, +And my rebellious liver glows, +And fiercely swells with laboring bile. + +Perchance yon silly, passionate youth, +Distempered by the fumes of wine, +Has marred your shoulder with his tooth, +Or scarred those rosy lips of thine. + +Be warned; he cannot faithful prove, +Who, with the cruel kiss you prize, +Has hurt the little mouth I love, +Where Venus's own nectar lies. + +Whom golden links unbroken bind, +Thrice happy--more than thrice are they; +And constant, both in heart and mind, +In love await the final day. + + + + +TO QUINTIUS HIRPINUS + +To Scythian and Cantabrian plots, + Pay them no heed, O Quintius! + So long as we + From care are free, + Vexations cannot cinch us. + +Unwrinkled youth and grace, forsooth, + Speed hand in hand together; + The songs we sing + In time of spring + Are hushed in wintry weather. + +Why, even flow'rs change with the hours, + And the moon has divers phases; + And shall the mind + Be racked to find + A clew to Fortune's mazes? + +Nay; 'neath this tree let you and me + Woo Bacchus to caress us; + We're old, 't is true, + But still we two + Are thoroughbreds, God bless us! + +While the wine gets cool in yonder pool, + Let's spruce up nice and tidy; + Who knows, old boy, + But we may decoy + The fair but furtive Lyde? + +She can execute on her ivory lute + Sonatas full of passion, + And she bangs her hair + (Which is passing fair) + In the good old Spartan fashion. + + + + +WINE, WOMEN, AND SONG + + Ovarus mine, + Plant thou the vine +Within this kindly soil of Tibur; + Nor temporal woes, + Nor spiritual, knows +The man who's a discreet imbiber. + For who doth croak + Of being broke, +Or who of warfare, after drinking? + With bowl atween us, + Of smiling Venus +And Bacchus shall we sing, I'm thinking. + + Of symptoms fell + Which brawls impel, +Historic data give us warning; + The wretch who fights + When full, of nights, +Is bound to have a head next morning. + I do not scorn + A friendly horn, +But noisy toots, I can't abide 'em! + Your howling bat + Is stale and flat +To one who knows, because he's tried 'em! + + The secrets of + The life I love +(Companionship with girls and toddy) + I would not drag + With drunken brag +Into the ken of everybody; + But in the shade + Let some coy maid +With smilax wreathe my flagon's nozzle, + Then all day long, + With mirth and song, +Shall I enjoy a quiet sozzle! + + + + +AN ODE TO FORTUNE + + O Lady Fortune! 't is to thee I call, +Dwelling at Antium, thou hast power to crown +The veriest clod with riches and renown, + And change a triumph to a funeral +The tillers of the soil and they that vex the seas, +Confessing thee supreme, on bended knees + Invoke thee, all. + + Of Dacian tribes, of roving Scythian bands, +Of cities, nations, lawless tyrants red +With guiltless blood, art thou the haunting dread; + Within thy path no human valor stands, +And, arbiter of empires, at thy frown +The sceptre, once supreme, slips surely down + From kingly hands. + + Necessity precedes thee in thy way; +Hope fawns on thee, and Honor, too, is seen +Dancing attendance with obsequious mien; + But with what coward and abject dismay +The faithless crowd and treacherous wantons fly +When once their jars of luscious wine run dry,-- + Such ingrates they! + + Fortune, I call on thee to bless +Our king,--our Cæsar girt for foreign wars! +Help him to heal these fratricidal scars + That speak degenerate shame and wickedness; +And forge anew our impious spears and swords, +Wherewith we may against barbarian hordes + Our Past redress! + + + + +TO A JAR OF WINE + +O gracious jar,--my friend, my twin, + Born at the time when I was born,-- +Whether tomfoolery you inspire +Or animate with love's desire, + Or flame the soul with bitter scorn, +Or lull to sleep, O jar of mine! + Come from your place this festal day; + Corvinus hither wends his way, +And there's demand for wine! + +Corvinus is the sort of man + Who dotes on tedious argument. +An advocate, his ponderous pate + Is full of Blackstone and of Kent; +Yet not insensible is he, +O genial Massic flood! to thee. +Why, even Cato used to take + A modest, surreptitious nip +At meal-times for his stomach's sake, + Or to forefend la grippe. + +How dost thou melt the stoniest hearts, + And bare the cruel knave's design; +How through thy fascinating arts + We discount Hope, O gracious wine! +And passing rich the poor man feels +As through his veins thy affluence steals. + +Now, prithee, make us frisk and sing, + And plot full many a naughty plot +With damsels fair--nor shall we care + Whether school keeps or not! +And whilst thy charms hold out to burn + We shall not deign to go to bed, + But we shall paint creation red; +So, fill, sweet wine, this friend of mine,-- + My lawyer friend, as aforesaid. + + + + +TO POMPEIUS VARUS + +Pompey, what fortune gives you back + To the friends and the gods who love you? +Once more you stand in your native land, + With your native sky above you. +Ah, side by side, in years agone, + We've faced tempestuous weather, + And often quaffed + The genial draught + From the same canteen together. + +When honor at Philippi fell + A prey to brutal passion, +I regret to say that my feet ran away + In swift Iambic fashion. +You were no poet; soldier born, + You stayed, nor did you wince then. + Mercury came + To my help, which same + Has frequently saved me since then. + +But now you're back, let's celebrate + In the good old way and classic; +Come, let us lard our skins with nard, + And bedew our souls with Massic! +With fillets of green parsley leaves + Our foreheads shall be done up; + And with song shall we + Protract our spree + Until the morrow's sun-up. + + + + +THE POET'S METAMORPHOSIS + +Mæcenas, I propose to fly + To realms beyond these human portals; +No common things shall be my wings, + But such as sprout upon immortals. + +Of lowly birth, once shed of earth, + Your Horace, precious (so you've told him), +Shall soar away; no tomb of clay + Nor Stygian prison-house shall hold him. + +Upon my skin feathers begin + To warn the songster of his fleeting; +But never mind, I leave behind + Songs all the world shall keep repeating. + +Lo! Boston girls, with corkscrew curls, + And husky westerns, wild and woolly, +And southern climes shall vaunt my rhymes, + And all profess to know me fully. + +Methinks the West shall know me best, + And therefore hold my memory dearer; +For by that lake a bard shall make + My subtle, hidden meanings clearer. + +So cherished, I shall never die; + Pray, therefore, spare your dolesome praises, +Your elegies, and plaintive cries, + For I shall fertilize no daisies! + + + + +TO VENUS + +Venus, dear Cnidian-Paphian queen! + Desert that Cyprus way off yonder, +And fare you hence, where with incense + My Glycera would have you fonder; +And to your joy bring hence your boy, + The Graces with unbelted laughter, +The Nymphs, and Youth,--then, then, in sooth, + Should Mercury come tagging after. + + + + +IN THE SPRINGTIME + +I + +'T is spring! The boats bound to the sea; + The breezes, loitering kindly over +The fields, again bring herds and men + The grateful cheer of honeyed clover. + +Now Venus hither leads her train; + The Nymphs and Graces join in orgies; +The moon is bright, and by her light + Old Vulcan kindles up his forges. + +Bind myrtle now about your brow, + And weave fair flowers in maiden tresses; +Appease god Pan, who, kind to man, + Our fleeting life with affluence blesses; + +But let the changing seasons mind us, + That Death's the certain doom of mortals,-- +Grim Death, who waits at humble gates, + And likewise stalks through kingly portals. + +Soon, Sestius, shall Plutonian shades + Enfold you with their hideous seemings; +Then love and mirth and joys of earth + Shall fade away like fevered dreamings. + + + + +IN THE SPRINGTIME + +II + +The western breeze is springing up, the ships are in the bay, +And spring has brought a happy change as winter melts away. +No more in stall or fire the herd or plowman finds delight; +No longer with the biting frosts the open fields are white. + +Our Lady of Cythera now prepares to lead the dance, +While from above the kindly moon gives an approving glance; +The Nymphs and comely Graces join with Venus and the choir, +And Vulcan's glowing fancy lightly turns to thoughts of fire. + +Now it is time with myrtle green to crown the shining pate, +And with the early blossoms of the spring to decorate; +To sacrifice to Faunus, on whose favor we rely, +A sprightly lamb, mayhap a kid, as he may specify. + +Impartially the feet of Death at huts and castles strike; +The influenza carries off the rich and poor alike. +O Sestius, though blessed you are beyond the common run, +Life is too short to cherish e'en a distant hope begun. + +The Shades and Pluto's mansion follow hard upon the grip. +Once there you cannot throw the dice, nor taste the wine you sip; +Nor look on blooming Lycidas, whose beauty you commend, +To whom the girls will presently their courtesies extend. + + + + +TO A BULLY + +You, blatant coward that you are, + Upon the helpless vent your spite. +Suppose you ply your trade on me; +Come, monkey with this bard, and see + How I'll repay your bark with bite! + +Ay, snarl just once at me, you brute! + And I shall hound you far and wide, +As fiercely as through drifted snow +The shepherd dog pursues what foe + Skulks on the Spartan mountain-side. + +The chip is on my shoulder--see? + But touch it and I'll raise your fur; +I'm full of business, so beware! +For, though I'm loaded up for bear, + I'm quite as like to kill a cur! + + + + +TO MOTHER VENUS + +O mother Venus, quit, I pray, + Your violent assailing! +The arts, forsooth, that fired my youth + At last are unavailing; +My blood runs cold, I'm getting old, + And all my powers are failing. + +Speed thou upon thy white swans' wings, + And elsewhere deign to mellow +With thy soft arts the anguished hearts + Of swains that writhe and bellow; +And right away seek out, I pray, + Young Paullus,--he's your fellow! + +You'll find young Paullus passing fair, + Modest, refined, and tony; +Go, now, incite the favored wight! + With Venus for a crony +He'll outshine all at feast and ball + And conversazione! + +Then shall that godlike nose of thine + With perfumes be requited, +And then shall prance in Salian dance + The girls and boys delighted, +And while the lute blends with the flute + Shall tender loves be plighted. + +But as for me, as you can see, + I'm getting old and spiteful. +I have no mind to female kind, + That once I deemed delightful; +No more brim up the festive cup + That sent me home at night full. + +Why do I falter in my speech, + O cruel Ligurine? +Why do I chase from place to place + In weather wet and shiny? +Why down my nose forever flows + The tear that's cold and briny? + + + + +TO LYDIA + +Tell me, Lydia, tell me why, + By the gods that dwell above, +Sybaris makes haste to die + Through your cruel, fatal love. + +Now he hates the sunny plain; + Once he loved its dust and heat. +Now no more he leads the train + Of his peers on coursers fleet. + +Now he dreads the Tiber's touch, + And avoids the wrestling-rings,-- +He who formerly was such + An expert with quoits and things. + +Come, now, Mistress Lydia, say + Why your Sybaris lies hid, +Why he shuns the martial play, + As we're told Achilles did. + + + + +TO NEOBULE + +A sorry life, forsooth, these wretched girls are undergoing, +Restrained from draughts of pleasant wine, from loving favors showing, +For fear an uncle's tongue a reprimand will be bestowing! + +Sweet Cytherea's winged boy deprives you of your spinning, +And Hebrus, Neobule, his sad havoc is beginning, +Just as Minerva thriftily gets ready for an inning. + +Who could resist this gallant youth, as Tiber's waves he breasted, +Or when the palm of riding from Bellerophon he wrested, +Or when with fists and feet the sluggers easily he bested? + +He shot the fleeing stags with regularity surprising; +The way he intercepted boars was quite beyond surmising,-- +No wonder that your thoughts this youth has been monopolizing! + +So I repeat that with these maids fate is unkindly dealing, +Who never can in love's affair give license to their feeling, +Or share those sweet emotions when a gentle jag is stealing. + + + + +AT THE BALL GAME + +What gods or heroes, whose brave deeds none can dispute, +Will you record, O Clio, on the harp and flute? +What lofty names shall sportive Echo grant a place +On Pindus' crown or Helicon's cool, shadowy space? + +Sing not, my Orpheus, sweeping oft the tuneful strings, +Of gliding streams and nimble winds and such poor things; +But lend your measures to a theme of noble thought, +And crown with laurel these great heroes, as you ought. + +Now steps Ryanus forth at call of furious Mars, +And from his oaken staff the sphere speeds to the stars; +And now he gains the tertiary goal, and turns, +While whiskered balls play round the timid staff of Burns. + +Lo! from the tribunes on the bleachers comes a shout, +Beseeching bold Ansonius to line 'em out; +And as Apollo's flying chariot cleaves the sky, +So stanch Ansonius lifts the frightened ball on high. + +Like roar of ocean beating on the Cretan cliff, +The strong Komiske gives the panting sphere a biff; +And from the tribunes rise loud murmurs everywhere, +When twice and thrice Mikellius beats the mocking air. + +And as Achilles' fleet the Trojan waters sweeps, +So horror sways the throng,--Pfefferius sleeps! +And stalwart Konnor, though by Mercury inspired, +The Equus Carolus defies, and is retired. + +So waxes fierce the strife between these godlike men; +And as the hero's fame grows by Virgilian pen, +So let Clarksonius Maximus be raised to heights +As far above the moon as moon o'er lesser lights. + +But as for me, the ivy leaf is my reward, +If you a place among the lyric bards accord; +With crest exalted, and O "People," with delight, +I'll proudly strike the stars, and so be out of sight. + + + + +EPILOGUE + +The day is done; and, lo! the shades + Melt 'neath Diana's mellow grace. +Hark, how those deep, designing maids + Feign terror in this sylvan place! +Come, friends, it's time that we should go; +We're honest married folk, you know. + +Was not the wine delicious cool + Whose sweetness Pyrrha's smile enhanced? +And by that clear Bandusian pool + How gayly Chloe sung and danced! +And Lydia Die,--aha, methinks +You'll not forget the saucy minx! + +But, oh, the echoes of those songs + That soothed our cares and lulled our hearts! +Not to that age nor this belongs + The glory of what heaven-born arts +Speak with the old distinctive charm +From yonder humble Sabine farm! + +The day is done. Now off to bed, + Lest by some rural ruse surprised, +And by those artful girls misled, + You two be sadly compromised. +_You_ go; perhaps _I_'d better stay +To shoo the giddy things away! + +But sometime we shall meet again + Beside Digentia, cool and clear,-- +You and we twain, old friend; and then + We'll have our fill of pagan cheer. +Then, could old Horace join us three, +How proud and happy he would be! + +Or if we part to meet no more + This side the misty Stygian Sea, +Be sure of this: on yonder shore + Sweet cheer awaiteth such as we; +A Sabine pagan's heaven, O friend,-- +The fellowship that knows no end! + +E.F. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13885 *** |