Echoes from the Sabine Farm
- -
- 100%
- +
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 belowI'd have you knowNor falsehood nor romance is;It's solemn truth,So grant the youthThe 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 moreThis side the misty Stygian river,Be sure of this: On yonder shoreSweet 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 twainTo calm Digentian groves repair;The turtle coos his sweet refrainAnd posies are a-blooming there;And there the romping Sabine girlsBind myrtle in their lustrous curls.I know a certain ilex-treeWhence 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 singsShould 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 spellRound 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 farmEcho the songs of long ago,With power to soothe and grace to charmWhat 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.AN INVITATION TO MÆCENAS
Dear, noble friend! a virgin caskOf wine solicits your attention;And roses fair, to deck your hair,And things too numerous to mention.So tear yourself awhile awayFrom urban turmoil, pride, and splendor,And deign to share what humble fareAnd sumptuous fellowship I tender.The sweet content retirement bringsSmoothes out the ruffled front of kings.The evil planets have combinedTo make the weather hot and hotter;By parboiled streams the shepherd dreamsVainly of ice-cream soda-water.And meanwhile you, defying heat,With patriotic ardor ponderOn what old Rome essays at home,And what her heathen do out yonder.Mæcenas, no such vain alarmDisturbs the quiet of this farm!God in His providence obscuresThe goal beyond this vale of sorrow,And smiles at men in pity whenThey 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, thenI 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 charmOf 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 payThe sacrifice I owe;A sportive kid with budding hornsI have, whose crimson bloodAnon shall dye and sanctifyThy cool and babbling flood.O fountain of Bandusia!The Dog-star's hateful spellNo evil brings into the springsThat from thy bosom well;Here oxen, wearied by the plow,The roving cattle hereHasten 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 springBeneath yon ilex-tree.Yes, fountain of Bandusia,Posterity shall knowThe cooling brooks that from thy nooksSinging 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 aboveThe 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 sendThe long since due-and-paid-for numbers;Why, songless, IAs drunken lieAbandoned 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 AnackCourted a frisky Samian body,Singing her praiseIn metered phraseAs flowing as his bowls of toddy.Till I was hoarseMight I discourseUpon the cruelties of Venus;'T were waste of timeAs well of rhyme,For you've been there yourself, Mæcenas!Perfect your blissIf some fair missLove you yourself and not your minæ;I, fortune's sport,All vainly courtThe beauteous, polyandrous Phryne!TO THE SHIP OF STATE
O ship of stateShall new winds bear you back upon the sea?What are you doing? Seek the harbor's leeEre 't is too late!Do you bemoanYour 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 thereIn 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 seasThat flow between the gleaming Cyclades,Each shining isle.QUITTING AGAIN
The hero ofAffairs of loveBy far too numerous to be mentioned,And scarred as I'm,It seemeth timeThat I were mustered out and pensioned.So on this wallMy lute and allI hang, and dedicate to Venus;And I imploreBut one thing moreEre all is at an end between us.O goddess fairWho reignest whereThe weather's seldom bleak and snowy,This boon I urge:In anger scourgeMy old cantankerous sweetheart, Chloe!SAILOR AND SHADE
SAILORYou, 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 ageAt last lie down to rest.Plutonian shades enfold the ghostOf that majestic oneWho 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 seasOr fields with corpses red.Whate'er our deeds, that pathway leadsTo regions of the dead.SHADEThe fickle twin Illyrian galesOverwhelmed me on the wave;But you that live, I pray you giveMy bleaching bones a grave!Oh, then when cruel tempests rageYou all unharmed shall be;Jove's mighty hand shall guard by landAnd Neptune's on the sea.Perchance you fear to do what mayBring evil to your race?Oh, rather fear that like me hereYou'll lack a burial place.So, though you be in proper haste,Bide long enough, I pray,To give me, friend, what boon shall sendMy soul upon its way!LET US HAVE PEACE
In maudlin spite let Thracians fightAbove their bowls of liquor;But such as we, when on a spree,Should never brawl and bicker!These angry words and clashing swordsAre 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 wineWith which our host would dope us!Now let us hear what pretty dearEntangles 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 truthYou 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 awayWith dull complaining breath,Or speed with song and wine each day,Still, still your doom is death.Where the white poplar and the pineIn glorious arching shade combine,And the brook singing goes,Bid them bring store of nard and wineAnd garlands of the rose.Let's live while chance and youth obtain;Soon shall you quit this fair domainKissed by the Tiber's gold,And all your earthly pride and gainSome heedless heir shall hold.One ghostly boat shall some time bearFrom scenes of mirthfulness or careEach fated human soul,—Shall waft and leave its burden whereThe waves of Lethe roll.So come, I prithee, Dellius mine;Let's sing our songs and drink our wineIn that sequestered nookWhere the white poplar and the pineStand 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 flameFor Brissy, his slave, as they say.Old Telamon's son, fiery Ajax, was movedBy the captive Tecmessa's ripe charms;And Atrides, suspending the feast, it behoovedTo 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 whileOf the royal good times of her earlier years,When her folks regulated the style!It won't do at all, my dear boy, to believeThat she of whose charms you are proudIs 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 greedWas surely not born of a mother whose lifeIs 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 faceAnd (excuse me!) her delicate calves.Tut, tut! don't get angry, my boy, or suspectYou have any occasion to fearA 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 tideOf weird Hydaspan fountains!Lo, on a time, I gayly pacedThe Sabine confines shady,And sung in glee of Lalage,My own and dearest lady;And as I sung, a monster wolfSlunk through the thicket from me;But for that song, as I strolled along,He would have overcome me!Set me amid those poison mistsWhich 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 bringHeaven to those desert places!TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS
I
Not to lament that rival flameWherewith the heartless Glycera scorns you,Nor waste your time in maudlin rhyme,How many a modern instance warns you!Fair-browed Lycoris pines awayBecause her Cyrus loves another;The ruthless churl informs the girlHe 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 hateEre Pholoe will mate with Cyrus!Ah, weak and hapless human hearts,By cruel Mother Venus fatedTo 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 designsShe-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 areThose 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 crowdHis name the threefold honor has allowed;And there another, if into his storesComes 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 seasPraises 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 fillHis 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 dreamOf 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 houndsOr Marsian boar through the fine meshes bounds.But as for me, the ivy-wreaths, the prizeOf 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 lookFor 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 youTo shun the fate that must await you.In youth you may encounter friends(Pray this prediction be not wrong),But wait until old age descendsAnd thumbs have smeared your gentlest song;Then will the moths connive to eat youAnd rural libraries secrete you.However, should a friend some wordOf my obscure career request,Tell him how deeply I was stirredTo 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 giftThe Muse vouchsafed in glorious measure;The boon of Fame they made their aimAnd 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 speedFrom him who stands at Death's dark portal.Ah, when this slavish love of goldOnce binds the soul in greasy fetters,How prostrate lies,—how droops and diesThe great, the noble cause of letters!