Echoes from the Sabine Farm
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TO GLYCERA
The cruel mother of the Loves,And other Powers offended,Have stirred my heart, where newly rovesThe passion that was ended.'T is Glycera, to boldness prone,Whose radiant beauty fires me;While fairer than the Parian stoneHer 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 throughShe may be more complaisant.TO LYDIA
IWhen, 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 showThat 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 TelephusAbraid 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 theyThat call on Hymen to requite 'em;For, though love cools, the wedded foolsMust cleave till death doth disunite 'em.TO LYDIA
IIWhen praising Telephus you singHis rosy neck and waxen arms,Forgetful of the pangs that wringThis 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 weFrom care are free,Vexations cannot cinch us.Unwrinkled youth and grace, forsooth,Speed hand in hand together;The songs we singIn time of springAre hushed in wintry weather.Why, even flow'rs change with the hours,And the moon has divers phases;And shall the mindBe racked to findA clew to Fortune's mazes?Nay; 'neath this tree let you and meWoo Bacchus to caress us;We're old, 't is true,But still we twoAre 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 decoyThe fair but furtive Lyde?She can execute on her ivory luteSonatas 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 vineWithin this kindly soil of Tibur;Nor temporal woes,Nor spiritual, knowsThe man who's a discreet imbiber.For who doth croakOf being broke,Or who of warfare, after drinking?With bowl atween us,Of smiling VenusAnd Bacchus shall we sing, I'm thinking.Of symptoms fellWhich brawls impel,Historic data give us warning;The wretch who fightsWhen full, of nights,Is bound to have a head next morning.I do not scornA friendly horn,But noisy toots, I can't abide 'em!Your howling batIs stale and flatTo one who knows, because he's tried 'em!The secrets ofThe life I love(Companionship with girls and toddy)I would not dragWith drunken bragInto the ken of everybody;But in the shadeLet some coy maidWith 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 crownThe veriest clod with riches and renown,And change a triumph to a funeralThe tillers of the soil and they that vex the seas,Confessing thee supreme, on bended kneesInvoke thee, all.Of Dacian tribes, of roving Scythian bands,Of cities, nations, lawless tyrants redWith guiltless blood, art thou the haunting dread;Within thy path no human valor stands,And, arbiter of empires, at thy frownThe sceptre, once supreme, slips surely downFrom kingly hands.Necessity precedes thee in thy way;Hope fawns on thee, and Honor, too, is seenDancing attendance with obsequious mien;But with what coward and abject dismayThe faithless crowd and treacherous wantons flyWhen once their jars of luscious wine run dry,—Such ingrates they!Fortune, I call on thee to blessOur king,—our Cæsar girt for foreign wars!Help him to heal these fratricidal scarsThat speak degenerate shame and wickedness;And forge anew our impious spears and swords,Wherewith we may against barbarian hordesOur 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 inspireOr 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 manWho dotes on tedious argument.An advocate, his ponderous pateIs full of Blackstone and of Kent;Yet not insensible is he,O genial Massic flood! to thee.Why, even Cato used to takeA modest, surreptitious nipAt 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 artsWe discount Hope, O gracious wine!And passing rich the poor man feelsAs through his veins thy affluence steals.Now, prithee, make us frisk and sing,And plot full many a naughty plotWith damsels fair—nor shall we careWhether school keeps or not!And whilst thy charms hold out to burnWe 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 backTo 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 quaffedThe genial draughtFrom the same canteen together.When honor at Philippi fellA prey to brutal passion,I regret to say that my feet ran awayIn swift Iambic fashion.You were no poet; soldier born,You stayed, nor did you wince then.Mercury cameTo my help, which sameHas frequently saved me since then.But now you're back, let's celebrateIn 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 leavesOur foreheads shall be done up;And with song shall weProtract our spreeUntil the morrow's sun-up.THE POET'S METAMORPHOSIS
Mæcenas, I propose to flyTo 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 clayNor Stygian prison-house shall hold him.Upon my skin feathers beginTo warn the songster of his fleeting;But never mind, I leave behindSongs 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 makeMy 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 incenseMy 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 overThe fields, again bring herds and menThe 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 lightOld 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 shadesEnfold you with their hideous seemings;Then love and mirth and joys of earthShall 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 seeHow 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 snowThe shepherd dog pursues what foeSkulks 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 youthAt 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 mellowWith thy soft arts the anguished heartsOf 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 cronyHe'll outshine all at feast and ballAnd conversazione!Then shall that godlike nose of thineWith perfumes be requited,And then shall prance in Salian danceThe girls and boys delighted,And while the lute blends with the fluteShall 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 cupThat sent me home at night full.Why do I falter in my speech,O cruel Ligurine?Why do I chase from place to placeIn weather wet and shiny?Why down my nose forever flowsThe tear that's cold and briny?TO LYDIA
Tell me, Lydia, tell me why,By the gods that dwell above,Sybaris makes haste to dieThrough your cruel, fatal love.Now he hates the sunny plain;Once he loved its dust and heat.Now no more he leads the trainOf his peers on coursers fleet.Now he dreads the Tiber's touch,And avoids the wrestling-rings,—He who formerly was suchAn expert with quoits and things.Come, now, Mistress Lydia, sayWhy 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 placeOn 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 heightsAs 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 shadesMelt 'neath Diana's mellow grace.Hark, how those deep, designing maidsFeign 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 coolWhose sweetness Pyrrha's smile enhanced?And by that clear Bandusian poolHow gayly Chloe sung and danced!And Lydia Die,—aha, methinksYou'll not forget the saucy minx!But, oh, the echoes of those songsThat soothed our cares and lulled our hearts!Not to that age nor this belongsThe glory of what heaven-born artsSpeak with the old distinctive charmFrom 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 stayTo shoo the giddy things away!But sometime we shall meet againBeside Digentia, cool and clear,—You and we twain, old friend; and thenWe'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 moreThis side the misty Stygian Sea,Be sure of this: on yonder shoreSweet cheer awaiteth such as we;A Sabine pagan's heaven, O friend,—The fellowship that knows no end!E.F.