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Echoes from the Sabine Farm
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THE LYRIC MUSE
I love the lyric muse!For when mankind ran wild in groovesCame holy Orpheus with his songsAnd turned men's hearts from bestial loves,From brutal force and savage wrongs;Amphion, too, and on his lyreMade such sweet music all the dayThat rocks, instinct with warm desire,Pursued him in his glorious way.I love the lyric muse!Hers was the wisdom that of yoreTaught 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 downThe laws correcting divers wrongs;And so came honor and renownTo 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 payThy homage to the gods that sendThis boon to charm all ill away.With solemn tenderness revereThis voiceful glory as a shrineWherein the quickened heart may hearThe 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 expireOf his own foul and venomous breath!What stomachs these rustics must have who can eatThis 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 yokeThe fire-breathing bulls to the plowHe smeared his whole body with garlic,—a jokeWhich 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 sunInflicted such terrible heat;As for Hercules' robe, although poisoned, 't was funWhen compared with this garlic we eat!Mæcenas, if ever on garbage like thisYou 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 learnHow 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 youTo roost at home. Reflect, all this is straight that I am telling you.A ROMAN WINTER-PIECE
ISee, 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 wetOur whistles with some four-year-old.Commit all else unto the gods,Who, when it pleaseth them, shall bringTo fretful deeps and wooded steepsThe 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 mirthOf 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 despairCry out in childbirth's cruel ills,And saves them from the Stygian flow!Let the pine-tree my cottage nearBe sacred to thee evermore,That I may give to it each yearWith joy the life-blood of the boar,Now thinking of the sidelong blow.TO HIS LUTE
If ever in the sylvan shadeA 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 lovedTo sweep thy dulcet strings, and raiseHis voice in Love's and Liber's praise.The Muses, too, and him who clingsTo Mother Venus' apron-strings,And Lycus beautiful, he sungIn those old days when you were young.O shell, that art the ornamentOf Phoebus, bringing sweet contentTo Jove, and soothing troubles all,—Come and requite me, when I call!TO LEUCONÖE
IWhat 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 bestTo 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 diemUpon 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 chillYour pride and youthful joy,The hair which round your shoulder growsIs rudely cut away,Your color, redder than the rose,Is changed by youth's decay,—Then, Ligurinus, in the glassAnother you will spy.And as the shaggy face, alas!You see, your grief will cry:"Why in my youth could I not learnThe wisdom men enjoy?Or why to men cannot returnThe smooth cheeks of the boy?"TO LIGURINUS
II
O Cruel fair,Whose flowing hairThe envy and the pride of all is,As onward rollThe years, that pollWill 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 beholdYourself grown old,These words shall speak your spirits moody:"Unhappy one!What heaps of funI've missed by being goody-goody!Oh, that I might have felt the hungerOf loveless age when I was younger!"THE HAPPY ISLES
Oh, come with me to the Happy IslesIn the golden haze off yonder,Where the song of the sun-kissed breeze beguilesAnd 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 bearOr serpent come to molest them.Neither shall Eurus, wanton bold,Nor feverish drought distress us,But he that compasseth heat and coldShall temper them both to bless us.There no vandal foot has trod,And the pirate hordes that wanderShall never profane the sacred sodOf those beautiful isles out yonder.Never a spell shall blight our vines,Nor Sirius blaze above us,But you and I shall drink our winesAnd sing to the loved that love us.So come with me where Fortune smilesAnd the gods invite devotion,—Oh, come with me to the Happy IslesIn the haze of that far-off ocean!CONSISTENCY
Should painter attach to a fair human headThe 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 freakIs the crude and preposterous poemWhich 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 spawnOf 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 distantUnless you combine with a simple designA 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 growsIn 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
IWhat 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 bedewedHas 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 partShall 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 storyHow one most lowly born upon the parched Apulian plainsFirst 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 sonThe Delphic laurel-wreath of fame undying!TO PHYLLIS
I
Come, Phyllis, I've a cask of wineThat fairly reeks with precious juices,And in your tresses you shall twineThe loveliest flowers this vale produces.My cottage wears a gracious smile;The altar, decked in floral glory,Yearns for the lamb which bleats the whileAs 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 usHe 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 discoverA wisdom in preferring me,And mittening every other lover.So come, O Phyllis, last and bestOf 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 hereTo 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 catchThat 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
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 yearsOf that which people call discretionShould put aside all childish fearsAnd 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 complainsWhen she each am'rous suit disdains?Close to her mother's side she clings,And mocks the death her folly bringsTo gentle swains that feel the smartsHer 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 botherWith prattlings and with vain adoYour worthy and industrious mother,Eschewing them that come to woo?Oh, that the awful truth might quickenThis stern conviction to your breast:You are no longer now a chickenToo 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 marriageWith 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-hidingWhenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding.Sothly it ben faire to give up your moderFor 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 ladyesThat marrye not shall leade an aype in Hadys;But all that do with gode men wed full quicklyeWhen 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 dayYou patronized the ballet,And the public cheered you such a wayAs shook your native valley.Cæcuban and the Calean brandMay elsewhere claim attention;But I have none of these on hand,—For reasons I'll not mention.ENVOY
So, come! though favors I bestowCannot be called extensive,Who better than my friend should knowThat 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 lingerYour 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 constellationYou 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 patronsIn vain would bring back to the fold.The thrifty old fellows your loveliness mellowsConfess 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
HEWhen you were mine, in auld lang syne,And when none else your charms might ogle,I'll not deny, fair nymph, that IWas happier than a heathen mogul.SHEBefore she came, that rival flame(Had ever mater saucier filia?),In those good times, bepraised in rhymes,I was more famed than Mother Ilia.HEChloe of Thrace! With what a graceDoes she at song or harp employ her!I'd gladly die, if only ICould live forever to enjoy her!SHEMy Sybaris so noble isThat, by the gods, I love him madly!That I might save him from the grave,I'd give my life, and give it gladly!HEWhat 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?SHEMy other beau should surely go,And you alone should find me gracious;For no one slings such odes and thingsAs does the lauriger Horatius!THE RECONCILIATION
II
HORACEWhile favored by thy smiles no other youth in amorous teasingAround 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.LYDIAWhile 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.LYDIAAnd now the son of Ornytus, young Calais, inflames meWith 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.HORACEWhat if our early love returns to prove we were mistakenAnd bind with brazen yoke the twain, to part, ah! nevermore?What if the charming Chloe of the golden locks be shakenAnd slighted Lydia again glide through the open door?LYDIAThough 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 nightBy 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, lyingIn heavy sleep till morn is nigh,While I, your love, am dying?"Grown old and faded, you bewailThe rake's insulting sally,While round your home the Thracian galeStorms through the lonely alley.What furious thoughts will fill your breast,What passions, fierce and tinglish(Cannot be properly expressedIn calm, reposeful English).Learn this, and hold your carping tongue:Youth will be found rejoicingIn 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.
