Chapter 2
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!