Chapter 3
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.