Part 3

This seems to me a sacred phrase With reverence impassioned-- A thing come down from righteous days, Quaintly but nobly fashioned; It well becomes an honest face-- A voice that's round and cheerful; It stays the sturdy in his place And soothes the weak and fearful. Into the porches of the ears It steals with subtle unction And in your heart of hearts appears To work its gracious function; And all day long with pleasing song It lingers to caress you-- I'm sure no human heart goes wrong That's told "Good-by--God bless you!"

I love the words--perhaps because, When I was leaving mother, Standing at last in solemn pause We looked at one another, And--I saw in mother's eyes The love she could not tell me-- A love eternal as the skies, Whatever fate befell me; She put her arms about my neck And soothed the pain of leaving, And, though her heart was like to break, She spoke no word of grieving; She let no tear bedim her eye, For fear _that_ might distress me, But, kissing me, she said good-by And asked her God to bless me.

HORACE.

(Epode XIV.)

You ask me, friend, Why I don't send The long since due-and-paid-for numbers-- Why, songless, I As drunken lie Abandoned to Lethaean 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 Anack Courted a frisky Samian body, Singing her praise In metered phrase As flowing as his bowls of toddy.

'Till I was hoarse Might I discourse Upon the cruelties of Venus-- 'Twere waste of time As well of rhyme, For you've been there yourself, Maecenas!

Perfect your bliss, If some fair miss Love you yourself and _not_ your minae; I, fortune's sport, All vainly court The beauteous, polyandrous Phryne!

HORACE I, 23.

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!

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.

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 been 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 Hayde; But all that do with gode men wed full quicklye When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly.

HORACE I, 5.

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!

HORACE I, 20.

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.

Caecuban 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 Can not be called extensive, Who better than my friend should know That they're, at least, expensive!

HORACE II, 7.

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 draft From an amphora together!

When honor at Phillippi fell A pray to brutal passion, I regret to say that my feet ran away In swift Iambic fashion; You were no poet-soldier born, You staid, 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.

HORACE I, 11.

Seek not, Lucome, 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!

HORACE I, 13.

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!

HORACE IV, 1.

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 swan's wings And elsewhere deign to mellow With my soft arts the anguished hearts Of swain that writhe and bellow; And right away, seek out, I pray, Young Paullus--he's your fellow.

You'll find young Paullus passing fate, Modest, refined, and toney-- 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 blighted.

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?

HORACE TO HIS PATRON.

Maecenas, you're of noble line-- (Of which the proof convincing Is that you buy me all my wine Without so much as wincing.)

To different men of different minds Come different kinds of pleasure; There's Marshall Field--what joy he finds In shears and cloth-yard measure!

With joy Prof. Swing is filled While preaching godly sermons; With bliss is Hobart Taylor thrilled When he is leading germans.

While Uncle Joe Medill prefers To run a daily paper, To Walter Gresham it occurs That law's the proper caper.

With comedy a winning card, How blithe is Richard Hooley; Per contra, making soap and lard, Rejoices Fairbank duly.

While Armour in the sugar ham His summum bonum reaches, MacVeagh's as happy as a clam In canning pears and peaches.

Let Farwell glory in the fray Which party hate increases-- His son-in-law delights to play Gavottes and such like pieces.

So each betakes him to his task-- So each his hobby nurses-- While I--well, all the boon I ask Is leave to write my verses.

Give, give that precious boon to me And I shall envy no man; If not the noblest I shall be At least the happiest Roman!

THE "ARS POETICA" OF HORACE--XVIII.

(Lines 323-333.)

The Greeks had genius--'twas 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!

HORACE I, 34.

I have not worshiped God, my King-- Folly has led my heart astray; Backward I turn my course to learn The wisdom of a wiser way.

How marvelous is God, the King! How do His lightnings cleave the sky-- His thundering car spreads fear afar, And even hell is quaked thereby!

Omnipotent is God, our King! There is no thought He hath not read, And many a crown His hand plucks down To place it on a worthier head!

HORACE I, 33.

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!

THE "ARS POETICA" OF HORACE--I.

(Lines 1-23.)

Should painters 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 such a freak Is the crude and preposterous poem Which merely abounds in a torrent of sounds With no depth of reason below 'em.

'Tis all very well to give license to art-- The wisdom of license defend I; But the line should be drawn at the fripperish sprawn 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.

THE GREAT JOURNALIST IN SPAIN.

Good Editor Dana--God bless him, we say! Will soon be afloat on the main, Will be steaming away Through the mist and the spray To the sensuous climate of Spain.

Strange sights shall he see in that beautiful land Which is famed for its soap and Moor, For, as we understand, The scenery is grand, Though the system of railway is poor.

For moonlight of silver and sunlight of gold Glint the orchards of lemons and mangoes, And the ladies, we're told, Are a joy to behold As they twine in their lissome fandangoes.

What though our friend Dana shall twang a guitar And murmur a passionate strain-- Oh, fairer by far Than these ravishments are The castles abounding in Spain!

These castles are built as the builder may list-- They are sometimes of marble or stone, But they mostly consist Of east wind and mist With an ivy of froth overgrown.

A beautiful castle our Dana shall raise On a futile foundation of hope, And its glories shall blaze In the somnolent haze Of the mythical lake del y Soap.

The fragrance of sunflowers shall swoon on the air, And the visions of dreamland obtain, And the song of "World's Fair" Shall be heard everywhere Through that beautiful castle in Spain.

REID, THE CANDIDATE.

I saw a brave compositor Go hustling o'er the mead, Who bore a banner with these words: "Hurrah for Whitelaw Reid!"

"Where go you, brother slug," I asked, "With such unusual speed?" He quoth: "I go to dump my vote For gallant Whitelaw Reid!"

"But what has Whitelaw done," I asked, "That now he should succeed?" Said he: "The stanchest, truest friend We have is Whitelaw Reid!

"There are no terms we can suggest That he will not concede; He is converted to our faith, Is gallant Whitelaw Reid!

"The union it must be preserved-- That is this convert's creed, And that is why we're whooping up The cause of Whitelaw Reid!"

"If what you say of him be sooth, You have a friend indeed, So go on your winding way," quoth I, "And whoop for Whitelaw Reid!"

So on unto the polls I saw That printer straight proceed While other printers swarmed in swarms To vote for Whitelaw Reid.

A VALENTINE.

Four little sisters standing in a row-- Which of them I love best I really do not know. Sometimes it is the sister dressed out so fine in blue, And sometimes she who flaunts the beauteous robe of emerald hue; Sometimes for her who wears the brown my tender heart has bled, And then again I am consumed of love for her in red. So now I think I'll send this valentine unto the four-- I love them all so very much--how could a man do more?

KISSING-TIME.

'Tis when the lark goes soaring, And the bee is at the bud, When lightly dancing zephyrs Sing over field and flood; When all sweet things in Nature Seem joyfully a-chime-- 'Tis then I wake my darling, For it is kissing-time!

Go, pretty lark, a-soaring, And suck your sweets, O bee; Sing, O ye winds of summer, Your songs to mine and me. For with your song and rapture Cometh the moment when It is half-past kissing-time And time to kiss again!

So--so the days go fleeting Like golden fancies free, And every day that cometh Is full of sweets for me; And sweetest are those moments My darling comes to climb Into my lap to mind me That it is kissing-time.

Sometimes, may be, he wanders A heedless, aimless way-- Sometimes, may be, he loiters In pretty, prattling play; But presently bethinks him And hastens to me then, For it's half-past kissing time And time to kiss again!

THE FIFTH OF JULY.

The sun climbs up, but still the tyrant Sleep Holds fast our baby boy in his embrace; The slumb'rer sighs, anon athwart his face Faint, half-suggested frowns like shadows creep, One little hand lies listless on his breast, One little thumb sticks up with mute appeal, While motley burns and powder marks reveal The fruits of boyhood's patriotic zest.

Our baby's faithful poodle crouches near-- He, too, is weary of the din and play That come with glorious Independence Day, But which, thank God! come only once a year! And Fido, too, has suffered in this cause, Which once a year right noisily obtains, For Fido's tail--or what thereof remains-- Is not so fair a sight as once it was.

PICNIC-TIME.

It's June agin, an' in my soul I feel the fillin' joy That's sure to come this time o' year to every little boy; For, every June, the Sunday schools at picnics may be seen, Where "fields beyont the swellin' floods stand dressed in livin' green." Where little girls are skeered to death with spiders, bugs an' ants, An' little boys get grass-stains on their go-to-meetin' pants. It's June agin, an' with it all what happiness is mine-- There's goin' to be a picnic an' I'm goin' to jine!

One year I jined the Baptists, an' goodness! how it rained! (But grampa says that that's the way "Baptizo" is explained.) And once I jined the 'piscopils an' had a heap o' fun-- But the boss of all the picnics was the Presbyterium! They had so many puddin's, sallids, sandwidges an' pies, That a feller wisht his stummick was as hungry as his eyes! Oh, yes, the eatin' Presbyteriums give yer is so fine That when _they_ have a picnic, you bet _I'm_ goin' to jine!

But at this time the Methodists have special claims on me, For they're goin' to give a picnic on the 21st, D. V.; Why should a liberal Universalist like me object To share the joys of fellowship with every friendly sect? However het'rodox their articles of faith elsewise may be, Their doctrine of fried chick'n is a savin' grace to me! So on the 21st of June, the weather bein' fine, They're goin' to give a picnic, and I'm goin' to jine!

THE ROMANCE OF A WATCH.

One day his father said to John: "Come here and see what I hev bought--- A Waterbury watch, my son-- It is the boon you long hev sought!"

The boy could scarcely believe his eyes-- The watch was shiny, smooth an' slick-- He snatched the nickel-plated prize An' wound away to hear it tick.

He wound an' wound, an' wound an' wound, An' kept a windin' fit to kill-- The weeks an' months an' years rolled round, But John he kep' a windin', still!

As autumns came an' winters went An' summers follered arter spring, John didn't mind--he was intent On windin' up that darned ol' thing.

He got to be a poor ol' man-- He's bald an' deaf an' blind an' lame, But, like he did when he began, He keeps on windin', jest the same!

OUR BABY.

'Tis very strange, but quite as true, That when our Baby smiles Our club gets walloped black and blue In all the latest styles; But when our Baby's hopping mad It's quite the other way-- Chicago beats the Yankees bad When Baby doesn't play.

When baby stands upon his base, Just after having kicked, Upon his Scandinavian face Appears the legend, "Licked"; But when he orders out a sub, We well may hip-hooray-- Chicago has the winning club When Baby doesn't play.

But, if our Baby's getting old, And stiff, and cross, and vain, And if his days are nearly told, Oh, let us not complain. Let's rather think of what he was And how he's made it pay To hire the kids that win because Our Baby doesn't play.

THE COLOR THAT SUITS ME BEST.

Any color--so long as it's red-- Is the color that suits me best, Though I will allow there is much to be said For yellow and green and the rest; But the feeble tints, which some affect In the things they make or buy, Have never (I say it with all respect) Appealed to my critical eye.

There's that in red that warmeth the blood And quickeneth a man within, And bringeth to speedy and perfect bud The germs of original sin; So, though I am properly born and bred, I'll own, with a certain zest, That any color--so long as it's red-- Is the color that suits me best!

For where is a color that can be compared With the blush of a buxom lass-- Or where such warmth as of the hair Of the genuine white horse class? And, lo, reflected in this cup Of cherry Bordeaux I see What inspiration girdeth me up-- Yes, red is the color for me!

Through acres and acres of art I've strayed In Italy, Germany, France; On many a picture a master has made I've squandered a passing glance; Marines I hate, madonnas and Those Dutch freaks I detest! But the peerless daubs of my native land-- They're red, and I like them best!

'Tis little I care how folks deride-- I'm backed by the west, at least, And we are free to say that we can't abide The tastes that obtain down east; And we are mighty proud to have it said That here in the critical west, Most any color--so long as it's red-- Is the color that suits us best!

HOW TO "FILL."

It is understood that our esteemed Col. Franc B. Wilkie is going to formulate a reply to Mrs. Ella Wheeler Wilcox's latest poem, which begins as follows:

"I hold it as a changeless law From which no soul can sway or swerve, We have that in us which will draw Whate'er we need or most deserve."

We fancy the genial colonel will start off with some such quatrain as this:

"I fain would have your recipe, If you'll but give the snap away; Now when four clubs are dealt to me, How may I draw another, pray?"

POLITICS IN 1888.

The Cleveland Leader must be getting ready for the campaign of 1888. We find upon its editorial page quite a pretentious poem, entitled "Alpha and Omega," and here is a sample stanza:

"Whose name will stand for coming time As hypocrites in prose and rhyme, And be despised in every clime? The Mugwumps."

Well, may be so, but may we be permitted to add a stanza which seems to us to be very pertinent just now?

And who next year, we'd like to know, Will feed the Cleveland Leader crow, Just as they did three years ago? The Mugwumps.

THE BASEBALL SCORE.

A boy came racing down the street In a most tumultuous way, And he hollered at all he chanced to meet: "Hooray, hooray, hooray!" His eyes and his breath were hot with joy And his cheeks were all aflame-- 'Twas a rare event with the little boy When the champions won a game!

"Twenty to 6" and "10 to 2" Were rather dismal scores, And they wreathed in a somewhat somber hue These classic western shores; We shuddered and winced at the cruel sport And our heads were bowed in shame 'Till Somewhere sent us the glad report That the champions won the game!

Our Baby says it'll be all right For the champions by and by, And the twin emotions of Hope and Fright Gleam in his cod fish eye; And Spalding says (in his modest way) That we'll get there all the same; So let us holler, "Hooray, hooray," When the champions win the game.

CHICAGO NEWSPAPER LIFE.

It pleases us to observe that the shocking habit of hurling opprobrious epithets at each other has been abandoned by the venerable editor of the Journal and the venerable editor of the Tribune. At this moment we are reminded of the inspired lines of the eminent but now, alas! neglected Watts: