Part 3

My grandmother is pretty. "Do I love her?" Rather--yes; Our Norah calls her stylish, and on the whole I guess She's better than the other kind, for once, when I was ill, She helped my mother nurse me, and read to me until I fell asleep; and stayed with me, and wasn't tired, and then She played nine holes of golf with me when I got out again. Yet, because I've never seen one, just once I want to see A real old-fashioned grandmother, like those there used to be.

_SIGNS FOR THE SERIOUS_

He has a taste that's superfine who flouts at every subway sign, He reckons not that some there be, who cannot tell, unless they see Spelled plain before them on the wall, what things their own they ought to call For instance, when I come to town, whom you may dub a country clown-- How should I know what things to buy, if not a subway sign were nigh To show--the pills I ought to take my all-consuming thirst to slake;-- The hair restorer that will soothe my infant son with his first tooth;-- The ruddy catsup that is sure all family jars and ills to cure;-- The dollar watch that daintily we'll serve, wound-up, for early tea;-- The window-screens that will not hide our failings from the country-side;-- What breakfast-food is our true friend, the dime cigars that I should send My wife to cure her racking cough. The hooks and eyes that won't come off Ah! hats, and soaps, and castor-oil, and cocoa that we need not boil;-- And well-made suits and patent soup, and phonographs.--But what a dupe Of every city tradesman I, if all these vendibles I'd try To purchase by my native wit! Yet what the subway "best" has writ In flaming words, with weird device--that make I mine,--and pay the price.

_TRIMMING_

When your father, long ago, tried to train you--and you know He thought mornings meant for school, and not for swimming-- How your heart beat loud in dread as relentlessly he said, "You'll _remember_--when you've had another trimming."

When your daughter buys a hat, and you're wondering thereat, As before the glass she stands, its beauty hymning; Ah! the mischief in her eyes, as she pleads, "Show no surprise At the _cost_. One has to pay for _pretty trimming_."

When the butcher brings your bill, and you stare at it until Your tongue with fervid words is fairly brimming, Then you hear him meekly say, as your anger you display, "It seems high, because there's so much _waste_ in trimming."

So when politicians try your votes to beg or buy With their sophistry--your common sense that's dimming-- Just _remember_ then the _cost_ (and the _waste_, should all be lost), Of the smooth-tongued, wordy trimmer's _pretty trimming_.

_THE ANNEX_

"Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage" High halls do not a College make, nor book-lined shelves a sage. So might I follow haltingly these olden words to show That even in this newer home the Annex may not know A greater zeal for learning than the old house could bestow. But comparisons are odious, so I'll merely try to say That cherished deep within the hearts of many here today Is the memory of that early home in the classic Appian Way. There first did the young Annex (whose real Christian name Contains as many syllables as it has liens on fame) Win laurels even brighter than its friends had hoped to claim. And there, too, in their search, for intellectual recreation Its students formed the short-lived _Appian Way Association_ Of which this later Club is but an "Idler" imitation. Just where the interloper dwelt was long a mystery. In the past to Harvard students and to townsmen equally, Till they cried, "There is no Annex--believe we only what we see!" Now the Annex and its mission every year are better known, From the smallest of beginnings strong and powerful it has grown: Only Harvard Freshmen speak of it in supercilious tone, Although custom would forbid us as we are passing near, To salute the ancient building with a rousing Annex cheer, We need no sign like this to prove that still we hold it dear. Now the students who have profited by their foreseeing care Fondly thank the Annex founders who knew not the word "despair." Its best home was the hearts of those who planned the structure fair.

(_Read at a College celebration._)

_A LIBERTY BOND_

A liberty bond! What a queer contradiction! Although truth, as you've heard, may be stranger than fiction. For Liberty should from all fetters release us, While bonds hold one fast, whether pauper or Croesus. Yet a Liberty Bond--I'd advise you to buy it-- Will ensure you your freedom--you'll see when you try it. 'Twill aid you to conquer foes cruel, despotic, 'Twill help save your Country, come, be patriotic! A Liberty Bond--I'd advise you to buy one-- Will ensure you your freedom--rejoice when you try one!

_A HERO_

Like many another I have crossed Oftener than once the broad Atlantic, And--feeling qualms when tempest-tossed, Have shuddered at the waves gigantic, Fearing that really nevermore I'd find myself again ashore.

Then when--upset--and scarce awake, In moments of perturbed reflection, My wandering thoughts would slowly take Time and again the same direction. I'd think of that adventurous man, Who crossed the sea--first of my clan.

'Tis not for me to hope to find Upon my family tree's broad branches Ancestors wholly to my mind; I know that I am taking chances In digging them up from the past To deck this hardy tree at last.

Indeed I would not waste my breath, And even less my ink and paper, To prove from Queen Elizabeth Is my descent (_some_ cut this caper), Nor in King Alfred root my tree-- Here's jocund genealogy.

A Governor or two, of course,-- Or even a Colonial preacher I'd not despise,--nor yet perforce A good Selectman, stern of feature, Provided they came early here. Such ancestors to me are dear.

Yet of them all the man I hold A mighty hero--none seems greater-- Is he--that honest man and bold-- Whether Psalm-singer, or bear-baiter, First of my name to reach the strand, Of this almost unpeopled land.

He may have been of high estate, He may have been a simple yeoman, Undaunted by an adverse fate, Brave was he as the bravest Roman. At naught he quailed, his heart was stout, When he for the New World set out.

Compared with mine--a little skiff His boat was, on the untracked ocean, Comforts were scarce, and breezes stiff-- No luxuries,--though I've a notion Billows were just as high as now, While Danger sat upon the prow.

Just where would be his landing-place. He hardly knew when waves he tossed on While my woes at sea efface By merely murmuring, "Home is Boston." Yet he had left his all behind In the new world his all to find.

"R-E-E-D"--"E-I"--"E-A," Just how we spell it need not matter. The name we honor here today Each clan may claim with equal clatter British, euphonious, clear and short, Rede me a name of better sort!

_Read at a meeting of a Genealogical Society._

_THE RIVALS_

Said the Bicycle to the Automobile: "How high and mighty and gay you feel; Yet I can remember the day when I Would let no other one pass me by Cart horse and roadster and racehorse too, Far ahead of them all I flew. Now my tires are unpumped and my warning bell The attention of nobody can compel.

"Though you maim your thousands where I hurt one, Though ten times my farthest is your day's run, Still I have been learning while lying here, That a rival's coming for you to fear. I have heard them talk of a wonderful thing, That can fly in the air like a bird on the wing, That can carry a man over land, over sea; In a twinkling he is where he wishes to be.

"So swiftly it speeds, in a week and a day One may girdle the globe, I have heard them say, While you are contented from dawn to dark With a few score miles to have made your mark." The giant, throughout his quivering frame, Felt the truth that was mixed with his rival's blame. "I'll never be such a clod as you," He sputtered as off on the road he flew; And his end the Bicycle never knew.

FROM THE ODES OF HORACE

_TO MAECENAS. III-29_

Maecenas, scion of Tyrrhenian rulers, A jar, as yet unpierced, of mellow wine Long waits thee here, with balm for thee made ready And blooming roses in thy locks to twine.

No more delay, nor always look with favor The sloping fields of AEsula upon; Why gaze so long on ever marshy Tibur Near by the mount of murderer Telegon?

Give up thy luxury--it palls upon thee-- Thy tower that reaches yonder lofty cloud; Cease to admire the smoke, the wealth, the uproar, And all that well hath made our Rome so proud.

Sometimes a change is grateful to the rich man, A simple meal beneath a humble roof Has often smoothed from care the furrowed forehead, Though unadorned that home with purple woof.

Bright Cepheus now his long-hid fire is showing, Now flames on high the angry lion-star, Now Procyon rages, and the sun revolving Brings back the thirsty season from afar.

Seeking a cooling stream, the weary shepherd His languid flock leads to the shady wood Where rough Sylvanus reigns, yet by the brookside. No truant breeze disturbs the solitude.

Ah, who but thee is busy now with statecraft? Thou plannest for Rome's weal, disquieted, Lest warring Scythian, Bactrian, or Persian Should'st plunge the city into awful dread.

A prudent deity in pitchy darkness The issue of futurity conceals, And smiles when man beyond the right of mortals, His fear about the time to come reveals.

Thou should'st concern thee only with the present, All else progresses as the river flows, Which gliding at one time in middle channel Toward the Tuscan Sea unruffled goes;

Or at another time, herds, trees, and houses, And broken rocks to one destruction drags, When wild the flood provokes the quiet current With noise from neighboring woods and distant crags.

Happy he lives, and of himself is master, That man who can at night with truth declare, "I have lived to-day, to-morrow let the Father Make as he will my sky or dark or fair,

"It is not his to render vain and worthless My happy past--the bliss has dearer grown That the fleet-footed hour carried with it; The joys that once have been are still my own.

"Now upon me, again on others smiling, Fortune rejoices in her savage trade Of shifting thus at will uncertain honors, As stubbornly her mocking game is played.

"I praise her when she stays, but if she leave me, Fluttering her airy wings in hasty flight, I yield her what she gave, and wrapped in virtue, In dowerless Poverty find my delight.

"Although the mast may crack beneath the South wind, I will not rush with many a doleful prayer To barter thus my vows, lest all my treasure From Tyre and Cyprus should become a share

"Of what the greedy sea has in possession; Nay! then, protected in my two-oared boat, With favoring winds, and with twin Pollux guiding Safe through the AEgean tempests I will float."

(_This version won, in 1890, the Sargent Prize, offered annually to students of Harvard University and Radcliffe College._)

_TO LEUCONOE. I-11_

Seek not to learn--Leuconoe,--a mortal may not know-- What term of life on you or me our deities bestow. The Babylonian soothsayer consult not; better bear Whatever comes, whether to you more winters Jove shall spare, Or whether this may be the last, grinding the Tuscan sea On yonder rocks. Even as we talk, time envious shall flee. Filter your wine, be wise, and clip your hopes to life's brief span. Then seize today; to-morrow trust as little as you can.

_TO NEOBULE. III-12_

Ah! Unhappy are the maidens, who love's game are kept from playing, Nor in mellow wine may wash away their cares; Who, scared by scolding uncles' tongues, their terror are displaying,-- But from you, though, Neobule, Cupid bears Your basket and your webs, yet all the zeal you have been showing For industrious Minerva, is the prey Of fair Hebrus, Liparaean, when his shoulders, oiled and glowing, He has bathed in Tiber's waters. Let me say As a horseman, than Bellerophon he's really something greater; Never worsted in a hand-fight, nor a race. Skilled to shoot the flying stag-herd in the open,--swift he later Snares the boar, close-hidden in a shady place.

_THE HARDY YOUTH. III-2_

The hardy youth, my friends, in bitter warfare To narrow poverty must learn to bend, And, for his spear a horseman to be dreaded, Courageous Parthians into flight must send. And he must try all dangerous adventures, His life out in the open he must pass; The warring tyrant's wife and growing daughter Him spying from their hostile walls, "Alas," They sigh--for fear the royal husband, Unskilled in warlike arts, should dare attack This lion, fierce to touch, whom bloody anger Into the midst of slaughter has dragged back. 'Tis sweet and fit to perish for one's country, Death follows fast upon the man who flees, Nor spares the coward backs of youth retreating, Nor saves them trembling on their timid knees, Valor, of shabby failure all unconscious, Gleams with untarnished honor where she stands, Assuming not, nor laying down her emblems, As now the gaping populace demands. Valor, when opening Heaven to those, who dying Deserve not death, by paths no other knows Points out the way, and still while she is soaring, Her scorn for crowds and humid earth she shows. And there's a sure reward for loyal silence. Him I'll forbid under my roof to sit Who has divulged the Elusinian mysteries, Nor in my fragile shallop shall he flit Often great Jupiter, when once neglected, The wicked near the innocent has put, But punishment to overtake the guilty Has rarely failed, though she is lame of foot

_TO THE STATE. I-14_

Oh! Ship of State! fresh billows to sea will bear thee back, Then turn about and bravely toward the harbor tack, Thou see'st that thy naked sides defending oarsmen lack.

Behold! thy mast lies shattered before the swift south wind, Listen! the yards are creaking, the ropes no longer bind, Strength to endure the boisterous waves thy keel can hardly find.

Now all thy sails are ragged; the gods are swept away To whom, borne down by peril, thy quaking soul would pray. Though lofty be thy lineage, its pride is vain today.

The power and name thou boastest are now of no avail, Thy stern is gayly painted, and still thy seamen quail, Beware lest thou art made the sport of every idle gale.

Ah! dearly loved, my country; my fond yet heavy care! Thy discords lately wearied me, but now I breathe a prayer That thee the tides of faction, the glittering rocks may spare.

_TO APOLLO. I-31_

What prays the poet of enshrined Apollo? What is he asking for with lifted hands, Pouring a fresh libation from his flagon?-- Not fertile crop from rich Sardinian lands,-- Not the fair herds of sultry, damp Calabria,-- Not even Indian ivory and gold;-- Nor meadows that the Liris, silent river, With sluggish flow has nibbled, as it rolled. Let those whom Fortune has endowed with vineyards, With the Calenian knife their grapevines trim, Let the rich merchant from his golden goblet Drink wine by Syrian traffic bought for him. Dear to the very gods he three times yearly, Yes four times, travels the Atlantic Sea Unharmed. But I--I feed myself on olives, Ay, succory and soft mallows are for me.

Let one enjoy sound health and my possessions-- Son of Latona, grant to me, I pray, With a sane mind an old age all unsullied, Nor let my gift--my lyre--be taken away.

_TO DIANA. III-22_

Diana, Protector of mountain and wood, Who when three times invoked, hast so well understood, And young mothers in child-birth hast rescued from death, Goddess, triply endowed! Let this tree overhanging my house here, this pine Be for thee, that each year I shall consecrate thine, Happy still--with the blood of a boar, whose last breath, Planned a side-long attack.

_TO MELPOMENE. IV-3_

Oh, him whom at birth you with favor regarded Melpomene! never an Isthmian game Shall render renowned, though he's skilled as a boxer, Nor shall a swift horse lead him onward to fame. Though a victor he rides in a chariot Achaian, Not him shall the fortune of war ever show. In the Capitol wearing the garland of laurel Because the proud threatenings of kings he laid low. But every stream flowing over the country Fertile Tibur around, and so every grove With its thick-growing leaves shall ennoble the poet, In AEolian song he ennobled shall prove. The offspring of Rome, that is Queen among cities, Me have deemed as a bard to be worthy a place In her glorious choir, and less and less keenly Already the sharp bite of Envy I trace. Oh--Pieris! oh Muse, who the sweet tone controllest Of the golden-tongued lyre, able too, to endow The dumb fishes as well, if it happen to please thee, With the notes of the swan, 'tis from thee it comes now, That I by the finger of those who are passing The Lord of our own Roman lyre am shown, For all inspiration, for all that is pleasing, If it happen to please, thou hast made it my own.

_HORACE AND LYDIA. III-9_

"One time when I was pleasing to you, Lydia, And when no other youth, preferred to me, Your snowy neck could with his arms encircle, Then happier I than Persia's King may be."

"When of another you were less enamored, Nor ranked me after Chloe in your love, Then I, your Lydia, of wide reputation, Than Roman Ilia more renowned could prove."

"Now Thracian Chloe, skilled in mellow measures, And expert on the harp, holds me her slave, To die for her would never cause me terror, If her--my soul--the Fates alive would save."

"'Tis Calais, Ornytus' son, the Thurian, Who now consumes me with a mutual fire, Ah! death for him twice over would I suffer, Would but the Fates not let the boy expire."

"What if our former love to us returning, Us in a stronger yoke should join again! Should I unbar the door to cast-off Lydia, And give up fair-haired Chloe, ah, what then?"

"Though he be lovelier than a constellation, Though lighter than a cork, my dear, are you, Than stormy Adriatic more uncertain, With you I'd love to live, die gladly, too."

_TO CENSORINUS. IV-8_

With kindly thought I'd give, Oh Censorinus, Bowls and bronze vases pleasing to each friend; Tripods I'd offer, prizes of brave Grecians, And not the worst of gifts to you I'd send Were I, forsooth, rich in such artist's treasure As Scopas and Parrhasius could convey, This one in stone, and that in liquid color, Skilled here a man,--a god there to portray. But mine no power like this, nor does your spirit Or your affairs need luxuries so choice. Songs we can give, and on the gift set value, Songs we can give, and you in songs rejoice. Not marble carved with popular inscriptions Whereby the spirit and the life return After their death unto our upright leaders, Nor Hannibal's swift flight, nor threatenings stern Thrown back on him, nor flames from impious Carthage, Ever more clearly pointed out the praise Of him who, after Africa was conquered, Acquired a name, than did the Calabrian lays. And you would lose, if writings should be silent, The price of all that you so well have done. And Romulus,--his fame had envy silenced-- Where had he been--great Mars and Ilia's son? AEacus, rescued from the Stygian waters, The genius, the favor, and the tongue Of mighty bards sent to the blessed islands, He cannot die, whose praise the Muse has sung. The Muse can deify. So tireless Hercules In Jove's desired banquets has a share. And the Tyndaridae's clear constellation Of ships wrecked in the lowest depths takes care, Liber, his brows adorned with living vine-leaf, Brings to good issue every honest prayer.

_TO THALIARCHUS. I-9_

You see how our Soracte now is standing Hoary with heavy snow, and now its weight To bear the struggling woods are hardly able, And with the bitter cold the streams stagnate. The cold melt thou away, oh, Thaliarchus, By heaping logs upon thy fire, again Replenishing, and from a Sabine flagon Wine of a four years' vintage draw thou then. Leave to the gods the rest; for at the moment They felled the winds upon the boiling sea That battled fiercely, then there was not stirring Or mountain-ash, or ancient cypress tree. Cease thou to ask what is to be to-morrow, The day that Fortune gives, score thou as gain. As when a boy, thou shalt not scorn love's sweetness, Nor smoothly moving dancers shalt disdain While crabbed age from thy fresh youth is distant. Now in the Field and in the Public Square All the soft whisperings that come at night-fall Shall at the trysting be repeated there. Now, too, the tempting laugh from a far corner That must the maiden lurking there betray! Also the pledge that she in feigned resistance, Lets from her arm or hand be taken away!

_TO CHLOE. I-23_

Ah Chloe, like a fawn you now elude me, Seeking its timid dam on lonely hills, Its dam who not without an idle tremor At breezes in the forest thrills. For if before the breeze the bushes quiver With rustling leaves, or if green lizards start Across the bramble, then it is it trembles,-- This little fawn--in knees and heart. But Chloe, I am not a cruel tiger, Nor a Gaetulian lion, thee to chase; And now that thou art old enough to marry, Beside thy mother take thy place.

_TO FUSCUS. I-22_

Oh, Fuscus, he whose life is pure and upright, Wants not the Moorish javelin nor the bow, Nor may he need the quiver, heavy laden With arrows poisoned for the lurking foe. Whether he is about to make a journey To sultry Libya, or the unfriendly height Of Caucasus, or to the distant places That famed Hydaspes washes in his flight. For lately me a wolf fled in the forest-- The Sabine forest, as my Lalage I sang about,--beyond my boundaries wandering, Care-free, unarmed--the creature fled from me. Apulia, land of soldiers, never nourished In her broad woods a monster of such girth, Nor Mauritania, arid nurse of lions, To such a one has ever given birth. Ah, put me on those plains, remote and barren, Where not a tree can feel the summer wind, And grow again--a land of mist eternal-- Whereover Jupiter still broods, unkind; Or place me in that land denied man's dwelling, Too near the chariot of the sun above,-- Still my own Lalage so sweetly smiling, My sweetly-speaking Lalage I'll love.

_TO VENUS. III-26_

Lately was I to gentle maidens suited, And not without some glory did contend, But now my weapons and my lute made useless For contests, on this wall I will suspend, That guards the left side of our sea-born Venus; Here, here, place you my gleaming waxen torch, My levers and my crow-bars that can threaten The doors that ought to open on this porch. Oh, Goddess, thou who blessed Cyprus rulest, And Memphis ever lacking Thracian snow, My Queen, in passing, with thy whip uplifted Give to my haughty Chloe just one blow.

_A PALINODE. I-16_