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.

A COUNTERBLAST AGAINST GARLIC

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 spend
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 plough

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.

367

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.

A ROMAN WINTER-PIECE

369

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

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!