TO HIS LUTE

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

371

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:

TO LIGURINUS

"Why in my youth could I not learn
The wisdom men enjoy?
Or why to men cannot return

The smooth cheeks of the boy?"

373

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

Он, 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.

375

TO POSTUMUS

"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.