AN ODE TO FORTUNE

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,

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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,

TO POMPEIUS VARUS

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.

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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

MECENAS, 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.

TO VENUS

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.

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