^A 
 
 — - — tin 
 
 Southern Branch 
 of the 
 
 University of California 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
 Form h-l
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below 
 
 MAR 2 6 iittbQ 
 
 
 APR 
 
 *3 I92v 
 
 -A 
 
 Mar 2 
 
 D 
 
 1935 
 
 JUN 1? 1945 
 
 Form L-9-5)»-7,'22
 
 ON THE TIBUR ROAD
 
 ON THE TIBUR ROAD 
 
 A Freshman's Horace 
 
 BT 
 
 GEORGE MEASON WHICHER 
 
 AND 
 
 GEORGE FRISBIE WHICHER 
 Wtth a Letter in Verse by Ellts Parker Butt.er 
 
 ' , ... < V 
 
 - 
 
 . 1 ■• 
 
 
 PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS 
 
 PRINCETON 
 
 1912 
 
 A-\5^4
 
 Copyright 1911, 1912, by G. M. Whicher 
 Bevised 1912, with additions
 
 lO 
 
 ^1- 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 A few of the following verses are reprinted from Life, 
 Scribner's Magazine, the Independent, the Amherst Literary 
 Monthly, and obscurer pages. An asterisk will tell inquiring 
 friends which writer must bear the initial responsibility for 
 each piece. That not all of them were written in the first 
 
 j college year, will be easily inferred; but the critically in- 
 
 clined who conclude that all might have been, will not quarrel 
 with our subtitle. It is a Freshman idea, no doubt, to print 
 the lightest echoes heard along the Tibur Road, especially 
 
 fr when so many competent reporters have long ago found ac- 
 
 ceptance. But why attempt excuse or palliation? 
 
 The twittering sparrows build their nest 
 Unawed in many an ancient fane. 
 j We strew our rubbish with the rest; 
 
 Yet undefiled thy courts remain, 
 Thanks to the serried } T ears, the biting rain. 
 O Master of the Lyric Strain, 
 What Worst could dim thy shining Best ! 
 
 G. M. W. 
 G. F. W. 
 Alderhithe, 
 
 Middle H add am, Connecticut. 
 September, 1911.
 
 TO G. M. W. AND G. F. W. 
 
 A mule his meagre scrip can bear 
 THE T1BUR ROAD. 
 
 I 
 
 Whenas — (I love that "whcnas" word- 
 It shows I am a poet, too,) 
 
 Q. Horace Flaccus gaily stirred 
 The welkin with his tra-la-loo, 
 
 He little thought one donkey's back 
 Would carry thus a double load — 
 
 Father and son upon one jack, 
 
 Galumphing down the Tibur Road. 
 
 II 
 
 Old is the tale — Aesop's, I think — 
 
 Of that famed miller and his son 
 Whose fortunes were so "on the blink" 
 
 They had one donk, and only one ; 
 You know the tale — the critic's squawk 
 
 (As pater that poor ass bestrode) — 
 "Selfish ! To make thy fine son walk !" 
 
 Perhaps that was on Tibur Road? 
 
 VI
 
 TO G. M. W. AND O. F. W. 
 
 Ill 
 
 You will recall how dad got down 
 
 And made the son the ass bestride: — 
 The critics shouted with a frown : 
 
 "Shame, boy ! pray let thy father ride !" 
 Up got the dad beside the son; 
 
 The donkey staggered with the load 
 "Poor donk ! For shame !" cried every one 
 
 That walked the (was it?) Tibur Road. 
 
 IV 
 
 You know the end ! Upon their" backs 
 
 Daddy and son with much ado 
 Boosted that most surprised of jacks, — 
 
 He kicked, and off the bridge he flew ; 
 "He ! haw !" A splash ! A gurgling sound — 
 
 A long, last watery abode — 
 In Anio's stream the donk was drowned— 
 
 (If this occurred on Tibur Road.) 
 
 V 
 
 Let Donkey represent the Odes; 
 
 The Miller represent G. M.; 
 The Son stand for G. F.; the loads 
 
 Of Critics — / will do for them. 
 Now, then, this proposition made, 
 
 (And my bum verses "Ah'd" and "Oh'd !") 
 What Q. E. D. can be displayed 
 
 Anent this "On the Tibur Road"? 
 
 Vll
 
 TO G. M. W. AND a. F. w. 
 
 VI 
 
 First, Horry's dead and he don't care, 
 
 So cancel him, and let him snore; 
 His Donkey has been raised in air 
 
 So oft he's tough and calloused o'er; 
 Our Miller — -dusty-headed man — 
 
 Follows the best donk-boosting code: 
 Our Son — dispute it no one can — 
 
 Sings gaily down the Tibur Road. 
 
 VII 
 
 This, then, must be this Critic's scream : — 
 
 The donk was boosted well and high, 
 And, ergo ! falling in the stream, 
 
 Isn't and ain't and cant be dry; 
 Nor is your book. Which is to say 
 
 It is no gloomy episode — 
 You've made a dead donk sweetly bray, 
 
 And joyful is the Tibur Road. 
 
 Ellis Parker Butler 
 
 via
 
 To E. P. B. 
 
 Dear Ellis : We are quite resigned, 
 
 Though no admiring public heeds us ; 
 One consolation still we find 
 To soothe the heart and calm the mind : 
 Just see how closely Ellis reads us ! 
 
 Bandusian Fountain ! Potent yet 
 
 The waters from thy pool are gushing. 
 For our parched lips we will not fret, 
 If through our book one little jet 
 May irrigate the farm in Flushing. 
 
 What though the printer's-binder's bills 
 
 Do threaten us with ruination? 
 Our smarting eyes one vision fills, 
 One glorious hope our bosom thrills: 
 This may be Ellis's salvation ! ! 
 
 O Dollars wasted on express ! 
 
 Cold Cash spent for advertising! 
 Your going does not cause distress ; 
 We part from you with bliss— no less — 
 
 As long as His ideals are rising. 
 
 IX
 
 TO E. P. B. 
 
 O joy, to think that from our page 
 He quaffs the undiluted Massic ! 
 That PIGS IS PIGS, while still the rage, 
 Improves through each revolving age, 
 And mounts by contact with the classic. 
 
 SUES SUNT SUES it will stand 
 
 In its two-million-tenth edition. 
 What though we perish from the land, 
 Unboomed, uninterviewed, unscanned, 
 
 We have achieved our last ambition. 
 
 What though we sink in Lethe-ooze 
 And taste that wave of bitter savor? 
 
 What higher fate could author choose 
 
 Than to inspire the Butler Muse, 
 And give her lines Horatian flavor. 
 
 Then heedless dust be our abode, 
 
 Our names mis-spelled, ourselves mistaken ! 
 Let others reap where we have sowed, 
 If we but boom on Tibur Road 
 
 The Butler brand of Sabine bacon !
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Ellis Parker Butler to G. M. W. and G. F. W vi 
 
 To E. P. B •• >x 
 
 To Our Best Third .. i 
 
 Foreword 2 
 
 The Tibur Road 3 
 
 Sabine Hills 5 
 
 The Haunts of Horace 6 
 
 Of Wealth 7 
 
 Prospectus to 
 
 Remembrance • • n 
 
 To E. M 12 
 
 To A Headmistress 15 
 
 To Leuconoe ■ • 16 
 
 To Lalage 17 
 
 To Pyrrha 19 
 
 To Barine 20 
 
 To Lydia • • 22 
 
 To Chloe 24 
 
 To Lydia 26 
 
 To Lydia 27 
 
 Of Myrtale 29 
 
 To Lyce 31 
 
 Ballade of Horace's Loves 33 
 
 Relicta Parmula • • 37 
 
 On Friendship 38 
 
 An Invitation 40 
 
 The Aims of Human Kind • • . . . 41 
 
 To Postumus 43 
 
 A Winter Party 45 
 
 A Proper Feast • • 47 
 
 Melpomene 49 
 
 xi
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 "O Virgin Warder of the Mountain Pines" 51 
 
 Hymn for the Neptunalia 5 2 
 
 Hymn for Faunus' Day • • 54 
 
 Hymn to Diana and Apollo 55 
 
 Fontinalia • • 56 
 
 The Poet's Prayer • ■ . . 57 
 
 Horace's Diet 59 
 
 On a Disaster in Plaster 60 
 
 The Campaigner 61 
 
 The Death of Cleopatra 63 
 
 On Translating the Foregoing 64 
 
 Simplicity 65 
 
 My Sabine Farm . . . • • 66 
 
 In Deep Water 67 
 
 To Chloe 68 
 
 De Consolatione 70 
 
 To Franklin P. Adams 75 
 
 Donarem Pateras ■ 76 
 
 Vitas Hinnuleo 79 
 
 Vixi Puellis 80 
 
 Caelo Supinas 82 
 
 Scriberis Vario 84 
 
 Non Usitata 86 
 
 O Navis 88 
 
 Eheu Fugaces go 
 
 Vitas Hinnuleo 92 
 
 In Memoriam 94 
 
 Epistle to Septimius • • 96 
 
 To Dellius 98 
 
 Epilogue 100 
 
 Index of Odes 101 
 
 xn
 
 TO OUR BEST THIRD 
 L. F. W. 
 
 Had He seen you, a higher grace 
 His curious art had striven to trace; 
 More •winning would the portrait stand 
 Than, Hypermncstra, faithless-grand, 
 Or Phidylc, whom no years erase. 
 
 What tenderer lines would there find place, 
 Had not the gods a Wife's embrace, 
 A Mother's yearning, from him banned, — 
 Had he seen you! 
 
 Had he but known your mild command, 
 Your self-less love, he had not planned 
 His Myrtale harsh, Barinc base, 
 Nor mocked at Lyce's once-loved face; 
 What we two know, he'd understand, 
 Had he seen you!
 
 * 
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 When Horace wished to write an ode 
 And happy thoughts were far to seek, 
 
 He'd take a turn on Tibur Road 
 And lift a stanza from the Greek. 
 
 The songs he sang with kindly cheer 
 
 Have loosed our tongues, that else were mute, 
 
 To give our friends and friends' friends here 
 A touch of our Horatian lute. 
 
 Eheu ! the fleeting seasons pass, 
 
 His lyre shall sound when ours shall cease, 
 So now to his enduring brass 
 
 We fix our spot of verdigris. 
 
 2
 
 THE TIBUR ROAD 
 
 Not in the fashion of the great, 
 
 A-horse with hampering retinue, 
 The Poet reached his small estate; 
 
 Such pomps afflict the well-to-do ! 
 
 Alone he rides the valley through, 
 A mule his meagre scrip can bear, 
 And no invidious eyes compare 
 
 Its withers galled or swaying load 
 With any lordly trains that fare 
 
 Along the sunlit Tibur Road. 
 
 Ay, pleasant was the way and straight 
 
 Where, under skies of softest hue, 
 The Anio plunged precipitate, 
 
 And tall the shadowy plane-trees grew. 
 
 Perchance some Chloe fled the view ; 
 Or Pyrrha, seeming unaware, 
 Twined roses in her fragrant hair, 
 
 While green the rushing current flowed ; 
 Or Lyce ogled from her chair 
 
 Along the sunlit Tibur Road. 
 
 O merry Poet, mild was fate, 
 
 On thee no wind untempered blew,
 
 THE TIBUR ROAD 
 
 In comradeship most fortunate! 
 
 Sweet breath of Sabine vineyards drew 
 
 Thee and thy friends, the favored few, 
 From bustling street and brimming square, 
 And lured to taste thy country air 
 
 Maecenas from his proud abode, 
 Vergil and Varius — spirits rare ! 
 
 Along the sunlit Tibur Road. 
 
 Envoi 
 Horace, thy tranquil soul doth share 
 With us, immersed in coils and care, 
 
 The unfading charm of many an ode 
 That bids us flee from grim despair 
 
 Along the sunlit Tibur Road. 
 
 4
 
 SABINE HILLS 
 
 On Sabine hills when melt the imows, 
 Still level-full His river flows ; 
 Each April now His valley fills 
 With cyclamen and daffodils ; 
 And summers wither with the rose. 
 
 Swift-waning moons the cycle close : 
 Birth, — toil, — mirth, — death; life onward goes 
 Through harvest heat or winter chills 
 On Sabine hills. 
 
 Yet One breaks not His long repose, 
 Nor hither comes when Zephyr blows; 
 In vain the spring's first swallow trills ; 
 Never again that Presence thrills ; 
 One charm no circling season knows 
 On Sabine hills.
 
 THE HAUNTS OF HORACE 
 
 An ever present source of fresh delight 
 Lies in the wonderland thy lays unfold ; 
 I read the tales that Sabine farmers told 
 
 On winter evenings 'round the embers bright, 
 
 The roistering and revelry of night 
 
 When spiced Falernian foamed from flagons old, 
 The songs that lovers to their ladies trolled 
 
 In some close nook secluded from the sight. 
 
 A sure relief it is, when ill at ease, 
 
 To walk with thee in this fair realm of thine, 
 
 To watch the choral dance beneath the trees, 
 And chant the praises of the sacred Nine ; 
 
 Baffled to gaze as Chloe coyly flees, 
 
 Or drink with Lyde draughts of sparkling wine. 
 
 6
 
 OF WEALTH 
 To Q. H. F. 
 
 To thee among the singing spheres 
 
 Is given a part; 
 Untarnished by the envious years, 
 Unmated still thy song appears ; 
 Too kind for scorn, too wise for- tears, 
 
 Thy matchless art. 
 
 Then, Horace, what the scorn I win, — 
 
 How all will jest! 
 If, fleeing from the city's din 
 (As long ago thou didst begin) 
 I boast thy lot to mine is kin, 
 
 But mine more blest ! 
 
 Thou too didst shun the smoke, the stress, 
 
 The brawling street, 
 And in thy Sabine wilderness, 
 On fare of chicory and cress, 
 The Simple Life thou didst possess, — 
 
 A calm retreat. 
 
 There by Digentia's quiet shore 
 Thy mind was bent
 
 OF WEALTH 
 
 With friends to share thy frugal store, 
 To tell thy vines and cornels o'er, 
 Above some deathless scroll to pore 
 In rich content. 
 
 Mine too the gifts that match with these ; 
 
 The gods have given 
 A bit of land, a clump of trees, 
 A living spring: what more could please? 
 Nor I for wider acres tease 
 
 Unwilling Heaven. 
 
 Strait is my valley ; its green hills 
 
 Take, too, the beams 
 Of dawn; or sunset glory spills 
 Along their crest when whippoorwills 
 Wake dim regret, and evening fills 
 The world with dreams. 
 
 Beside my river I can view 
 
 My garden-plot; 
 Here blooms the quince ; there apples strew 
 Their gifts ; and softly falls the dew 
 On iris, spearmint, and the blue 
 
 Forget-me-not. 
 
 Ah ! happy hours, when soft reclined 
 On cooling grass, 
 
 8
 
 OF WEALTH 
 
 Within one living page I find 
 What mirth, wit, wisdom all combined! 
 A feeling heart, a mellow mind ! 
 Thy Magic Glass! 
 
 Yet more : beneath my roof, — where shade 
 
 Alternate falls 
 Of elm and maple zephyr-swayed, — 
 The choicest gift the gods have made 
 Abides, my wealth : it never stayed 
 
 Within thy walls ! . 
 
 Yes, Flaccus, greater wealth is mine 
 
 Than thou hast tried. 
 Save that sole gift of song divine, 
 All that the Gracious Ones made thine, 
 To me — with Love — they now assign, 
 And thee beside ! 
 
 O Poet, keep thy golden name, 
 
 Thy deathless voice. 
 One gift is Love and one is Fame. 
 The gods, who reck nor praise nor blame, 
 Divide: what bounty wouldst thou claim? 
 
 I bless their choice.
 
 PROSPECTUS 
 
 Two dreamers we, and dread not Time's mischances ; 
 Let Fortune smile or frown or go or stay, 
 Our wealth abides ; and foul or fair her glances, — 
 Hey-nonny-nonny ! — pipe the jade away! 
 
 To tend the Sacred Fire that needs no fuel, — 
 To dwell on Helicon and pay no rent, — 
 To meditate the Muse and dine on gruel, — 
 How rich are we who therewith are content ! 
 
 Let yon pale cit, whose sole and only classic 
 Is his fat ledger, cringe and toil and pray. 
 For us the Spring, the Arbute-tree, the Massic, 
 And loaf with Horace all the solid day ! 
 
 We covet not your well-filled, tight-laced purses, 
 Those gilded garners for the moth and rust; 
 Leave us but stylus, tablets, Flaccus' verses, 
 We reign in rags and banquet on a crust. 
 
 10
 
 REMEMBRANCE 
 
 Omar is dead, who loved so well his wine ; 
 Above his mouldering grave the roses twine. 
 And Horace now — for all his Golden Mean — 
 Is nameless dust upon the Esquiline. 
 
 It matters not, or sad or glad the strain ; 
 Each poet sings his hour, nor comes again. 
 Whate'er he was or had or hoped is gone ; 
 His songs alone immortal may remain. 
 
 Ah ! what will be, my friend, for you to guess 
 Of me, who pass to utter nothingness? 
 Who have no voice to echo in your heart 
 When death shall make my present little less? 
 
 Then whensoe'er you turn the pages through 
 Where smiling Horace bares his heart to view — 
 When Omar's muted strings wake sweet regret — 
 Turn down the leaf and think : He loved them too. 
 
 11
 
 TO E. M. 
 FROM MAINE 
 
 O sweet to hear when Horace sings 
 
 Of olive or late lingering rose, 
 The lonely ilex tree that springs 
 
 Where the clear murmuring fountain flows, — 
 To hear in fancy through his Sabine vales 
 
 The immortal music of the nightingales. 
 
 But dearer to your hearts and mine 
 The winds that whisper of the snow, 
 
 The granite slopes of fir and pine 
 Where arbutus and bloodroot grow ; 
 
 Ear clearer, o'er the keen New England hills, 
 Speak to our dreams the yearning whippoor 
 wills. 
 
 12
 
 A BOOK OF HORACE'S SWEETHEARTS
 
 TO A HEADMISTRESS 
 
 A learned friend has bought my rhymes 
 And paid hard silver for them ; 
 But O to think how many times 
 Her learned pen will score them ! 
 
 miserere, Mistress Schodts ! 
 (That's Latin for Have Pity.) ' 
 
 1 know I've blundered lots and lots, 
 But listen to my ditty : 
 
 No common bard like me could vie 
 With your refined acumen. 
 Just pass my imperfections by 
 And smile and say "How human !" 
 
 15
 
 TO LEUCONOE 
 
 THAT SHE SHOULD NOT ASK HER FATE 
 
 Tu ne quaesieris. — I.n 
 
 Seek not to learn, for thou canst never know, 
 How many years of life to thee or me 
 The gods above will grant, Leuconoe, 
 Nor trust what Chaldee calculations show. 
 
 Far better to endure what fates bestow, 
 
 Should they more winters give, or should this be 
 The last, that dashes now the Tuscan sea 
 Tempestuous on the cliffs with angry blow. 
 
 Be wise : draw off the wine ; without delay 
 
 Proportion thy high hopes to life's brief span. 
 E'en while we're speaking, envious Time has gone 
 
 Beyond recall. Thine is the present day, 
 
 Grasp it, enjoy it now, nor trust the plan 
 
 Of leaving aught until the morrow's dawn. 
 
 * 
 
 16
 
 OF LALAGE 
 
 THAT SHE KEEPS HIS HEART PURE 
 
 Integer vitae. — 1.22 
 
 He needs no Moorish dart 
 Who wanders pure in heart, 
 
 Whose life is unimpaired, unstained by crime ; 
 He bears no bow, no quiver's Toad 
 Of poisoned arrows on his road, 
 
 O Fuscus, though he seek the wildest clime: 
 
 Whether on Afric seas 
 
 He take the sweltering breeze ; 
 
 Or frore, unfriendly peaks Caucasian scale; 
 Or journey by the distant waves 
 Where unexplored Hydaspes laves 
 
 His shores, renowned in many an ancient tale. 
 
 For wandering care-free, 
 
 Singing my Lalage, 
 In Sabine woods beyond my bounds I strayed ; 
 
 Such virtue dwelleth in that song 
 
 To banish aught impure or wrong, 
 A grisly Avolf that met me, fled afraid. 
 
 17
 
 OF LALAGE 
 
 Such fearsome monster ne'er 
 The spreading oak-groves bare, 
 
 Where Daunus ruled his warlike folk of old ; 
 Nor yet, where Juba held command, 
 Sprang ever such from Afric sand, 
 
 Parched nourisher of lions fierce and bold. 
 
 O place me in the zone 
 
 Where Winter rules alone, 
 And sluggish breezes wake to life no flower; 
 
 Where evil mists forever bide, 
 
 And o'er the earth's deserted side 
 The Jove of tempest wills that storm-wrack lower ; 
 
 Or set me where the sun 
 
 His car too near doth run 
 To scorched lands, where homes may never be : 
 
 Whate'er the sky may be above, 
 
 With heart unstained I still shall love 
 Sweet-smiling and sweet-prattling Lalage. 
 
 18
 
 TO PYRRHA 
 
 THAT SHE IS BUT A COQUETTE 
 
 Quis mult a gracilis. — 1.5 
 
 What slim youth now, bedewed with soft perfume, 
 
 On banks of roses thee caresses, 
 Pyrrha, hid in some cool cavern's gloom? 
 
 For whom dost bind thy golden tresses 
 
 In graceful neatness? Ah, how oft will he 
 
 His misplaced confidence bewail, 
 Who, inexperienced, wonders at the sea 
 
 Aroused and darkened by the gale ! 
 
 Yet thou as gold delectable dost seem 
 
 To his too easily bedazzled eyes, 
 Who thinks thee ever true, without a dream 
 
 That storms may take him by surprise. 
 
 Unfortunates, to whom thou like a sea 
 
 Untried, dost yet alluring shine ! 
 A tablet hung on Neptune's wall by me 
 
 Shows what a shipwreck late was mine. 
 
 19
 
 TO BARINE 
 
 THAT SHE IS A MONSTROUS LIAR 
 
 Ulla si iuris. — II.8 
 
 Barine, had there aught of harm 
 Befallen thee from broken vow, — 
 Hadst thou but lost a single charm, 
 Less fair become in eye or brow, — 
 I might believe thee now. 
 
 But thou, as soon as thou dost stake 
 Thy head with some perfidious prayer, 
 More lovely yet thy form dost make, 
 To all the youth a toast more rare, 
 Thy fatal face more fair! 
 
 Yea, by thy buried mother's shade 
 It only profits thee to lie; 
 And thou hast flouted, unafraid, 
 The speechless stars in all the sky, 
 And gods that never die. 
 
 And Venus' self at this has laughed; 
 The simple Nymphs will laugh, I say ; 
 And Cupid, too, whose fiery shaft 
 
 20
 
 TO B A BINE 
 
 On his blood-dripping stone alway 
 He whets day after day. 
 
 Add one count more : there ever grow 
 Still other youths, all slaves for thee ! 
 While yet no earlier victims go, — 
 None from their impious mistress flee, 
 Whate'er their threat'nings be ! 
 
 All mothers dread thee for their boys ; 
 And old men fear thee, misers grown ; 
 And piteous brides, on whose new joys 
 But once thy deadly breath has blown, 
 To make them all thine own. 
 
 21
 
 TO LYDIA 
 
 THAT SHE IS RECONCILED 
 
 Donee gratus eram. — III. 9 
 
 HORACE 
 
 While dear to thee I still remained, 
 Nor any other youth more favored pressed 
 His arms around thy gleaming neck, more blest 
 Than any Persian king I reigned. 
 
 LYDIA 
 
 When thou didst feel no other flame, 
 Nor Chloe was o'er Lydia preferred, 
 Not more of Roman Ilia was heard, 
 And Lydia was the one bright name. 
 
 HORACE 
 
 'Tis Thracian Chloe rules me now; 
 Sweet music she hath learned and knows the lyre. 
 So she might live, I'd gladly mount the pyre, 
 Would fate but spare her to my vow. 
 
 LYDIA 
 
 A mutual love inflames me now 
 And Thurian Calais, born of noble sire; 
 Twice o'er for him I'd gladly mount the pyre, 
 Would fate but spare him to my vow. 
 
 22
 
 TO LYDIA 
 HORACE 
 
 What if our old-time love returned 
 
 And joined our sundered hearts with yoke of brass? 
 
 If o'er the threshold Lydia might pass 
 
 And fair-haired Chloe thence be spurned? 
 
 LYDIA 
 
 The fairest star in all the sky 
 Is he; while thou art fickle; Hadria's rage 
 Less fell. And yet how fain would I engage 
 To live with thee, with thee to die ! 
 
 23
 
 TO CHLOE 
 
 THAT SHE HATH JILTED HIM 
 I 
 
 Vitas hinnuleo. — 1.23 
 
 Chloe, you flee when I am nigh 
 
 Like any fearful fawn that high 
 
 On many a mountain path has strayed 
 To seek its timid dam, afraid 
 
 Of every copse it passes by. 
 
 When breezes in the bushes sigh, 
 Or lizards brush the brambles dry, 
 How it startles ! — so, dismayed, 
 Chloe, you flee. 
 
 A tiger well might terrify ; 
 
 No leonine intent have I. 
 
 No longer ask your mother's aid, 
 A husband soon must be obeyed; 
 
 The time is ripe. O tell me why, 
 Chloe, you flee! 
 
 24
 
 TO CHLOE 
 
 II 
 
 Vixi puellis. — III. 26 
 
 That late I loved I do repent; 
 To maids no more bellipotent, 
 
 I now from arms and lyre abstain ; 
 
 The leftward wall of Venus' fane 
 Shall hold the amorous armament. 
 
 Here lie the bars, the flambeaux spent, 
 The pliant bows that once I bent . 
 Against the gates of her disdain 
 That late I loved. 
 
 Imperial queen, that dost frequent 
 
 Cyprus, and Memphis innocent 
 
 Of Scythian snows, a boon I'd gain : 
 Raise once thy lash with might and main 
 
 And smite that Chloe (impudent!) 
 That late I loved. 
 
 25
 
 TO LYDIA 
 
 ON SPOILING SYBARIS 
 
 Lydia, die. — 1.8 
 
 Say, Lydia, I entreat by all the gods above, 
 
 Why haste you to destroy fond Sybaris with love? 
 
 Why shuns he now the plain, the dust and heat once borne? 
 
 With all his peers a-horse, what cause can make him scorn 
 
 To stride the Gallic steed, straining the fanged bit? 
 
 Fears he the tawny Tiber who erst rejoiced in it? 
 
 Why dreads he olive oil as though 't were viper's gore, 
 
 Nor practice arms, who shone pre-eminent before 
 
 In hurling o'er the mark discus and javelin? 
 
 Like sea-born Thetis' son, who, ere the entering in 
 
 Of Troy-town, sought to 'scape the Lycians' grim array 
 
 In maiden's weeds : why hides thy lover, Lydia, say ! 
 
 26
 
 TO LYUIA 
 
 THAT SHE PRAISE NOT HIS RIVAL 
 
 Cum tu, Lydia. — 1.13 
 
 When you to Telephus devote, 
 
 Lydia, your choicest phrases, 
 And either Telephus' white throat 
 
 Or wax-like arms excite your praises, 
 Bah ! my disgusted anger surges 
 Like waves which stormy Notus urges. 
 
 Then I am blinded by my wrath, 
 
 And quite unstable my complexion ; 
 
 While on my cheek a tear-stained path 
 
 Shows how I mourn your changed affection. 
 
 For when to me you're ever lost 
 
 I burn, a lingering holocaust. 
 
 I burn to think how, mad with wine, 
 
 That boy in drunken rage may mar 
 
 With blows those gleaming arms of thine, 
 Or leave upon thy lips a scar. 
 
 Ah ! who could that fair mouth abuse 
 
 Which Venus with all sweets endues ! 
 
 27
 
 TO LYDIA 
 
 O thrice and four times blessed they 
 Whose life no evil quarrel knows, 
 
 But calm and peaceful day by day 
 Glides as a quiet river flows ; 
 
 Whom an unbroken bond holds ever 
 
 Until the last sad day shall sever. 
 
 28
 
 OF MYRTALE 
 
 THAT SHE WAS EXCEEDING FIERCE 
 
 Albl, nc doleas. — 1.33 
 
 Grieve not, my Albliis, all too sore; 
 
 Hard-hearted Glycera forget. 
 To sing thy piteous lays give o'er ; 
 
 Thy rival only shines the more, 
 And she for broken faith feels no regret. 
 
 Far-famous for her slender brow, 
 L^coris' heart for Cyrus burns 
 
 With parching passion ; Cyrus now 
 To Pholoe inclines his vow; 
 As sharply she his base advances spurns 
 
 As flees the flock when wolves pursue. 
 Thus Venus wills; her cruel joke 
 Doth soul to soul unlike subdue, 
 And lovers unrequited sue, 
 Unequal joined beneath her brazen yoke. 
 
 29
 
 OF MYRTALE 
 
 I, too, of a nobler love might tell; 
 
 She wooed me, still in tender bands 
 By Myrtale held; whom I loved well, 
 
 Though servile-born, and far more fell 
 Than billows on the curved Calabrian sands. 
 
 30
 
 TO LYCE 
 
 THAT SHE IS GROWN OLD 
 
 Audivere, Lyce.—IY.l3 
 
 The gods have heard, O Lyce! heard my prayer — 
 The gods have heard — and thou art old ! 
 And yet thou still wouldst fain be counted fair; 
 With wine and laughter bold 
 
 Thy tipsy quavering voice full often seeks 
 By song to waken soft Desire. 
 But Love lurks now in Chia's tender cheeks, 
 Young mistress of the lyre ! . 
 
 Ever unsated, still Love flits away 
 From aged, withered oaks like thee ; 
 No wrinkled face like thine can bid him stay 
 Thy faded charms to see. 
 
 Thy Coan purple never can restore — 
 Nor gems of price — those days again 
 Which once fast-flying Time hath reckoned o'er 
 In records all too plain. 
 
 Where now hath fled thy charm? thy beauty where? 
 Thy comely grace? What now is left 
 
 31
 
 TO LYCE 
 
 Of her — of her — who, love in every air, 
 Me of myself bereft? 
 
 For — after Cinara — fate to thee was kind : 
 Wide-famed, with Welcome in thy face. 
 But few the years the gods to her assigned ; 
 Yet kept thee in thy place. 
 
 To be the aged raven's withered peer, 
 That ardent youths may now behold 
 Thy bumt-out torch, and flout with many a jeer 
 The ashes stale and cold. 
 
 32
 
 BALLADE OF HORACE'S LO^ES 
 
 Lydia, fickle and fair, 
 
 Lyce, the faded of hue, 
 Lalage, Pholoe . . . there ! 
 
 Hark how the L's ripple through. 
 
 These were the beauties that drew, 
 These lilting and lyrical dames ! 
 
 Leuconoe, Glycera . . . Pooh! 
 Why, Horace, they're nothing but names ! 
 
 Pyrrha, the golden of hair, 
 
 Lyde the lyrist, the shrew 
 Myrtale . . . well, I declare ! 
 
 What in the world shall we do, 
 
 If critics abolish the crew, 
 Their gallants and gaddings and games? 
 
 Barine, Lycoris, adieu ! 
 Alas ! ye are nothing but names. 
 
 All were but syllabled air, 
 
 Fancies that flickered and flew: 
 
 Innocent Phidyle's prayer, 
 
 Chloe the fawn, and the few 
 Years that your Cinara knew, 
 
 33
 
 BALLADE OF HORACE'S LOVES 
 
 Cinara, sweetest of flames ! 
 
 Ah, Horace, I'm sorry for you ! 
 Alas ! they were nothing but names. 
 
 Envoi 
 
 Ladies ! ye shrink from this view ; 
 
 But soon all your loves and your fames, 
 Fun, frailties, frolics, — ye too, 
 
 Alas ! will be nothing but names ! 
 
 34
 
 A BOOK OF HORACE'S MUSINGS

 
 RELICTA PARMULA 
 
 He leaves his shield behind 
 
 Who bares his heart in verse ; 
 For better or for worse, 
 
 Who wills may read his mind. 
 
 Ah ! happy he who flies, 
 
 And when the tumult ends, 
 Finds in the hands of friends 
 
 His armor held a prize ! 
 
 37
 
 ON FRIENDSHIP 
 
 (Model for a convertible toast) 
 
 When Quintus Flaccus tunes his Lesbian Lyre 
 And cribs a brand-new meter from the Greeks, 
 What best can kindle his poetic fire? 
 What theme most moves us when the Poet speaks? 
 
 Sure not his frail, imaginary ladies ; 
 Lord, no ! they leave the modern bosom cold. 
 Not the grim Shades he (almost) saw in Hades; 
 Our consciences are clearer, or more bold. 
 
 So oft he preaches Golden Moderation, 
 He makes one long to dare life's last and worst. 
 He scolds the frantic rich: our indignation 
 Waxes but faint, — he can't compete with Hearst. 
 
 But there's one theme where he can charm completely, 
 One winning strain we wish might never end ; 
 His golden shell can never clash so sweetly, 
 As when he celebrates a loving friend. 
 
 Maecenas ! Vergil ! how the recollection 
 Brightens to hear the ardent numbers roll ! 
 From stiff Alcaics breathes what fond affection 
 To warm the wintry cockles of the soul ! 
 
 38
 
 ON FRIENDSHIP 
 
 Then taught by him, my Muse, be wise in season, 
 Nor trim thy tiny sail o'er mighty seas. 
 Content, let others spread the feast of reason ; 
 Thou only in the flow of soul canst please. 
 
 Let others praise our 
 
 Artist 
 
 Scholar 
 
 Lawyer 
 
 Statesman 
 
 Author 
 
 Teacher 
 
 Honor 
 
 Wisdom 
 For /Foresight 
 
 Learning 
 
 Art 
 
 Sing thou of Johnn} r Doe (God bless the creature!) 
 The Other Half of each good fellow's Heart. 
 
 39
 
 AN INVITATION 
 Vile potabis.— 1.20 
 
 Maecenas, when you grace my board 
 
 (And don't, dear Knight, decline to favor) 
 
 You'll drink poor cups of Sabine, stored 
 In Grecian jar to get the flavor. 
 
 That very day the wine I sealed 
 
 When so distinct your plaudits rang out 
 
 That echoes pealed from cliff and field; 
 So don't neglect my humble hang-out. 
 
 Though here you'll taste no Formian vine, 
 
 No product of Calenian vat, 
 We'll have with just the cheap Sabine 
 
 A very creditable bat. 
 
 40
 
 THE AIMS OF HUMAN KIND 
 
 Maecenas atavis. — 1.1 
 
 Maecenas, sprung from royal lineage bright, 
 Both my protector and my dear delight, 
 How varied are the aims of human kind ! 
 Some in the chariot race their pleasure find, 
 Tossing Olympia's dust as they skim - by 
 The goal with flashing wheel, and onward fly ; 
 Them the ennobling palm — to victors given- 
 Masters of men exalts to lords of heaven. 
 One, if the fickle crowd has dignified 
 With three-fold offices, is satisfied. 
 Another, if within his barns is stored 
 What grain the Libyan threshing-floors afford. 
 While he who loves to ply with his own hands 
 The mattock on his small, ancestral lands, 
 Would not, for all the wealth Attalic, be 
 A timid sailor on the Myrtoan sea. 
 The merchant, dreading much the Afric blasts 
 Contending with the Icarian waves, contrasts 
 The peace and safety of his rural home ; 
 But soon refits his bark, again to roam, 
 Impatient at a life of mean estate. 
 Others old Massic do not deprecate, 
 
 41
 
 THE AIMS OF HUMAN KIND 
 
 Stretched at their ease an hour or so each day 
 
 'Neath arbute green, where quiet fountains play. 
 
 Many in camps and conquest find delight, 
 
 And trumpet blasts, the cause of mothers' fright. 
 
 The hunter 'neath the chilly sky will bide 
 
 Unmindful of his home and tender bride, 
 
 Whether behind the deer his hounds give tongue, 
 
 Or Marsian boar through fine-meshed net has sprung. 
 
 But none of these for ivy wreaths I'll trade, 
 
 The crown of learned brows ; in pleasant glade 
 
 I love to view the Nymphs and Satyrs dance, 
 
 Far from the common crowd; and then perchance 
 
 Euterpe on her flute will sound a strain, 
 
 Or Polyhymnia tune the lyre again. 
 
 But if you deem me worth the lyric prize, 
 
 With head exalted I shall strike the skies. 
 
 * 
 
 42
 
 TO POSTUMUS 
 
 Eheu fugaces. — 11.14 
 
 Quickly the seasons glide by us, 
 Postumus, Postumus mine. 
 
 Time never stays for the pious ; 
 
 Quickly the seasons glide by us, 
 
 Wrinkles and age come to try us", 
 Death but awaits our decline. 
 
 Quickly the seasons glide by us, 
 Postumus, Postumus mine. 
 
 Every expedient faileth, 
 
 Pluto at length is supreme. 
 
 Sacrifice nothing availeth, 
 
 Every expedient faileth. 
 
 Geryon his bondage bewaileth 
 
 Held by the sad Stygian stream. 
 
 Every expedient faileth, 
 
 Pluto at length is supreme. 
 
 None can escape the dark water, 
 
 Peasant nor monarch of men. 
 Father, son, mother, and daughter, 
 None can escape the dark water, 
 
 43
 
 TO POSTUMUS 
 
 Vain to shun war with its slaughter, 
 
 Ocean, or pestilent fen. 
 None can escape the dark water, 
 
 Peasant nor monarch of men. 
 
 Villa and lands, we must leave them ; 
 
 Children and wife must resign, 
 Willing or no to bereave them. 
 Villa and lands, we must leave them, 
 Worthier heirs shall receive them, 
 
 Draining the long-treasured wine. 
 Villa and lands, we must leave them; 
 
 Children and wife must resign. 
 
 44
 
 A WINTER PARTY 
 
 Vides ut alta. — 1.9 
 
 O yonder see how clearly gleams 
 
 Soracte, white with snow ; 
 How the fir-trees stagger beneath their loail 
 
 Bowing to let it go ; 
 And the river, numbed by the piercing cold. 
 
 At length has ceased to flow. 
 
 Dissolve the rigor of the frost, 
 
 Bright let the embers shine, 
 With liberal hand heap on the logs, 
 
 And, Thaliarchus mine, 
 Bring forth the Sabine amphora 
 
 Of four-years-mellowed wine. 
 
 All else abandon to the gods ; 
 
 Whatever time they will 
 They drive the winds from the tossing sea 
 
 And cause them to be still, 
 Till never a lowland cypress stirs 
 
 Nor old ash on the hill. 
 
 45
 
 A WINTER PARTY 
 
 Pry not into the morrow's store ; 
 
 Thy profit doth advance 
 By every day that fate allots, 
 
 So, lad, improve thy chance, — 
 Ere stiff old age replace thy youth,- 
 
 To love and tread the dance. 
 
 Now in the Campus and the squares 
 
 At the appointed hour 
 Let gentle whispers oft be heard 
 
 From many a twilight bower, 
 Or the laugh of a lurking lass betray 
 
 The theft of a ring or flower. 
 
 46
 
 A PROPER FEAST 
 
 Natis in usum. — 1.27 
 
 Come, comrades, cease your Thracian fights 
 O'er cups designed for better uses, 
 
 For moderate Bacchus ne'er delights 
 In bloody quarrels o'er his juices. 
 
 How far removed from lamps and wine 
 Should be the Median dagger keen ! 
 
 Hush drunken clamor, friends of mine ; 
 In quiet on your elbows lean. 
 
 . . . You wish to have me taste my share 
 Of strong Falernian with the rest? . . . 
 
 Megilla's brother must declare 
 
 First, by what mortal wound he's blest. 
 
 Falters his will? . . . Then I'll not drink . . 
 
 Come, tell us by what love you're swayed, 
 What fire consumed; . . . tut, man, don't shrink 
 
 To own an honest escapade! 
 
 Trust it to safe ears ; 't is no sin 
 
 But to impart your sweetheart's name. — 
 
 Ah ! What Charybdis are you in, 
 
 Youth worthy of a nobler flame ! 
 
 47
 
 A PROPER FEAST 
 
 What witch, what wizard's potent brew, 
 
 What god can save you this time, sirrah? 
 
 Scarce Pegasus could rescue you, 
 
 Entrapped by such three-fold Chimera. 
 
 18
 
 MELPOMENE 
 
 Quern tu, Melpomene. — IV. 3 
 
 The man thou hast inspired, Melpomene, 
 
 And viewed at hour of birth with serene eyes, 
 Exalted by thy sovereign power shall be. 
 
 No Isthmian games shall hail his victory, 
 
 No fleeting chariot bear him to the prize, — 
 The man thou hast inspired, Melpomene. 
 
 No conqueror of haughty monarchs he; 
 
 Not he, with brows enwreathed in victors' guise, 
 Exalted by thy sovereign power shall be. 
 
 Where woods are dense and rills fall plenteously, 
 
 The soul of song within him glorifies 
 The man thou hast inspired, Melpomene. 
 
 I naught can envy ; Rome has honored me. 
 
 My lays, by her deemed worthy of the skies, 
 Exalted by thy sovereign power shall be. 
 
 49
 
 MELPOMENE 
 
 I sing to please thee, Muse, and only thee 
 In whom the master-gift of music lies. 
 
 Exalted by thy sovereign power shall be 
 The man thou hast inspired, Melpomene. 
 
 50
 
 "O VIRGIN WARDER OF THE MOUNTAIN PINES" 
 
 Montium custos. — III. 22 
 
 O Virgin Warder of the mountain pines ! 
 On whom, in sorrow, matrons not in vain 
 Thrice call, and Thou dost quell their every pain, — 
 Three-fold Thy God-head shines ! 
 
 Close to my roof let this Thy pine tree grow, 
 On which, as each revolving year is o'er, 
 Gladly from some fierce, sideward-thrusting boar 
 Blood-offering I'll bestow. 
 
 51
 
 HYMN FOR THE NEPTUNALIA 
 
 Festo quid potius. — 111.28 
 
 What better do this day 
 Of Neptune, Lyde, say, 
 Than broach the cask 
 Of Caecuban? 
 Be that your task, 
 Go quickly as you can. 
 
 Your housewife's care forget; 
 The sun is nearly set. 
 Unlike the day 
 Stock-still you are; 
 Come, haste away, 
 Fetch the reluctant jar! 
 
 Green locks of Nereides, 
 
 And Neptune, Lord of Seas, 
 
 We celebrate, 
 
 And, to the lyre, 
 
 Latona great 
 
 And Cynthia's darts of fire. 
 
 52
 
 HYMN FOB THE NEPTUNALIA 
 
 To Her who Cniclos sees, 
 And shining Cyclades, 
 By yoke-swans white 
 Conveyed along — 
 To Her and Night 
 Shall rise our evensong. 
 
 53
 
 HYMN FOR FAUNUS' DAY 
 
 Faune, nympharum. — 111.18 
 
 Lover of nymphs that flee for all thy love, 
 
 O Faunus, through my sunny farm-land move 
 
 With step propitious ; ill intention shun 
 
 Toward my lambs ; so when the year is run 
 
 A savory kid may deck thine ancient shrine, 
 
 And Love not lack companion-cups of wine. 
 
 Sportive the herd through grassy meadow flees, 
 The ox is pastured, and the folk at ease 
 
 Maintain thy winter-festival; grown bold, 
 
 The sheep fear not the wolf within the fold ; 
 
 Woods yield their boughs to grace thy holiday; 
 And delvers gaily stamp the hated clay. 
 
 54.
 
 HYMN TO DIANA AND APOLLO 
 Dianam tencrae. — 1.21 
 
 Sing of Diana, sing, gentle maidens ; 
 
 Boys, of the beardless Cynthius sing. 
 Chant ye together praise of Latona, 
 
 Pleasing to Jove, the omnipotent king. 
 
 Sing, O ye maidens, rivers delightful, 
 
 Tresses of woodland sweet to your queen, 
 
 Groves Erymanthian, forests of Gragus, 
 Dells on the slope of Algidus green. 
 
 Boys, sing of Tempe, tell of its praises ; 
 
 Delos, the birth-place of Phoebus, admire; 
 Godlike his shoulder graced with the quiver, 
 
 Sweet the fraternal gift of the lyre. 
 
 Keep from the folk and Caesar Imperial 
 
 War's depredation, famine, and pest ; 
 
 Turn them instead on the Britons and Persians ; 
 Child of Latona, hear our request ! 
 
 55
 
 FONTINALIA 
 fons Bandusiae. — III. 13 
 
 Bandusian fountain ! worthy of sweet wine 
 
 Nor lacking garlands strewn, thy glassy stream; 
 To-morrow from the frolic herd I deem 
 The tenderest kid of any shall be thine. 
 
 His pulsing blood shall tinge thy crystalline 
 
 Cold water, though by budding front he seem 
 Destined to wax in love and war supreme : 
 But vain his destiny. To weary kine 
 
 And wandering flocks thy runnel, icy cool, 
 
 Gives grateful rest when flaming Sirius reigns. 
 Among the founts in noble numbers known 
 
 Thou too shalt be exalted, while my strains 
 Extol the rills, from ledges ilex-grown, 
 That murmuring fill thy pure pellucid pool. 
 
 56
 
 THE POET'S PRAYER 
 Quid dedication. — 1.31 
 
 What seeks the bard inspired 
 From Phoebus on the founding of the shrine? 
 
 What is the gift desired 
 As from the sacred cup he pours the wine? 
 
 He asks for no rich grain 
 Gathered in far Sardinia's fertile fields ; 
 
 From scorched Calabrian plain 
 No flocks; no gold nor tusks that India yields. 
 
 Unmeant for him he deems 
 Those lands which silent Liris gnaws away 
 
 With smoothly-sliding streams. 
 As for Calenian vines, let those who may 
 
 Prune them with crooked blade; 
 Let wealthy merchants drain from cups of gold 
 
 Wine of the Syrian trade, — 
 Gods willing, thrice a year in unscathed hold 
 
 Brought from the Atlantic sea. 
 These riches tempt me not ; I but request 
 
 Olives and chicory, 
 And tender mallows, easy to digest. 
 
 57
 
 THE POET'S PRAYER 
 
 Latona-born, I pray 
 That with my lot I may be satisfied ; 
 May mind and vigor stay, 
 
 And to my age be not the lyre denied. 
 
 * 
 
 58
 
 * 
 
 HORACE'S DIET 
 
 '"Me pascunt olivae, 
 Me cichorea levesque malvae."— 1.31 
 
 Quintus Horatius ! O can it be true 
 
 That you spurned the Falernian flagon, 
 
 And quaffed, in its place, this chicory brew, 
 Refusing to get a good jag on? 
 
 If for dinner, instead of a New England boiled, 
 You preferred but an olive or mallow, 
 
 I'm surprised your digestion so long was unspoiled, 
 And your verses not morbid or shallow. 
 
 So, Horace, if feeding on fodder like this 
 You fancied that you were in clover, 
 
 I'll never blame Pyrrha for shunning your kiss, 
 Or Chloe for throwing you over. 
 
 59
 
 ON A DISASTER IN PLASTER 
 
 "Non ebur neque aureum 
 
 Mea renidet in domo lacunar."— 11.18 
 
 "Nor ivory, nor golden-inlaid beams 
 
 Adorn my roof," wrote Horace quite compactly. 
 I used to think this strange ; but now it seems 
 
 My sentiments exactly. 
 
 For think ! if while he labored on an ode 
 
 About a rose, carnation, or geranium, 
 This gold and ivory, an awful load, 
 
 Had crashed upon his cranium ! 
 
 Though Pliny too had often (as we've read) 
 
 Brought down the house, what would have been his 
 feeling, 
 While answering Baebius, had he instead 
 
 Brought down a piece of ceiling? 
 
 A pillow-parasol old Pliny tried 
 
 When lava showers imperiled his position. 
 
 When next I seek the class-room, I'll have tied 
 Upon my head a cushion. 
 
 60
 
 THE CAMPAIGNER 
 Icci, heath. — 1.29 
 
 O Dicky, is it only spite 
 
 And hope of Spanish plunder? 
 Or are you spoiling for a fight 
 With those bewhiskered sons of might, 
 
 The dauntless Dons, I wonder? 
 
 Caramba! but some heads will ache 
 When you consume salt-petre ! 
 You'll shoot some Dago dude and take — 
 To starch your cuffs and cocktails make- 
 His dusky Senorita. 
 
 Or else, for valet, you'll bring home 
 
 Some coffee-colored laddie, 
 Well trained to spread the fleecy foam, 
 To wield the strop, to ply the comb, 
 By his Castilian daddy. 
 
 Well, well, what next? what can't be true, 
 
 If you, who'd grown so steady, 
 Have caught the Cuban fever, too, 
 And start, all fired for daring-do, 
 Rough-Ridering with Teddy ; 
 
 61
 
 THE CAMPAIGNER 
 
 If you, a settled, sober Grad., 
 
 Have hocked your KENT and STORY, 
 Your BLACKSTONE— lately all your fad— 
 To buy your kit, and khaki-clad 
 
 Are off for dust and glory. 
 
 62
 
 THE DEATH OF CLEOPATRA 
 
 Nunc est bibendum. — 1.37 
 
 Ho ! comrades, let us revel, now dance with nimble feet, 
 Come, spread the couches of the gods with Salian dainties 
 
 sweet ; 
 But yesterday 't were ill conceived the long-stored wine to 
 
 drain 
 While Capitol and Empire still were menaced by the train 
 Of dissolute adventurers who follow Egypt's queen, 
 Drunk with the vintage of success and blinded by her spleen. 
 But her madness was diminished, when from out the fire and 
 
 wrack 
 Of all her myriad galleys, scarce a single ship came back. 
 When Caesar from the Italian shore in quick pursuit had sped, 
 Her senses, dulled by fumes of wine, were overcome by dread. 
 For as upon the dove swoops down the falcon from the air, 
 Or as on Haemon's snowy plain the huntsman bags the hare, 
 So Caesar in his galleys to the fatal queen gave chase, 
 To cast in chains and bear her back his captive train to grace. 
 But destined for a nobler end she showed no woman's fear 
 Of swords, nor did she take to ship and for a refuge steer ; 
 But all serene, she gazed upon her palace lying low, 
 And dared to seek the venom from the serpent's angry blow. 
 She was no humble woman, who could death so firmly brave, 
 And scorn to grace a triumph fit for any common slave. 
 
 63
 
 ON TRANSLATING THE FOREGOING 
 
 I am trying, Egypt, trying 
 
 To translate as Horace wrote. 
 In the dark, Plutonian shadows 
 
 Mingled words and phrases float ; 
 But I cannot catch the spirit 
 
 Any more than find a rhyme ; 
 Might as well attempt a paean 
 
 On the battle of Blenheim. 
 
 For though Horace may have gloried 
 
 In thine empire's tragic fall, 
 Politics of Flaccus' era 
 
 Do not interest me at all. 
 Though I'd gladly sing of Pyrrha, 
 
 Or of fawnlike Chloe tell, 
 When it comes to odes like this one, 
 
 Cleopatra ! Rome ! farewell ! 
 
 * 
 
 64
 
 SIMPLICITY 
 
 Persicos odi. — 1.38 
 
 Hateful, Page, to me is the pomp of Persia ; 
 Garlands even, plaited with bast, displease me; 
 Cease then seeking places wherein the roses 
 Linger late-blooming. 
 
 Naught I will thou add to the simple myrtle, 
 Vainly toilsome; neither for thee, my servant, 
 Myrtles are unfitting, or me close-shaded, 
 Quaffing the vine- juice. 
 
 65
 
 MY SABINE FARM 
 
 Laudabunt alii. — 1.7 
 
 Some people talk about "Noo Yo'k"; 
 
 Of Cleveland many ne'er have clone; 
 They sing galore of Baltimore, 
 
 Chicago, Pittsburgh, Washington. 
 
 Others unasked their wit have tasked 
 To sound unending praise of Boston — 
 
 Of bean-vines found for miles around 
 And crooked streets that I get lost on. 
 
 Give me no jar of truck or car, 
 No city smoke and noise of mills ; 
 
 Rather the slow Connecticut's flow 
 And sunny orchards on the hills. 
 
 There like the haze of summer days 
 Before the wind flee care and sorrow. 
 
 In sure content each day is spent, 
 
 Unheeding what may come to-morrow. 
 
 66
 
 IN DEEP WATER 
 
 Quis mult a gracilis. — 1.5 
 
 What slim youth in shady grotto 
 Filled with sweet enticing otto 
 
 From his bouquet, 
 Woos thee, fickle Pyrrha, sotto 
 
 Voce? 
 
 Dress thy yellow locks ! His error 
 He will soon in sudden terror 
 
 Start bewailing, 
 Tossed by seas that late seemed fairer 
 
 Sailing. 
 
 Now he deems thee gold the purest, 
 Calls thee tenderest, demurest — 
 
 Ignoramus ! 
 But can one whom thou allurest 
 
 Blame us? 
 
 Yes, a robe I'm consecrating 
 My escape commemorating — 
 
 Was I iron 
 To resist thee, captivating 
 
 Siren ! 
 
 67
 
 TO CHLOE 
 
 A BALLAD OF CLASS-ROOM PRONUNCIATIONS 
 
 The snow descends on hills and leas, 
 
 But radiators brightly glowing 
 Dispel all fear of chill Boreas, 
 
 However hard the wind is blowing. 
 While old Aeolus wafts the snow, 
 I'll sit me down and write to Chloe. 
 
 With Horace Chloe was all the rage, 
 He straightway jilted every other, 
 
 Leuconoe, Phyllis, and Lalage, 
 
 For this "lost fawn that seeks its mother;" 
 
 Which was his artful way, I fear, 
 
 Of calling Chloe his little dear. 
 
 'Tis true I never knew this Chloe, 
 
 But Mr. Q. H. Flaccus knew her; 
 
 She handed him the mitten, so 
 
 He straightway wrote some poems to her. 
 
 Well, let me see, I'll head my verse : 
 "To one more charming far than Circe." 
 
 68
 
 TO CHLOE 
 
 "It is for you my spirit gasps, 
 
 loveliest of lovely gender; 
 
 I willingly would breast Hydaspes, 
 
 If I might be your true defender. 
 I long for you, to be precise, 
 As Orpheus yearned for Eurydice. 
 
 "And you will not refuse, I hope 
 
 To send me just as many kisses, 
 
 As that old dame called Penelope 
 
 Bestowed upon returned Ulysses 
 
 Or Cupid, whom all lovers like, 
 
 Delivered to his sweetheart, Psyche. 
 
 "Within affection's warmest glow 
 
 1 write these heartfelt lines to place us, 
 And send them to you, darling Chloe, 
 
 By kindness of my friend, Pegasus. 
 O may love's bond as firm attach us, 
 As Ariadne was to Bacchus." 
 
 69
 
 DE CONSOLATIONE 
 Ad Q. H. F. 
 
 Quintus, the fate you dreaded worst 
 
 Has long been yours ; 
 A tribe you would have held accurst, 
 
 As mostly bores, — 
 We teachers, — seized you from the first. 
 Lean wits for ages in the schools 
 
 With you were fattened. 
 Professors dam your flow with rules ; 
 Critics and editorial ghouls 
 Still tear you with scholastic tools ; 
 Full fifty-seven brands of fools 
 
 On you have battened. 
 
 Jones counts, and finds your lady-loves 
 
 By far too many. 
 Brown writes his learned tome, and proves 
 
 You hadn't any ! 
 Noakes notices their too transparent names 
 
 Are always Greek. 
 While for grande passion Stoakes, expertus, claims 
 
 You're still to seek! 
 Poor Cinara, whose portrait Sir T. Martin 
 
 70
 
 DE CONSOLATIONE 
 
 Likes to believe you put your very heart in, — 
 E'en Cinara to the great Professor Smith 
 Is all but myth ! 
 
 Then as for Dr. Verrall and his dreams, — 
 
 Beitrage-magic ! 
 To him your very lightest lyric seems 
 
 Of import tragic. 
 Melpomene, who our innocence supposes 
 Was not yet conscious of her awful mission, 
 Lurks full of gloom, it seems, beneath your wine-and-roses, 
 
 And purple cushion ! 
 That gentle mirth, that wit at which we smile, 
 
 Were meant to harrow 
 (Had we but sense to penetrate your guile) 
 Our feelings for one d-doomed Licinius Varro. 
 Mehercule! no worse a Monstr'-horrend'-ingcns-whats-it-icus 
 Was e'er evolved from any other Apparatus Criticus ! 
 
 Long-suffering Poet ! one stroke more 
 Thy stars malign have kept in store, 
 
 That now must fall: 
 A great Historian takes the floor 
 
 Who knows it all ! 
 To him your works of during brass, 
 Your curiosa felicitas, 
 Your phrases that so long did pass 
 
 For purest classic, 
 Are parts of one deep-laid design 
 
 71
 
 DE CONSOLATIONE 
 
 To BOOM THE TRADE IN NATIVE WINE 
 
 Falernian, Formian, Prsenestine, 
 Calenian, Massic ! ! 
 
 But don't despair: such things are sent 
 
 (Unpleasant very!) 
 To prove your high-piled monument 
 
 Perennius aere. 
 So sane and clear your eyes that saw 
 
 Whatever passes, 
 They must have read this simple law 
 
 That strong as brass is : 
 Not he who 'scaped from beak and claw, — 
 The Bentley-lion's heavy paw, — 
 The tiger-Peerlkamp's rending jaw, — 
 Need break his rest with fear and awe, 
 When o'er his head with weird he-haw 
 
 Stamp the wild asses. 
 
 72
 
 FLACCUS DIVERSIFIED 
 
 OB, 
 
 Every Poet His Own Horace 
 
 "He useth to indite but Common Places — quasi Communes 
 Locos — this Barde of ours : wherefore it Falleth oute that 
 what Poet soever looketh into Flaccus his boke heareth but 
 his own Argument sette to his own proper Musick." 
 
 — Meason: Anatomic of Pocticks, §23
 
 TO FRANKLIN P. ADAMS 
 
 The critics on our antics look 
 
 With eyes so cold and solemn ; 
 
 O find a refuge for our book 
 In your congenial column ! 
 
 Yea, Loiterer at the Sacred Fount, 
 Give the Glad Hand, by Bacchus ! 
 
 And charge the item : "On account 
 Of my old friend, Q. Flaccus." 
 
 < j
 
 DONAREM PATERAS 
 IV.8 
 
 Englished by Robert Browning 
 
 Flaccus the poet, from the ilex groves 
 That clothe the cool Digentias dexter side — 
 (See Life, by Wickham, three-and-thirtieth page) — 
 And the sure silence of his field's much grass, 
 To Censorinus, best of comrades, these: 
 
 'Thinketh he'd suit each several comrade's taste, 
 
 'Thinketh he'd give them sacrificial bowls 
 
 All lapis, or enwrought of Favrile glass, 
 
 (Although, God wot! I know not what that is!) 
 
 And suchlike bric-a-brac, wherewith we use 
 
 To burden bridal couples to their dole ; 
 
 And bronzes — mark you that, pure bronzes, man! 
 
 Ripe-orange patined, copper's best alloy, 
 
 No piddling pewter, two per cent, of tin ; 
 
 And triple-straddling tripods, valor's prize, 
 
 Contested by the Hellenes, tetyx-topped ; — 
 
 Flower-o'-the plum! 
 
 This is as easy as twiddle-your-thumb! 
 
 Nor would'st thou have the worst of these my gifts, 
 My Censorinus ! — 'meaneth to say, of course, 
 
 76
 
 DONABEM PATERAS 
 
 I'd give them, had I store of such to give, — 
 Chefs-d'oeuvre Parrhasian, Scopian handiwork, 
 (This stone's, and that the glittering pigment's lord, 
 One sculping mortal's and one limning gods.) 
 Flower-o'-the thyme! 
 This is too easy: I think Til try rhyme. 
 
 But seeing to you there no lack is 
 
 Of such, you'll not hope that your Flaccus 
 
 Will send you bijouterie; moreover, 
 
 'Tis poems you rather had pore over; 
 
 'Tis poems I have in satiety, 
 
 And can tell their worth to society : 
 
 Not marbles nor state-graven statues; 
 
 (And what you will make out of that choose) 
 
 Through which our brave general's spirit 
 
 (Praise a hero: be sure he will hear it!) 
 
 Returns to this life for a season, — 
 
 Not the backward path that he flees on, 
 
 Dire Hannibal, threat'nings all ended, — 
 
 Nor Carthage, forever delend'ed, — 
 
 More clearly reveals by its blazes 
 
 The conquering hero's just praises, 
 
 Who returned from his African triumph 
 
 So poor that no carper could cry: "Humph! 
 
 His reason for fighting's the plainest,' 
 
 (So poor! but then be-Africanused!) 
 
 Than Muses Calabrian show 'em ; 
 
 77 
 
 »
 
 DONAREM PATERAS 
 
 That's Ennius ; go read his poem. 
 
 Flower-o'-the bay! 
 
 What's to prevent me from rhyming all day? 
 
 Were letters silent of thy deeds well done, 
 
 Thou hadst no guerdon. What were Mar's son 
 
 And Ilia's, if that Silence envious 
 
 Might stand athwart the worth of Romulus? 
 
 Thus Aeacus from Stygian billows wrung 
 
 By potency of bards, their favor, tongue, 
 
 Is consecrate the Happy Isles among. 
 
 The wight laud-worthy hath the Muse denied 
 
 To die ; the Muse awards him Heaven beside. 
 
 'Tis thus at Jove's high feast, his labor crowned, 
 
 The tireless hero Hercules is found ; 
 
 And Tyndareus' progeny, the lucent stars, 
 
 Save shattered barks from out the billows' wars ; 
 
 With wreathed brow whereon the vine- leaf clings, 
 
 Liber our hope to happy issue brings. 
 
 Flower-o '-the-vine ! 
 
 Is some of that Browning's or all of it mine? 
 
 78
 
 VITAS HINNULEO 
 1.23 
 
 Indited by Samuel Johnson, Esq. 
 
 With heart horrescent and aversive Air, 
 
 My amorous suit evites the ingenuous Fair, — 
 
 A timid offspring of the cervine kind, 
 
 Who seeks her Dam of equi-timorous mind ; 
 
 She devious quests o'er elevated ways ; 
 
 Each gust affrights her and each breath affrays. 
 
 If vernal Zephyrs on the branches light 
 And shake the leaves (in Dr. Bentley's spite) ; 
 If Briars recumbrous on their native heath 
 Stir with lacertian movement underneath ; 
 The flames of terror in her bosom burn, 
 And nether members pulsate in their turn. 
 
 And yet no tigrine nature e'er was mine, 
 
 No shore Gaetulian reared me leonine. 
 
 I woo thee, not insatiate of gore, 
 
 Nor long to view thy corse ensanguined o'er. 
 
 Seek not the Maternal Source of life again, 
 
 Nor still reluct t'approve the eager Swain. 
 
 79
 
 VIXI PUELLIS 
 111.26 
 
 Lilted by Algernon Charles Swinburne 
 
 Love, I have lived of late for these thy handmaids not all 
 
 unmeet. 
 Yea, I have warred thy war, nor bitten the bitter bread of 
 
 defeat. 
 Cometh war-weariness now and the woful wane of wild desire, 
 Cometh the leaving of arms, and the last long lingering lift 
 
 of the lyre. 
 
 Fair is thy fane, Aphrodite, thou fairest fruit of the furrow- 
 less sea! 
 
 Yea, and the left wall of it shall hold henceforth the weapons 
 of me: 
 
 Torches of fresh-flown flame, and jimmies that jam, and the 
 bent bow's bane, 
 
 On lintels that lower with locks shall prove their prowess 
 never again. 
 
 Goddess, who boldest Cyprian realms ! thou brine-born Mother 
 of Love! 
 
 80
 
 VI XI PU ELLIS 
 
 Whose alone are the Memphian fields and the snowless acres 
 
 thereof ! 
 Queen, and the flower of the foam ! thou flicker of flames 
 
 that flash ! 
 Lift up thy scourge on the scornful Chloe and lessen her pride 
 
 with thy lash ! 
 
 81
 
 CAELO SUPINAS 
 111.23 
 
 In the manner of Robert Herrick 
 
 Whenas the New Moone sho's her light, 
 
 If thou dost lift thy hands aright 
 
 (Rusticall Phidyle) to Heav'n's dome, 
 
 And of thine increase still spar'st some 
 
 For the high gods ('t needs not be bigge: 
 
 A wisp of corne, a sucking Pigge, 
 
 Or but a grane of Franckynsense), 
 
 Then all thy plagues theyle banish hence. 
 
 The Sirrock-blast from Africa 
 
 Wo'd not thy fertile Vine dismay; 
 
 Thy croppe won't rust, nor younglings fear 
 
 The evill apple-season o' th' yeere. 
 
 For those rich victims that still wait 
 
 (Tho' vow'd) on Algidus candidate, 
 
 Or fatte in Alban pastures waxe, 
 
 Will dye (not thine but) the pontiff's axe. 
 
 Thy tiny gods to supplicate 
 
 Befits no such lautitious cate; 
 
 For rosemarie wreathes & mirtle boughs 
 
 Co'd better suite thy modest vows ; 
 
 82
 
 CAELO SUPINAS 
 
 I, holy meale & crackling grane 
 Wo'd soothe the angry Lar. In vain 
 A costlier Gift thou'd'st seek to bring: 
 Pure hands are th' welcomest offering. 
 These sooner make thy cause well wonne 
 Than rich importunation. 
 
 83
 
 SCRIBERIS VARIO 
 1.6 
 
 To M. Vipsanius Agrippa 
 By R. K., Author of Bobbs: and Other Irreverences 
 
 If it's pr'ises that you'd like, 
 
 Mister Gripps, 
 Varius is the bird to strike 
 
 For them, Gripps. 
 'E'll cough up 'Omeric notes 
 About your deeds with 'orse or boats. 
 S'ikes ! your Tommies harn't no goats, 
 
 Hare they, Gripps? 
 
 I can't write no bloody hode 
 
 For you, Gripps. 
 Can't tell wot I 'aven't knowed, 
 
 Can I, Gripps? 
 Like them bloomin' classic guys, 
 Pelides and Ulix-eyes ; — 
 You're a cut above my size, 
 Haren't you, Gripps? 
 
 84
 
 SCRIBE BIS VABIO 
 
 Wisht I could spout such 'ot stuff 
 
 About you, Gripps. 
 Reckon I 'aven't sand enough, — 
 
 Not like Gripps! 
 And my Muse, says she (bad cess!) 
 "That there's not your style, I guess ; 
 Don't you make no pukkah mess 
 
 Out o' Gripps." 
 
 Beer and rookies, them's my l'y — 
 
 (Likewise Gripps') — 
 Quarreling gals and such as th'y ; 
 
 Haren't they, Gripps? 
 That's the stuff brings in the chink 
 And I'll stick to that I think, 
 Woozely drunk, or out o' clink, 
 
 Won't I, Gripps? 
 
 CHOEUS 
 
 Then 'ere's to Vipsy-Wipsy, little Gripps, 
 
 Gripps, Gripps ! 
 We love him str'ight or tipsy, little Gripps, 
 
 Gripps, Gripps ! 
 O! we knows it bloomin' well, 
 His grite fime no tongue can tell ; 
 But we'll fight for him to ! 
 
 Won't we Gripps ! 
 
 85
 
 NON US1TATA 
 11.20 
 
 Which Chaucer thinketh grete merveille. 
 
 With winges freshe and stronge I tak my weye 
 Thurgh clere heven, ne lenger nill I staye 
 On erthe for to dwelle in cityes grete; 
 Sone I schal flee the presse, I yow bihete. 
 But I, Maecenas, I whom thou dost calle 
 A pore man born, shal never deye at alle, 
 Ne rest confined bi the Stygian wawes. 
 
 For, lo, my toon been chaunged into clawes, 
 And smale scales on my legges bothe 
 Beginnen for to growe, I tell yow sothe ; 
 The white down out-sterteth fro my barme, 
 And plumes been engendred on eche arme; 
 My bak and sides eek with fethres hid — 
 Loke, am I nat a veray parfit brid ! 
 Anon like Icarus on-lofte I sore 
 To seigh the grete see y-clept Bosphore, 
 And like a snow-whyt swan with swete stevene 
 I flee to Syrtes heigh along the hevene ; 
 To Colchus, Spayne, and many landes mo, 
 And eek to reaumes of the north I go 
 And drink the Rhone, yif that there nis na wine. 
 
 Wherefore, when I departe, leve to pyne ; 
 
 86
 
 * 
 
 NON U SI TAT A 
 
 Noon needeth sorwen at my sepulture, 
 
 Ne singen diriges to my soultis cure, 
 
 Ne seyen messe upon an holi-daye 
 
 As monkes doon for love or els for paye, 
 
 Swich wo and moorning nis nat worth a flye, — 
 
 I shal for ever sore on winges hye. 
 
 • •••••••* 
 
 Thus seyth Orace, and nevere have I founde 
 Within his book that yit he cam to grounde. 
 
 87
 
 O NAVIS 
 
 1.14 
 
 Navigated by W. E. Henley 
 
 Whither, O Ship, away? 
 
 Forth to the plangent, immitigable billows 
 
 Wilt thou fare once more? 
 
 To port! To port! Lo! 
 
 How nude thy side of oarage, how thy mast 
 
 Wind-worn, worm-riddled, mouldy with memories, 
 
 Groans to the swift blasts African. 
 
 And all thy yards with clang on clang resound. 
 
 Nor without cables can thy keel endure 
 
 This miserable welter and wash, 
 
 The hugger-mugger of waves. 
 
 (Ocean! O Ocean of Politics! Ocean of Pulls!) 
 
 Thou hast no sails yet undisintegrated, 
 
 Nor Powers on whom to call, o'er-whelmed with ills, 
 
 Child of the Pontic Pine, 
 
 Daughter of noble wood-lands, 
 
 Thy boasts are vain; 
 
 The mariner trusts thee not ; 
 
 Beware, unless thou owest sport 
 
 To all the winds of Heaven. 
 
 Thou my anguishable care 
 
 88
 
 O NAVIS 
 
 In the dreary, ineffectual Yesterdays 
 Now my darling anxiety : 
 Beware lest Death, the junk-man, 
 Catch thee amid the sapphirine isles, 
 And strew thee in gobbets o'er 
 The unravined, imperturbable sea. 
 
 89
 
 EHEU FUGACES 
 11.14 
 
 As it sounded to Thomas Gray 
 
 Our Fleeting Years, alas ! glide fast away. 
 
 Gray, wrinkled Age invades with every breath; 
 Nor Pious Vows can interpose delay, 
 
 And even Worth must yield the Palm to Death. 
 
 Can reeking Fane or oft-recurring Rite 
 
 Avail thee, Friend, in thy predestined hour, 
 
 When all the monstrous brood of ancient Night 
 Alike must own the illacrymable Power? 
 
 Full many a child of the all-bounteous earth 
 
 O'er Lethe's dark, unfathomed wave has passed ; 
 
 Nor pride of Power avails, nor Royal Birth ; 
 
 The weary Ploughman thither plods at last. 
 
 In vain we shun the blood-stained work of War; 
 
 In vain th' infuriate Ocean's angry moan ; 
 In vain from Autumn's heat we flee afar; 
 
 For Pestilence will mark us for her own. 
 
 90
 
 EHEU FUG ACES 
 
 To view that sullen flood none may refuse, 
 
 Where spirits unblest will fright thy wondering gaze, 
 Where Justice still her righteous doom pursues, 
 
 And keeps the awful tenor of her ways. 
 
 No more thy child shall prattle at thy knees, 
 Nor busy house-wife wait thy long return. 
 
 Thy land, thy house, thou 'It leave ; and of thy trees 
 Naught but the hated cypress deck thy urn. 
 
 A worthier heir shall spill thy treasured wine 
 
 That Luxury's self had envied thee to taste; 
 
 Then Wealth shall all her hoarded hopes resign, 
 And Avarice sadly yield the realm to Waste. 
 
 91
 
 VITAS HINNULEO 
 
 1.23 
 
 Done by Mr. William Wordswoi th 
 
 I met a little Roman maid ; 
 
 She was just sixteen (she said), 
 And O ! but she was sore afraid, 
 
 And hung her modest head. 
 
 A little fawn, you would have vowed, 
 That sought her mother's side, 
 
 And wandered lonely as a cloud 
 Upon the mountain wide. 
 
 Whene'er the little lizards stirred, 
 She started in her fear; 
 
 In every rustling bush she heard 
 Some awful monster near. 
 
 "I'm not a lion ; fear not so ; 
 
 Seek not your timid dam". — 
 
 92
 
 VITAS HINNULEO 
 
 But Chloe was afraid, and ! 
 She knows not what I am : 
 
 A creature quite too bright and good 
 To be so much misunderstood. 
 
 93
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 Quintilius Varus 
 1.24 
 
 By Alfred Tennyson 
 
 May grief's excess work aught of wrong 
 To one so dear as him we mourn? 
 O music, from some Higher Bourne 
 
 Attune our woe to lyre and song! 
 
 And so eternal slumbers press 
 
 Our brother down : and when shall we 
 Among mankind his equal see 
 
 In justice, honor, truthfulness? 
 
 By many wailed, by thee the most, 
 
 Vergil ! Vain thy pious prayer. 
 What erst they trusted to thy care, 
 
 The gods recall, and it is lost. 
 
 What though with more than Orphic strain 
 
 Thy lyre should charm the listening trees? 
 May spirit hark to words like these, 
 
 Or fill the empty form again? 
 
 9t
 
 IN ME MORI AM 
 
 In vain. To that austere abode 
 
 Relentless Fate his soul hath driven, 
 Deaf to our prayers. May only Heaven 
 
 Grant patience to endure thy load ! 
 
 95
 
 EPISTLE TO SEPTIMIUS 
 
 Septimi, Gadis. — II.6 
 
 As writ by Mr. Alexander Pope, Esqr. 
 
 Awake ! Septimius, to my strain attend : 
 Friendship my theme, I sing to thee a friend. 
 That such thou art, thy fond attendance proves 
 Where'er on earth my errant foot-step roves. 
 To Cadiz if I take my dangerous way 
 And tribes Cantabrian, hostile to our sway; 
 Or if the barbarous Syrtes I explore 
 Where seething waves assail the Afric shore : 
 Not these can daunt, nor those subdue thy mind, 
 Nor seas divide the hearts that Heaven joined. 
 O grant, ye Powers, that still my wand'rings guide, 
 And this the best of gifts — a friend — supplied: 
 When draws this mortal journey to its close, 
 May we in Tibur find a sweet repose ! 
 Within the walls an Argive wanderer piled, 
 May we forget the painful roads we toiled ! 
 With warfare wasted, sickened by the sea, 
 Be ours the goal for which we fondly pray ! 
 Some further limit for my travel's end, 
 If Fate decree (who can with Fate contend?) 
 That land I'll seek where once Phalanthus came, 
 
 96
 
 EPISTLE TO SEPTIMIUS 
 
 Where Spartans dwell beside Galaesus' stream. 
 Harmonious through the plain its currents glide, 
 Sweet to the flocks that pasture by its side. 
 No other flocks more feel a shepherd's care, 
 No other shepherds richer fleeces shear. 
 (Thrice-happy swains! if they their riches knew! 
 To skin their flocks, and then to fleece them too !) 
 No other nook on earth with this can vie 
 To win the poet's heart and please his eye. 
 No more Hymettus boasts her waxen store ; 
 Venafrum's olives are her pride no more. 
 For here kind Jove a rich abundance brings, 
 The winter softens, and delays the springs. 
 And blest by Bacchus, Aulon's fertile field 
 Envies no grapes Falernian vineyards yield. 
 Sure 'tis for us those happy towers arise 
 To soothe our breasts and glad our weary eyes. 
 And there the poet with the poet's friend 
 Awaits at last the final journey's end. 
 Thy grateful task to ease the laboring breath, 
 To still his fears and close his eyes in death, 
 On his warm ashes drop the meed of tears, 
 And waft his spirit to those brighter spheres. 
 
 97
 
 TO DELLIUS 
 
 Aequam memento. — II. 3 
 
 Rubaiyated by Edward Fitzgerald 
 
 This shifting bubble sages call thy soul 
 Wilt thou not keep it, Friend, in firm control? 
 Nor Joy nor Grief o'er-throws his level mind 
 Who learns the Wisdom hidden in the Bowl. 
 
 Whether thou pass thy gloomy days in pain, 
 Or fling the Balm-of-life abroad like rain, 
 Alike the bitter or the sparkling Cup 
 Thou quafF'st — to sleep and wake no more again. 
 
 I sometimes think that never flows the Wine 
 So red, as 'neath the Poplar and the Pine. 
 Wer't not a shame? O Friend, wer't not a shame, 
 If they in vain their pleasing shade combine? 
 
 And to what end, think'st thou, this rivulet 
 Doth in its winding Channel fume and fret? 
 O pluck To-day ! and make no vain pursuit 
 Of This and That, which thou may'st never get. 
 
 98
 
 TO DELL1US 
 
 The Wine, the Perfume, and the lovely Rose 
 That buds at dawn and with the evening goes, — 
 That man whom Wealth permits, and Youth and Fate, 
 He knows about them all — He knows — He knows ! 
 
 The aureate earth thou sett'st thy Heart upon, 
 The River-gardens thy heaped treasure won, — 
 All must thou leave; nor cares the heir one jot 
 For all thy toil and thee, once thou art gone. 
 
 Though Kaikobad the Great thy sires begot, 
 Or thou art beggar's spawn, — it matters not. 
 The Potter molded from the same red clay 
 And at his pleasure shatters every pot. 
 
 All to the one dark realm are we addresst ; 
 On every brow one fatal sign is prest ; 
 When nods the dark Ferrash, the caravan 
 Moves to the dusty desert, — and we rest. 
 
 99
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 No rest we find on swift Homeric seas, 
 
 No peace where Vergil yearns, no hope where moan 
 The Argive choruses for kings overthrown 
 In fated strife with fate. Sophocles, 
 
 Dante, writhing in white agonies, 
 
 Your cups of anguish must we make our own? 
 Milton, cease thy thunderous antiphone. 
 
 Ye bring us pain; who can afford us case? 
 
 Comes the enchanter with Digentian wand, 
 
 Not with a soul apart nor bosom steeled; 
 He smiled upon the world, and smiling, healed; 
 
 Singing to his companions, few and fond, 
 Familiar joys of fireside and of field — 
 Ah me, that men should seek for aught beyond! 
 
 100
 
 INDEX OF ODES 
 
 I. i. Maecenas atavis 4 1 
 
 5. Quis multa gracilis 19. 67 
 
 6. Scriberis Vario 84 
 
 7. Laudabunt alii 66 
 
 8. Lydia, die •• 26 
 
 9. Vides ut alta 45 
 
 11. Tu ne quaesieris 16 
 
 13. Cum tu, Lydia • • 27 
 
 14. O navis 88 
 
 20. Vile potabis • • 4° 
 
 21. Dianam tenerae 55 
 
 22. Integar vitae • • 17 
 
 23. Vitas hinnuleo 24, 79, 92 
 
 24. Quis desiderio • • 94 
 
 27. Natis in usum 47 
 
 29. Icci, beatis 61 
 
 31. Quid dedicatum 57 
 
 33. Albi, ne doleas 29 
 
 37. Nunc est bibendum 63 
 
 38. Persicos odi 65 
 
 II. 3. Aequam memento 98 
 
 6. Septimi, Gadis 96 
 
 14. Eheu f ugaces • • 43, 90 
 
 20. Non Usitata 86 
 
 III. 9. Donee gratus eram 22 
 
 13. O fons Bandusiae 56 
 
 18. Faune, nympharum 54 
 
 22. Montium custos 51 
 
 23. Caelo supinas 82 
 
 26. Vixi puellis 25, 80 
 
 28. Festo quid potius 52 
 
 IV. 3. Quern tu, Melpomene 49 
 
 8. Donarem pateras 76 
 
 13. Audivere, Lyce 31
 
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