Dear Pettius, once I reeled off rhyme Satiric, sad and tender, But now my quill Has lost its skill And I am dying in my prime Through love of female gender! Nay, do not laugh Nor deign to chaff Your friend with taunts of Lyde And other dames Who've been my flames — This time it's bona-fide!
I maunder sadly to and fro — I who was once so jolly! My old time chums Gyrate their thumbs And taunt me, as I sighing go, With what they term my folly. I told you once, Lake a garrulous dunce, Of my all consuming passion, And I rolled my eyes In tragedy wise And raved in lovesick fashion.
And when I'd aired my woes profound You volunteered this warning: "Horace, go light On the bowl to-night — Ten hours of sleep will bring you round All right to-morrow morning!" Now ten hours sleep May do a heap For callow hearts a-patter, But I tell you, sir, This affair du coeur Of mine is a serious matter!
"GOOD-BY – GOD BLESS YOU!"
I like the Anglo-Saxon speech With its direct revealings — It takes a hold and seems to reach Way down into your feelings; That some folk deem it rude, I know, And therefore they abuse it; But I have never found it so — Before all else I choose it. I don't object that men should air The Gallic they have paid for — With "au revoir," "adieu, ma chere" — For that's what French was made for — But when a crony takes your hand At parting to address you, He drops all foreign lingo and He says: "Good-by – God bless you!"
This seems to me a sacred phrase With reverence impassioned — A thing come down from righteous days, Quaintly but nobly fashioned; It well becomes an honest face — A voice that's round and cheerful; It stays the sturdy in his place And soothes the weak and fearful. Into the porches of the ears It steals with subtle unction And in your heart of hearts appears To work its gracious function; And all day long with pleasing song It lingers to caress you — I'm sure no human heart goes wrong That's told "Good-by – God bless you!"
I love the words – perhaps because, When I was leaving mother, Standing at last in solemn pause We looked at one another, And – I saw in mother's eyes The love she could not tell me — A love eternal as the skies, Whatever fate befell me; She put her arms about my neck And soothed the pain of leaving, And, though her heart was like to break, She spoke no word of grieving; She let no tear bedim her eye, For fear that might distress me, But, kissing me, she said good-by And asked her God to bless me.
HORACE
(Epode XIV.)
You ask me, friend, Why I don't send The long since due-and-paid-for numbers — Why, songless, I As drunken lie Abandoned to Lethæan slumbers.
Long time ago (As well you know) I started in upon that carmen; My work was vain — But why complain? When gods forbid, how helpless are men!
Some ages back, The sage Anack Courted a frisky Samian body, Singing her praise In metered phrase As flowing as his bowls of toddy.
'Till I was hoarse Might I discourse Upon the cruelties of Venus — 'Twere waste of time As well of rhyme, For you've been there yourself, Maecenas!
Perfect your bliss, If some fair miss Love you yourself and not your minæ; I, fortune's sport, All vainly court The beauteous, polyandrous Phryne!
HORACE I, 23
Chloe, you shun me like a hind That, seeking vainly for her mother, Hears danger in each breath of wind And wildly darts this way and t'other.
Whether the breezes sway the wood Or lizards scuttle through the brambles, She starts, and off, as though pursued, The foolish, frightened creature scrambles.
But, Chloe, you're no infant thing That should esteem a man an ogre — Let go your mother's apron-string And pin your faith upon a toga!
A PARAPHRASE
How happens it, my cruel miss, You're always giving me the mitten? You seem to have forgotten this: That you no longer are a kitten!
A woman that has reached the years Of that which people call discretion Should put aside all childish fears And see in courtship no transgression.
A mother's solace may be sweet, But Hymen's tenderness is sweeter, And though all virile love be meet, You'll find the poet's love is metre.
A PARAPHRASE BY CHAUCER
Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken, Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken; Like as a lyttel deere you been y-hiding Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding, Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder For to beare swete company with some oder; Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth, But that ben not farre enow, God knoweth; Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hayde; But all that do with gode men wed full quicklye When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly.
HORACE I, 5
What perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah, With smiles for diet, Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha, On the quiet? For whom do you bind up your tresses, As spun-gold yellow — Meshes that go with your caresses, To snare a fellow?
How will he rail at fate capricious, And curse you duly; Yet now he deems your wiles delicious — You perfect truly! Pyrrha, your love's a treacherous ocean — He'll soon fall in there! Then shall I gloat on his commotion, For I have been there!
HORACE I, 20
Than you, O valued friend of mine! A better patron non est — Come, quaff my home-made Sabine wine — You'll find it poor but honest.
I put it up that famous day You patronized the ballet And the public cheered you such a way As shook your native valley.
Cæcuban and the Calean brand May elsewhere claim attention, But I have none of these on hand — For reasons I'll not mention.
ENVOY
So come! though favors I bestow Can not be called extensive, Who better than my friend should know That they're, at least, expensive!
HORACE II, 7
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! Ah, side by side, in years agone, We've faced tempestuous weather, And often quaffed The genial draft From an amphora together!
When honor at Phillippi fell A pray to brutal passion, I regret to say that my feet ran away In swift Iambic fashion; You were no poet-soldier born, You staid, 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.
HORACE I, 11
Seek not, Lucome, 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!
HORACE I, 13
When, Lydia, you (once fond and true, But now grown cold and supercilious) Praise Telly's charms of neck and arms — Well, by the dog! it makes me bilious!
Then, with despite, my cheeks wax white, My doddering brain gets weak and giddy, My eyes o'erflow with tears which show That passion melts my vitals, Liddy!
Deny, false jade, your escapade, And, lo! your wounded shoulders show it! No manly spark left such a mark — (Leastwise he surely was no poet!)
With savage buss did Telephus Abraid your lips, so plump and mellow — As you would save what Venus gave, I charge you shun that awkward fellow!
And now I say thrice happy they That call on Hymen to requite 'em; For, though love cools, the wedded fools Must cleave 'till death doth disunite 'em!
HORACE IV, 1
O Mother Venus, quit, I pray, Your violent assailing; The arts, forsooth, that fired my youth At last are unavailing — My blood runs cold – I'm getting old And all my powers are failing!
Speed thou upon thy white swan's wings And elsewhere deign to mellow With my soft arts the anguished hearts Of swain that writhe and bellow; And right away, seek out, I pray, Young Paullus – he's your fellow.
You'll find young Paullus passing fate, Modest, refined, and toney — Go, now, incite the favored wight! With Venus for a crony. He'll outshine all at feast and ball And conversazione!
Then shall that godlike nose of thine With perfumes be requited, And then shall prance in Salian dance The girls and boys delighted, And, while the lute blends with the flute, Shall tender loves be blighted.
But as for me – as you can see — I'm getting old and spiteful; I have no mind to female kind That once I deemed delightful — No more brim up the festive cup That sent me home at night full.
Why do I falter in my speech, O cruel Ligurine? Why do I chase from place to place In weather wet and shiny? Why down my nose forever flows The tear that's cold and briny?
HORACE TO HIS PATRON
Mæcenas, you're of noble line — (Of which the proof convincing Is that you buy me all my wine Without so much as wincing.)
To different men of different minds Come different kinds of pleasure; There's Marshall Field – what joy he finds In shears and cloth-yard measure!
With joy Prof. Swing is filled While preaching godly sermons; With bliss is Hobart Taylor thrilled When he is leading germans.
While Uncle Joe Medill prefers To run a daily paper, To Walter Gresham it occurs That law's the proper caper.
With comedy a winning card, How blithe is Richard Hooley; Per contra, making soap and lard, Rejoices Fairbank duly.
While Armour in the sugar ham His summum bonum reaches, MacVeagh's as happy as a clam In canning pears and peaches.
Let Farwell glory in the fray Which party hate increases — His son-in-law delights to play Gavottes and such like pieces.
So each betakes him to his task — So each his hobby nurses — While I – well, all the boon I ask Is leave to write my verses.
Give, give that precious boon to me And I shall envy no man; If not the noblest I shall be At least the happiest Roman!
THE "ARS POETICA" OF HORACE – XVIII
(Lines 323-333.)
The Greeks had genius – 'twas 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!
HORACE I, 34
I have not worshiped God, my King — Folly has led my heart astray; Backward I turn my course to learn The wisdom of a wiser way.
How marvelous is God, the King! How do His lightnings cleave the sky — His thundering car spreads fear afar, And even hell is quaked thereby!
Omnipotent is God, our King! There is no thought He hath not read, And many a crown His hand plucks down To place it on a worthier head!
HORACE I, 33
Not to lament that rival flame Wherewith the heartless Glycera scorns you, Nor waste your time in maudlin rhyme, How many a modern instance warns you.
Fair-browed Lycoris pines away Because her Cyrus loves another; The ruthless churl informs the girl He loves her only as a brother.
For he, in turn, courts Pholoe — A maid unscotched of love's fierce virus — Why, goats will mate with wolves they hate Ere Pholoe will mate with Cyrus!
Ah, weak and hapless human hearts — By cruel Mother Venus fated To spend this life in hopeless strife, Because incongruously mated!
Such torture, Albius, is my lot; For, though a better mistress wooed me, My Myrtale has captured me And with her cruelties subdued me!