Kitabı oku: «Hoosier Lyrics», sayfa 4

HORACE IN LOVE AGAIN

(Epode XI.)

 
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!