Echoes from the Sabine Farm Part 11

TO MOTHER VENUS

O mother Venus, quit, I pray, Your violent a.s.sailing!

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 swans' wings, And elsewhere deign to mellow With thy soft arts the anguished hearts Of swains that writhe and bellow; And right away seek out, I pray, Young Paullus,--he's your fellow!

You'll find young Paullus pa.s.sing fair, Modest, refined, and tony; Go, now, incite the favored wight!

With Venus for a crony He'll outs.h.i.+ne all at feast and ball And conversazione!

Then shall that G.o.dlike 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 plighted.

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 s.h.i.+ny?

Why down my nose forever flows The tear that's cold and briny?

TO LYDIA

Tell me, Lydia, tell me why, By the G.o.ds that dwell above, Sybaris makes haste to die Through your cruel, fatal love.

Now he hates the sunny plain; Once he loved its dust and heat.

Now no more he leads the train Of his peers on coursers fleet.

Now he dreads the Tiber's touch, And avoids the wrestling-rings,-- He who formerly was such An expert with quoits and things.

Come, now, Mistress Lydia, say Why your Sybaris lies hid, Why he shuns the martial play, As we're told Achilles did.

TO NEOBULE

A sorry life, forsooth, these wretched girls are undergoing, Restrained from draughts of pleasant wine, from loving favors showing, For fear an uncle's tongue a reprimand will be bestowing!

Sweet Cytherea's winged boy deprives you of your spinning, And Hebrus, Neobule, his sad havoc is beginning, Just as Minerva thriftily gets ready for an inning.

Who could resist this gallant youth, as Tiber's waves he breasted, Or when the palm of riding from Bellerophon he wrested, Or when with fists and feet the sluggers easily he bested?

He shot the fleeing stags with regularity surprising; The way he intercepted boars was quite beyond surmising,-- No wonder that your thoughts this youth has been monopolizing!

So I repeat that with these maids fate is unkindly dealing, Who never can in love's affair give license to their feeling, Or share those sweet emotions when a gentle jag is stealing.

AT THE BALL GAME

What G.o.ds or heroes, whose brave deeds none can dispute, Will you record, O Clio, on the harp and flute?

What lofty names shall sportive Echo grant a place On Pindus' crown or Helicon's cool, shadowy s.p.a.ce?

Sing not, my Orpheus, sweeping oft the tuneful strings, Of gliding streams and nimble winds and such poor things; But lend your measures to a theme of n.o.ble thought, And crown with laurel these great heroes, as you ought.

Now steps Rya.n.u.s forth at call of furious Mars, And from his oaken staff the sphere speeds to the stars; And now he gains the tertiary goal, and turns, While whiskered b.a.l.l.s play round the timid staff of Burns.

Lo! from the tribunes on the bleachers comes a shout, Beseeching bold Ansonius to line 'em out; And as Apollo's flying chariot cleaves the sky, So stanch Ansonius lifts the frightened ball on high.

Like roar of ocean beating on the Cretan cliff, The strong Komiske gives the panting sphere a biff; And from the tribunes rise loud murmurs everywhere, When twice and thrice Mikellius beats the mocking air.

And as Achilles' fleet the Trojan waters sweeps, So horror sways the throng,--Pfefferius sleeps!

And stalwart Konnor, though by Mercury inspired, The Equus Carolus defies, and is retired.

So waxes fierce the strife between these G.o.dlike men; And as the hero's fame grows by Virgilian pen, So let Clarksonius Maximus be raised to heights As far above the moon as moon o'er lesser lights.

But as for me, the ivy leaf is my reward, If you a place among the lyric bards accord; With crest exalted, and O "People," with delight, I'll proudly strike the stars, and so be out of sight.

EPILOGUE

The day is done; and, lo! the shades Melt 'neath Diana's mellow grace.

Hark, how those deep, designing maids Feign terror in this sylvan place!

Come, friends, it's time that we should go; We're honest married folk, you know.

Was not the wine delicious cool Whose sweetness Pyrrha's smile enhanced?

And by that clear Bandusian pool How gayly Chloe sung and danced!

And Lydia Die,--aha, methinks You'll not forget the saucy minx!

But, oh, the echoes of those songs That soothed our cares and lulled our hearts!

Not to that age nor this belongs The glory of what heaven-born arts Speak with the old distinctive charm From yonder humble Sabine farm!

The day is done. Now off to bed, Lest by some rural ruse surprised, And by those artful girls misled, You two be sadly compromised.

_You_ go; perhaps _I_'d better stay To shoo the giddy things away!

But sometime we shall meet again Beside Digentia, cool and clear,-- You and we twain, old friend; and then We'll have our fill of pagan cheer.

Then, could old Horace join us three, How proud and happy he would be!

Or if we part to meet no more This side the misty Stygian Sea, Be sure of this: on yonder sh.o.r.e Sweet cheer awaiteth such as we; A Sabine pagan's heaven, O friend,-- The fellows.h.i.+p that knows no end!

E.F.