Echoes from the Sabine Farm Part 9

The cruel mother of the Loves, And other Powers offended, Have stirred my heart, where newly roves The pa.s.sion that was ended.

'T is Glycera, to boldness p.r.o.ne, Whose radiant beauty fires me; While fairer than the Parian stone Her dazzling face inspires me.

And on from Cyprus Venus speeds, Forbidding--ah! the pity-- The Scythian lays, the Parthian meeds, And such irrelevant ditty.

Here, boys, bring turf and vervain too; Have bowls of wine adjacent; And ere our sacrifice is through She may be more complaisant.

TO LYDIA

I

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 pa.s.sion 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.

TO LYDIA

II

When praising Telephus you sing His rosy neck and waxen arms, Forgetful of the pangs that wring This heart for my neglected charms,

Soft down my cheek the tear-drop flows, My color comes and goes the while, And my rebellious liver glows, And fiercely swells with laboring bile.

Perchance yon silly, pa.s.sionate youth, Distempered by the fumes of wine, Has marred your shoulder with his tooth, Or scarred those rosy lips of thine.

Be warned; he cannot faithful prove, Who, with the cruel kiss you prize, Has hurt the little mouth I love, Where Venus's own nectar lies.

Whom golden links unbroken bind, Thrice happy--more than thrice are they; And constant, both in heart and mind, In love await the final day.

TO QUINTIUS HIRPINUS

To Scythian and Cantabrian plots, Pay them no heed, O Quintius!

So long as we From care are free, Vexations cannot cinch us.

Unwrinkled youth and grace, forsooth, Speed hand in hand together; The songs we sing In time of spring Are hushed in wintry weather.

Why, even flow'rs change with the hours, And the moon has divers phases; And shall the mind Be racked to find A clew to Fortune's mazes?

Nay; 'neath this tree let you and me Woo Bacchus to caress us; We're old, 't is true, But still we two Are thoroughbreds, G.o.d bless us!

While the wine gets cool in yonder pool, Let's spruce up nice and tidy; Who knows, old boy, But we may decoy The fair but furtive Lyde?

She can execute on her ivory lute Sonatas full of pa.s.sion, And she bangs her hair (Which is pa.s.sing fair) In the good old Spartan fas.h.i.+on.

WINE, WOMEN, AND SONG

Ovarus mine, Plant thou the vine Within this kindly soil of Tibur; Nor temporal woes, Nor spiritual, knows The man who's a discreet imbiber.

For who doth croak Of being broke, Or who of warfare, after drinking?

With bowl atween us, Of smiling Venus And Bacchus shall we sing, I'm thinking.

Of symptoms fell Which brawls impel, Historic data give us warning; The wretch who fights When full, of nights, Is bound to have a head next morning.

I do not scorn A friendly horn, But noisy toots, I can't abide 'em!

Your howling bat Is stale and flat To one who knows, because he's tried 'em!

The secrets of The life I love (Companions.h.i.+p with girls and toddy) I would not drag With drunken brag Into the ken of everybody; But in the shade Let some coy maid With smilax wreathe my flagon's nozzle, Then all day long, With mirth and song, Shall I enjoy a quiet sozzle!

AN ODE TO FORTUNE

O Lady Fortune! 't is to thee I call, Dwelling at Antium, thou hast power to crown The veriest clod with riches and renown, And change a triumph to a funeral The tillers of the soil and they that vex the seas, Confessing thee supreme, on bended knees Invoke thee, all.

Of Dacian tribes, of roving Scythian bands, Of cities, nations, lawless tyrants red With guiltless blood, art thou the haunting dread; Within thy path no human valor stands, And, arbiter of empires, at thy frown The sceptre, once supreme, slips surely down From kingly hands.

Necessity precedes thee in thy way; Hope fawns on thee, and Honor, too, is seen Dancing attendance with obsequious mien; But with what coward and abject dismay The faithless crowd and treacherous wantons fly When once their jars of luscious wine run dry,-- Such ingrates they!

Fortune, I call on thee to bless Our king,--our Caesar girt for foreign wars!

Help him to heal these fratricidal scars That speak degenerate shame and wickedness; And forge anew our impious spears and swords, Wherewith we may against barbarian hordes Our Past redress!

TO A JAR OF WINE

O gracious jar,--my friend, my twin, Born at the time when I was born,-- Whether tomfoolery you inspire Or animate with love's desire, Or flame the soul with bitter scorn, Or lull to sleep, O jar of mine!

Come from your place this festal day; Corvinus. .h.i.ther wends his way, And there's demand for wine!

Corvinus is the sort of man Who dotes on tedious argument.

An advocate, his ponderous pate Is full of Blackstone and of Kent; Yet not insensible is he, O genial Ma.s.sic flood! to thee.