A Handbook for Latin Clubs Part 21

The Emperor t.i.tus, at the close of a day in which he had neither gained any knowledge nor conferred benefit, was accustomed to exclaim, "Perdidi diem," "I have lost a day."

Why art thou sad, thou of the sceptred hand?

The rob'd in purple, and the high in state?

Rome pours her myriads forth, a va.s.sal band, And foreign powers are crouching at thy gate; Yet dost thou deeply sigh, as if oppressed by fate.

"_Perdidi diem!_"--Pour the empire's treasure, Uncounted gold, and gems of rainbow dye; Unlock the fountains of a monarch's pleasure To lure the lost one back. I heard a sigh-- One hour of parted time, a world is poor to buy.

"_Perdidi diem!_"--'Tis a mournful story, Thus in the ear of pensive eve to tell, Of morning's firm resolves, the vanish'd glory, Hope's honey left within the withering bell And plants of mercy dead, that might have bloomed so well.

Hail, self-communing Emperor, n.o.bly wise!

There are, who thoughtless haste to life's last goal.

There are, who time's long squandered wealth despise.

_Perdidi vitam_ marks their finished scroll, When Death's dark angel comes to claim the startled soul.

--Mrs. Sigourney

JUPITER AND HIS CHILDREN

A Cla.s.sic Fable

Once, on sublime Olympus, when Great Jove, the sire of G.o.ds and men, Was looking down on this our Earth, And marking the increasing dearth Of pious deeds and n.o.ble lives, While vice abounds and meanness thrives,-- He straight determined to efface At one fell swoop the thankless race Of human kind. "Go!" said the King Unto his messenger, "and bring The vengeful Furies; be it theirs, Unmindful of their tears and prayers, These wretches,--hateful from their birth,-- To wipe from off the face of earth!"

The message heard, with torch of flame And reeking sword, Alecto came, And by the beard of Pluto swore The human race should be no more!

But Jove, relenting thus to see The direst of the murderous three, And hear her menace, bade her go Back to the murky realms below.

"Be mine the cruel task!" he said, And, at a word, a bolt he sped, Which, falling in a desert place, Left all unhurt the human race!

Grown bold and bolder, wicked men Wax worse and worse, until again The stench to high Olympus came, And all the G.o.ds began to blame The monarch's weak indulgence,--_they_ Would crush the knaves without delay!

At this, the ruler of the air Proceeds a tempest to prepare, Which, dark and dire, he swiftly hurled In raging fury on the world!

But not where human beings dwell (So Jove provides) the tempest fell.

And still the sin and wickedness Of men grew more, instead of less: Whereat the G.o.ds declare, at length, For thunder bolts of greater strength Which Vulcan soon, at Jove's command, Wrought in his forge with dexterous hand.

Now from the smithy's glowing flame Two different sorts of weapons came: To _hit_ the mark was one designed; As sure to _miss_, the other kind.

The second sort the Thunderer threw, Which not a human being slew; But roaring loudly, hurtled wide On forest-top and mountain-side!

MORAL

What means this ancient tale? That _Jove_ In wrath still felt a parent's love: Whatever crimes he may have done, The father yearns to spare the son.

--John G. Saxe

THE PRAYER OF SOCRATES

_Socrates_

Ere we leave this friendly sky, And cool Ilyssus flowing by, Change the shrill cicala's song For the clamor of the throng, Let us make a parting prayer To the G.o.ds of earth and air.

_Phaedrus_

My wish, O Friend, accords with thine, Say thou the prayer, it shall be mine.

_Socrates_

This then, I ask, O thou beloved Pan, And all ye other G.o.ds: Help, as ye can, That I may prosper in the inner man;

Grant ye that what I have or yet may win Of those the outer things may be akin And constantly at peace within;

May I regard the wise the rich, and care Myself for no more gold, as my earth-share, Than he who's of an honest heart can bear.

--John H. Finley

BY THE ROMAN ROAD

"Poetry and paganism do not mix very well nowadays. The h.e.l.lenism of our versifiers is, as a rule, not Greek; it is derived partly from Swinburne and partly from Pater. But now and then there comes a poet who has real appreciation of the beauty of cla.s.sic days; who can express sincerely and vividly the haunting charm of Greek or Roman culture. Such an one is the anonymous writer of these lines, which appeared in the London _Punch_."

The wind it sang in the pine-tops, it sang like a humming harp; The smell of the sun on the bracken was wonderful sweet and sharp.

As sharp as the piney needles, as sweet as the G.o.ds were good, For the wind it sung of the old G.o.ds, as I came through the wood!

It sung how long ago the Romans made a road, And the G.o.ds came up from Italy and found them an abode.

It sang of the wayside altars (the pine-tops sighed like the surf), Of little shrines uplifted, of stone and scented turf, Of youths divine and immortal, of maids as white as the snow That glimmered among the thickets a mort of years ago!

All in the cool of dawn, all in the twilight gray, The G.o.ds came up from Italy along the Roman way.

The altar smoke it has drifted and faded afar on the hill; No wood-nymphs haunt the hollows; the reedy pipes are still; No more the youth Apollo shall walk in his suns.h.i.+ne clear; No more the maid Diana shall follow the fallow-deer (The woodmen grew so wise, the woodmen grew so old, The G.o.ds went back to Italy--or so the story's told!).

But the woods are full of voices and of shy and secret things The badger down by the brook-side, the flick of a woodc.o.c.k's wings, The plump of a falling fir-cone, the pop of the sunripe pods, And the wind that sings in the pine-tops the song of the ancient G.o.ds-- The song of the wind that says the Romans made a road, And the G.o.ds came up from Italy and found them an abode!

A NYMPH'S LAMENT

O Sister Nymphs, how shall we dance or sing Remembering What was and is not? How sing any more Now Aphrodite's rosy reign is o'er?

For on the forest-floor Our feet fall wearily the summer long, The whole year long: No sudden G.o.ddess through the rushes glides, No eager G.o.d among the laurels hides; Jove's eagle mopes beside an empty throne, Persephone and Ades sit alone, By Lethe's hollow sh.o.r.e.

And hear not any more Echoed from poplar-tree to poplar-tree, The voice of Orpheus making sweetest moan For lost Eurydice.

The Fates walk all alone In empty kingdoms, where is none to fear Shaking of any spear.

Even the ghosts are gone From lightless fields of mint and euphrasy: There sings no wind in any willow-tree, And shadowy flute-girls wander listlessly Down to the sh.o.r.e where Charon's empty boat, As shadowed swan doth float, Rides all as listlessly, with none to steer.

A shrunken stream is Lethe's water wan Unsought of any man: Gra.s.s Ceres sowed by alien hands is mown, And now she seeks Persephone alone.

The G.o.ds have all gone up Olympus' hill, And all the songs are still Of grieving Dryads, left To wail about our woodland ways, bereft, The endless summertide.

Queen Venus draws aside And pa.s.ses, sighing, up Olympus' hill.

And silence holds her Cyprian bowers, and claims Her flowers, and quenches all her altar-flames, And strikes dumb in their throats Her doves' complaining notes: And sorrow Sits crowned upon her seat: nor any morrow Hears the Loves laughing round her golden chair.

(Alas, thy golden seat, thine empty seat!) Nor any evening sees beneath her feet The daisy rosier flush, the maidenhair And scentless crocus borrow From rose and hyacinth their savour sweet.

Without thee is no sweetness in the morn, The morn that was fulfilled of mystery, It lies like a void sh.e.l.l, desiring thee, O daughter of the water and the dawn, Anadyomene!

There is no gold upon the bearded corn, No blossom on the thorn; And in wet brakes the Oreads hide, forlorn Of every grace once theirs: no Faun will follow By herne or hollow Their feet in the windy morn.

Let us all cry together "Cytherea!"

Lock hands and cry together: it may be That she will heed and hear And come from the waste places of the sea, Leaving old Proteus all discomforted, To cast down from his head Its crown of nameless jewels, to be hurled In ruins, with the ruined royalty Of an old world.

The Nereids seek thee in the salt sea-reaches, Seek thee; and seek, and seek, and never find: Canst thou not hear their calling on the wind?

We nymphs go wandering under pines and beeches, And far--and far behind We hear Paris' piping blown After us, calling thee and making moan (For all the leaves that have no strength to cry, The young leaves and the dry), Desiring thee to bless these woods again, Making most heavy moan For withered myrtle-flowers, For all thy Paphian bowers Empty and sad beneath a setting sun; For dear days done!

The Naiads splash in the blue forest-pools-- "Idalia--Idalia!" they cry.

"On Ida's hill, With flutings faint and shrill,-- On Ida's hill the shepherds vainly try Their songs, and coldly stand their damsels by, Whatever tunes they try; For beauty is not, and Love may not be, On land or sea-- Oh, not in earth or heaven, on land or sea, While darkness holdeth thee."