A Handbook for Latin Clubs Part 22

The Naiads weep beside their forest-pools, And from the oaks a hundred voices call, "Come back to us, O thou desired of all!

Elsewhere the air is sultry: here it cools And full it is of pine scents: here is still The world-pain that has driven from Ida's hill Thine unreturning feet.

Alas! the days so fleet that were, and sweet, When kind thou wert, and dear, And all the loves dwelt here!

Alas! thy giftless hands, thy wandering feet!

Oh, here for Pithys' sake the air is sweet And here snow falls not, neither burns the sun Nor any winds make moan for dear days done.

Come, then: the woods are emptied all of glee, And all the world is sad, desiring thee!"

--Nora Hopper

HELEN OF TROY

I am that Helen, that very Helen Of Leda, born in the days of old: Men's hearts as inns that I might dwell in: Houseless I wander to-night, and cold.

Because man loved me, no G.o.d takes pity: My ghost goes wailing where I was Queen!

Alas! my chamber in Troy's tall city, My golden couches, my hangings green!

Wasted with fire are the halls they built me, And sown with salt are the streets I trod, Where flowers they scattered and spices spilt me-- Alas, that Zeus is a jealous G.o.d!

Softly I went on my sandals golden; Of love and pleasure I took my fill; With Paris' kisses my lips were holden, Nor guessed I, when life went at my will, That the fates behind me went softlier still.

--Nora Hopper

AN ETRUSCAN RING

Where, girt with orchard and with oliveyard, The white hill-fortress glimmers on the hill, Day after day an ancient goldsmith's skill Guided the copper graver, tempered hard By some lost secret, while he shaped the sard Slowly to beauty, and his tiny drill, Edged with corundum, ground its way until The gem lay perfect for the ring to guard.

Then seeing the stone complete to his desire, With mystic imagery carven thus, And dark Egyptian symbols fabulous, He drew through it the delicate golden wire, And bent the fastening; and the Etrurian sun Sank behind Ilva, and the work was done.

What dark-haired daughter of a Luc.u.mo Bore on her slim white finger to the grave This the first gift her Tyrrhene lover gave, Those five-and-twenty centuries ago?

What shadowy dreams might haunt it, lying low So long, while kings and armies, wave on wave, Above the rock-tomb's buried architrave Went trampling million-footed to and fro?

Who knows? but well it is so frail a thing, Unharmed by conquering Time's supremacy, Still should be fair, though scarce less old than Rome.

Now once again at rest from wandering Across the high Alps and the dreadful sea, In utmost England let it find a home.

--J. W. Mackail

ORPHEUS WITH HIS LUTE

Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves when he did sing: To his music, plants and flowers Ever sprung: as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring.

Everything that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by.

In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep or hearing, die.

--William Shakespeare

A HYMN IN PRAISE OF NEPTUNE

Of Neptune's empire let us sing At whose command the waves obey; To whom the rivers tribute pay, Down the high mountains sliding: To whom the scaly nation yields Homage for the crystal fields Wherein they dwell: And every sea-G.o.d pays a gem Yearly out of his wat'ry cell To deck great Neptune's diadem.

The Tritons dancing in a ring Before his palace gates do make The waters with their echoes quake, Like the great thunder sounding: The sea-nymphs chant their accents shrill, And the sirens, taught to kill With their sweet voice, Make every echoing rock reply Unto their gentle murmuring noise The praise of Neptune's empery.

--Thomas Campion

HORACE'S PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE

Book II, Ode 16

(In part, only)

He lives on little, and is blest, On whose plain board the bright Salt-cellar s.h.i.+nes, which was his sire's delight, Nor terrors, nor cupidity's unrest, Disturb his slumbers light.

Why should we still project and plan, We creatures of an hour?

Why fly from clime to clime, new regions scour?

Where is the exile, who, since time began, To fly from self had power?

Fell care climbs brazen galley's sides; Nor troops of horse can fly Her foot, which than the stag's is swifter, ay, Swifter than Eurus when he madly rides The clouds along the sky.

Careless what lies beyond to know, And turning to the best, The present, meet life's bitters with a jest, And smile them down; since nothing here below Is altogether blest.

In manhood's prime Achilles died, t.i.thonus by the slow Decay of age was wasted to a show, And Time may what it hath to thee denied On me perchance bestow.

To me a farm of modest size, And slender vein of song, Such as in Greece flowed vigorous and strong, Kind fate hath given, and spirit to despise The base, malignant throng.

--Sir Theodore Martin

AN INVITATION TO DINE WRITTEN BY HORACE TO VIRGIL

Book IV, Ode 12

Yes, a small box of nard from the stores of Sulpicius[2]

A cask shall elicit, of potency rare To endow with fresh hopes, dewy-bright and delicious, And wash from our hearts every cobweb of care.

If you'd dip in such joys, come--the better the quicker!-- But remember the fee--for it suits not my ends, To let you make havoc, scot-free, 'with my liquor, As though I were one of your heavy-pursed friends.

To the winds with base lucre and pale melancholy!-- In the flames of the pyre these, alas! will be vain, Mix your sage ruminations with glimpses of folly,-- 'Tis delightful at times to be somewhat insane.

--Sir Theodore Martin

[Footnote 2: Virgil must bring some rare perfume in exchange for the rich wine, since Horace thus playfully conditions his invitation.]

THE GOLDEN MEAN