Hoosier Lyrics Part 8

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 n.o.ble cause of letters!

HORACE I, 34.

I have not wors.h.i.+ped G.o.d, my King-- Folly has led my heart astray; Backward I turn my course to learn The wisdom of a wiser way.

How marvelous is G.o.d, the King!

How do His lightnings cleave the sky-- His thundering car spreads fear afar, And even h.e.l.l is quaked thereby!

Omnipotent is G.o.d, 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!

THE "ARS POETICA" OF HORACE--I.

(Lines 1-23.)

Should painters attach to a fair human head The thick, turgid neck of a stallion, Or depict a spruce la.s.s with the tail of a ba.s.s-- I am sure you would guy the rapscallion!

Believe me, dear Pisos, that such a freak Is the crude and preposterous poem Which merely abounds in a torrent of sounds With no depth of reason below 'em.

'Tis all very well to give license to art-- The wisdom of license defend I; But the line should be drawn at the fripperish sprawn Of a mere cacoethes scribendi.

It is too much the fas.h.i.+on to strain at effects-- Yes, that's what's the matter with Hannah!

Our popular taste by the tyros debased Paints each barnyard a grove of Diana!

Should a patron require you to paint a marine, Would you work in some trees with their barks on?

When his strict orders are for a j.a.panese jar, Would you give him a pitcher like Clarkson?

Now this is my moral: Compose what you may, And fame will be ever far distant, Unless you combine with a simple design A treatment in toto consistent.

THE GREAT JOURNALIST IN SPAIN.

Good Editor Dana--G.o.d bless him, we say!

Will soon be afloat on the main, Will be steaming away Through the mist and the spray To the sensuous climate of Spain.

Strange sights shall he see in that beautiful land Which is famed for its soap and Moor, For, as we understand, The scenery is grand, Though the system of railway is poor.

For moonlight of silver and sunlight of gold Glint the orchards of lemons and mangoes, And the ladies, we're told, Are a joy to behold As they twine in their lissome fandangoes.

What though our friend Dana shall tw.a.n.g a guitar And murmur a pa.s.sionate strain-- Oh, fairer by far Than these ravishments are The castles abounding in Spain!

These castles are built as the builder may list-- They are sometimes of marble or stone, But they mostly consist Of east wind and mist With an ivy of froth overgrown.

A beautiful castle our Dana shall raise On a futile foundation of hope, And its glories shall blaze In the somnolent haze Of the mythical lake del y Soap.

The fragrance of sunflowers shall swoon on the air, And the visions of dreamland obtain, And the song of "World's Fair"

Shall be heard everywhere Through that beautiful castle in Spain.

REID, THE CANDIDATE.

I saw a brave compositor Go hustling o'er the mead, Who bore a banner with these words: "Hurrah for Whitelaw Reid!"

"Where go you, brother slug," I asked, "With such unusual speed?"

He quoth: "I go to dump my vote For gallant Whitelaw Reid!"

"But what has Whitelaw done," I asked, "That now he should succeed?"