Echoes from the Sabine Farm Part 3

TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS

I

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!

TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS

II

Grieve not, my Albius, if thoughts of Glycera may haunt you, Nor chant your mournful elegies because she faithless proves; If now a younger man than you this cruel charmer loves, Let not the kindly favors of the past rise up to taunt you.

Lycoris of the little brow for Cyrus feels a pa.s.sion, And Cyrus, on the other hand, toward Pholoe inclines; But ere this crafty Cyrus can accomplish his designs She-goats will wed Apulian wolves in deference to fas.h.i.+on.

Such is the will, the cruel will, of love-inciting Venus, Who takes delight in wanton sport and ill-considered jokes, And brings ridiculous misfits beneath her brazen yokes,-- A very infelicitous proceeding, just between us.

As for myself, young Myrtale, slave-born and lacking graces, And wilder than the Adrian tides which form Calabrian bays, Entangled me in pleasing chains and compromising ways, When--just my luck--a better girl was courting my embraces.

TO MaeCENAS

Maecenas, thou of royalty's descent, Both my protector and dear ornament, Among humanity's conditions are Those who take pleasure in the flying car, Whirling Olympian dust, as on they roll, And shunning with the glowing wheel the goal; While the enn.o.bling palm, the prize of worth, Exalts them to the G.o.ds, the lords of earth.

Here one is happy if the fickle crowd His name the threefold honor has allowed; And there another, if into his stores Comes what is swept from Libyan thres.h.i.+ng-floors.

He who delights to till his father's lands, And grasps the delving-hoe with willing hands, Can never to Attalic offers hark, Or cut the Myrtoan Sea with Cyprian bark.

The merchant, timorous of Afric's breeze, When fiercely struggling with Icarian seas Praises the restful quiet of his home, Nor wishes from the peaceful fields to roam; Ah, speedily his shattered s.h.i.+ps he mends,-- To poverty his lesson ne'er extends.

One there may be who never scorns to fill His cups with mellow draughts from Ma.s.sic's hill, Nor from the busy day an hour to wean, Now stretched at length beneath the arbute green, Now at the softly whispering spring, to dream Of the fair nymphs who haunt the sacred stream.

For camp and trump and clarion some have zest,-- The cruel wars the mothers so detest.

'Neath the cold sky the hunter spends his life, Unmindful of his home and tender wife, Whether the doe is seen by faithful hounds Or Marsian boar through the fine meshes bounds.

But as for me, the ivy-wreaths, the prize Of learned brows, exalt me to the skies; The shady grove, the nymphs and satyrs there, Draw me away from people everywhere; If it may be, Euterpe's flute inspires, Or Polyhymnia strikes the Lesbian lyres; And if you place me where no bard debars, With head exalted I shall strike the stars!

TO HIS BOOK

You vain, self-conscious little book, Companion of my happy days, How eagerly you seem to look For wider fields to spread your lays; My desk and locks cannot contain you, Nor blush of modesty restrain you.

Well, then, begone, fool that thou art!

But do not come to me and cry, When critics strike you to the heart: "Oh, wretched little book am I!"

You know I tried to educate you To shun the fate that must await you.

In youth you may encounter friends (Pray this prediction be not wrong), But wait until old age descends And thumbs have smeared your gentlest song; Then will the moths connive to eat you And rural libraries secrete you.

However, should a friend some word Of my obscure career request, Tell him how deeply I was stirred To spread my wings beyond the nest; Take from my years, which are before you, To boom my merits, I implore you.

Tell him that I am short and fat, Quick in my temper, soon appeased, With locks of gray,--but what of that?

Loving the sun, with nature pleased.

I'm more than four and forty, hark you,-- But ready for a night off, mark you!

FAME _vs._ RICHES

The Greeks had genius,--'t was 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!

THE LYRIC MUSE

I love the lyric muse!

For when mankind ran wild in grooves Came holy Orpheus with his songs And turned men's hearts from b.e.s.t.i.a.l loves, From brutal force and savage wrongs; Amphion, too, and on his lyre Made such sweet music all the day That rocks, instinct with warm desire, Pursued him in his glorious way.

I love the lyric muse!

Hers was the wisdom that of yore Taught man the rights of fellow man, Taught him to wors.h.i.+p G.o.d the more, And to revere love's holy ban.

Hers was the hand that jotted down The laws correcting divers wrongs; And so came honor and renown To bards and to their n.o.ble songs.

I love the lyric muse!

Old Homer sung unto the lyre; Tyrtaeus, too, in ancient days; Still warmed by their immortal fire, How doth our patriot spirit blaze!

The oracle, when questioned, sings; So our first steps in life are taught.

In verse we soothe the pride of kings, In verse the drama has been wrought.

I love the lyric muse!

Be not ashamed, O n.o.ble friend, In honest grat.i.tude to pay Thy homage to the G.o.ds that send This boon to charm all ill away.

With solemn tenderness revere This voiceful glory as a shrine Wherein the quickened heart may hear The counsels of a voice divine!