THE SONG OF METRODORUS.

Παντοίην βιότοιο τάμοις τρίβον. εἰν ἀγορῇ μέυκύδεα καὶ πινυταὶ πρήξιες. ἐυ δὲ δόμοιςἄμπανμ’. ἐν δ’ἀγροῖς Φύσιος χάρις. ἐν δὲ ζαλάσσηκέρδος. ἐπὶ ξείνης, ἢν μὲν ἔχης τι, κλέος.ν δ’ ἀπορὴς, μόνος οἶδας. ἔχεις γάμον; οἶκος ἄριστοςἔσσεται. οὐ γαμέεις; ζης ἔτ’ ἐλαφρότερον.τέκνα πόζος. ἄφροντις ἄπαμς βίος. αἱ νεότητεςῥωμαλέαι. πολιαὶ δ’ ἔμπαλιν εὐσεβέες.οὐκ ἄρα τῶν δισσῶν ἑνὸς αἵρεσις, ἢ τὸ γενέζαιμηδέποτ’, ἢ τὸ ζανειν. πάντα γὰρ ἐσζλὰ βίῳ.

Παντοίην βιότοιο τάμοις τρίβον. εἰν ἀγορῇ μέυ

κύδεα καὶ πινυταὶ πρήξιες. ἐυ δὲ δόμοις

ἄμπανμ’. ἐν δ’ἀγροῖς Φύσιος χάρις. ἐν δὲ ζαλάσση

κέρδος. ἐπὶ ξείνης, ἢν μὲν ἔχης τι, κλέος.

ν δ’ ἀπορὴς, μόνος οἶδας. ἔχεις γάμον; οἶκος ἄριστος

ἔσσεται. οὐ γαμέεις; ζης ἔτ’ ἐλαφρότερον.

τέκνα πόζος. ἄφροντις ἄπαμς βίος. αἱ νεότητες

ῥωμαλέαι. πολιαὶ δ’ ἔμπαλιν εὐσεβέες.

οὐκ ἄρα τῶν δισσῶν ἑνὸς αἵρεσις, ἢ τὸ γενέζαι

μηδέποτ’, ἢ τὸ ζανειν. πάντα γὰρ ἐσζλὰ βίῳ.

Metrodorus was a rare old blade,His wine he drank, his prayers he said,And did his duty duly;But with grave affairs of Church and StateHe never fretted his smooth pate,For he said, and he said full truly,If a man about and about will go,To mend all matters high and low,He’ll find no rest full surely.In his chair of ease a thorn will grow,The gall will in his bladder flow,Thick seeds of sorrow he will sow,And make his dearest friend a foe,And go to the grave prematurely.One day he sate beside the fire,With all things square to his desire—A wintry day, when Boreas blewThrough the piping hills with a halloo—Just after dinner, when the wineOn the tip of his nose was glowing fine.A pleasant vapour ’fore him floats,The logs are blazing brightly,And in his brain the happy thoughtsBegin to move full lightly.He never wrote a verse before,Though now he counted good threescore,And scarcely knew what poets meant,When in their high conceited bentThey talked of inspiration.But now his soul a fancy stirred;He trilled and chirped like any bird;His bright imaginationPoured forth a pleasant flowing verse,Which, if you please, I will rehearseFor gentle meditation.’Twas Greek of course, but by the skillMade English, of my classic quill,As good, or better, if you will,In this my free translation.

Metrodorus was a rare old blade,

His wine he drank, his prayers he said,

And did his duty duly;

But with grave affairs of Church and State

He never fretted his smooth pate,

For he said, and he said full truly,

If a man about and about will go,

To mend all matters high and low,

He’ll find no rest full surely.

In his chair of ease a thorn will grow,

The gall will in his bladder flow,

Thick seeds of sorrow he will sow,

And make his dearest friend a foe,

And go to the grave prematurely.

One day he sate beside the fire,

With all things square to his desire

—A wintry day, when Boreas blew

Through the piping hills with a halloo—

Just after dinner, when the wine

On the tip of his nose was glowing fine.

A pleasant vapour ’fore him floats,

The logs are blazing brightly,

And in his brain the happy thoughts

Begin to move full lightly.

He never wrote a verse before,

Though now he counted good threescore,

And scarcely knew what poets meant,

When in their high conceited bent

They talked of inspiration.

But now his soul a fancy stirred;

He trilled and chirped like any bird;

His bright imagination

Poured forth a pleasant flowing verse,

Which, if you please, I will rehearse

For gentle meditation.

’Twas Greek of course, but by the skill

Made English, of my classic quill,

As good, or better, if you will,

In this my free translation.

1.They may rail at this world, and say that the devilRules o’er it, usurping the mace of the Lord;In my soul I detest all such impious cavil,While I sit as a guest at life’s bountiful board.I was young; I am old, and my temples are hoary,On Time’s rocking tide I have gallantly oared;This wisdom I learned, ’tis the sum of my story,With blessings God’s earth like a garner is stored.2.You blame your condition; by Jove I was neverSo placed that I could not with pride be a man;At rest or afloat on life’s far-sounding river,Content was my watchword, enjoyment my plan.Where busy men bustle, to elbow and jostleWhat sport! then at home how delightful repose!What comfort and pleasure your body to measureAt large in the elbow-chair, toasting your toes!3.A soldier? how gallant through smoke and through thunderTo ride like the lightning, when Jupiter roars;A farmer? to gaze on the green leafy wonderOf April how sweet, and to think on the storesOf golden-sheaved autumn!—to dash through the billowIs dear to the merchant who carries his gains;How sweet to the poet on green grassy pillow,To lie when spring zephyrs are fanning his brains!4.When you find a good wife, Nature urges to marry;But art thou a bachelor, never complain;Less sail you display, but less burden you carry,And over yourself like a king you may reign.’Tis pleasant to hear children prattling around you,Thank Heaven you’ve arrows enough for your bow;But if you love quiet, they’ll only confound you,So if now you have none—may it ever be so!5.Art young? then rejoice in thy youth,—give the pinionOf passion free play—love and hate like a man;And gather around thee a mighty dominionOf venturous thoughts, like the crest-waving vanOf a conquering host. Art old? reputationAnd honour shall find thee and pleasures serene,And a power like to Jove’s, when the fate of the nationShall wait on thy word in the hall of the queen.6.Blow hot or blow cold, with hearty endeavourStill witch out a virtue from all that you see;Use well what you get, giving thanks to the Giver,And think everything good in its place and degree.I’ve told you my thoughts, and I think you’re my debtor,And if you don’t think so, I wish you were dead;The sooner you rot on a dunghill the better,You’re not worth the straw that they shake for your bed.

They may rail at this world, and say that the devil

Rules o’er it, usurping the mace of the Lord;

In my soul I detest all such impious cavil,

While I sit as a guest at life’s bountiful board.

I was young; I am old, and my temples are hoary,

On Time’s rocking tide I have gallantly oared;

This wisdom I learned, ’tis the sum of my story,

With blessings God’s earth like a garner is stored.

2.You blame your condition; by Jove I was neverSo placed that I could not with pride be a man;At rest or afloat on life’s far-sounding river,Content was my watchword, enjoyment my plan.Where busy men bustle, to elbow and jostleWhat sport! then at home how delightful repose!What comfort and pleasure your body to measureAt large in the elbow-chair, toasting your toes!

You blame your condition; by Jove I was never

So placed that I could not with pride be a man;

At rest or afloat on life’s far-sounding river,

Content was my watchword, enjoyment my plan.

Where busy men bustle, to elbow and jostle

What sport! then at home how delightful repose!

What comfort and pleasure your body to measure

At large in the elbow-chair, toasting your toes!

3.A soldier? how gallant through smoke and through thunderTo ride like the lightning, when Jupiter roars;A farmer? to gaze on the green leafy wonderOf April how sweet, and to think on the storesOf golden-sheaved autumn!—to dash through the billowIs dear to the merchant who carries his gains;How sweet to the poet on green grassy pillow,To lie when spring zephyrs are fanning his brains!

A soldier? how gallant through smoke and through thunder

To ride like the lightning, when Jupiter roars;

A farmer? to gaze on the green leafy wonder

Of April how sweet, and to think on the stores

Of golden-sheaved autumn!—to dash through the billow

Is dear to the merchant who carries his gains;

How sweet to the poet on green grassy pillow,

To lie when spring zephyrs are fanning his brains!

4.When you find a good wife, Nature urges to marry;But art thou a bachelor, never complain;Less sail you display, but less burden you carry,And over yourself like a king you may reign.’Tis pleasant to hear children prattling around you,Thank Heaven you’ve arrows enough for your bow;But if you love quiet, they’ll only confound you,So if now you have none—may it ever be so!

When you find a good wife, Nature urges to marry;

But art thou a bachelor, never complain;

Less sail you display, but less burden you carry,

And over yourself like a king you may reign.

’Tis pleasant to hear children prattling around you,

Thank Heaven you’ve arrows enough for your bow;

But if you love quiet, they’ll only confound you,

So if now you have none—may it ever be so!

5.Art young? then rejoice in thy youth,—give the pinionOf passion free play—love and hate like a man;And gather around thee a mighty dominionOf venturous thoughts, like the crest-waving vanOf a conquering host. Art old? reputationAnd honour shall find thee and pleasures serene,And a power like to Jove’s, when the fate of the nationShall wait on thy word in the hall of the queen.

Art young? then rejoice in thy youth,—give the pinion

Of passion free play—love and hate like a man;

And gather around thee a mighty dominion

Of venturous thoughts, like the crest-waving van

Of a conquering host. Art old? reputation

And honour shall find thee and pleasures serene,

And a power like to Jove’s, when the fate of the nation

Shall wait on thy word in the hall of the queen.

6.Blow hot or blow cold, with hearty endeavourStill witch out a virtue from all that you see;Use well what you get, giving thanks to the Giver,And think everything good in its place and degree.I’ve told you my thoughts, and I think you’re my debtor,And if you don’t think so, I wish you were dead;The sooner you rot on a dunghill the better,You’re not worth the straw that they shake for your bed.

Blow hot or blow cold, with hearty endeavour

Still witch out a virtue from all that you see;

Use well what you get, giving thanks to the Giver,

And think everything good in its place and degree.

I’ve told you my thoughts, and I think you’re my debtor,

And if you don’t think so, I wish you were dead;

The sooner you rot on a dunghill the better,

You’re not worth the straw that they shake for your bed.

Back to Index Next