LUCULLUS DINES—

[59B. C.]

I dine in the Apollo room tonight,With Cicero and Pompey! See to it!Cicero! Pompey! But ten years agoLucullus was the hero, ConquerorOf Mithridates, Rescuer of Rome!All’s Pompey now; he goes far—and has gone;And, with it all, is just the honest, brave,Young captain that I saw that hot, raw, day;The first day of my shame. Oh gods, gods, gods!Must Rome have always victories, victories,Incredible conquests till the whole world reels,And still thrust traps into my path untilI fall at last?When Pompey came I knew.Oh he was kind, quite kind, considerateOf the old bitter man there who had failed,Recalled without a triumph! He was kindIn all his splendid, conquering, strength and youth!Yet, I had beaten Mithridates. SoLet the old lion growl through teeth once sharp!This sordid squabble of a vulgar crowdOf stiff patricians, ranting demagogues,Serves well for others. I, I have my trees,My cherries, rooted firm in Roman soil,Shedding a delicate whiteness on the hillsWhen spring comes. A far greater triumph thatThan all my conquests.Yes, they know me well,These young men, “That old dragon on the hill,Who gives such gorgeous dinners. Gods, his wines!Fit for Apollo!”Yes, an excellent host,Learned in sauces, skilled in oysters, game;Within whose heart no spark of ancient fireBurns on.... Oh Power! Power! Once to leadAn army, once again, and see the thickRain of the Parthian arrows and the blazeAs forty brazen cohorts broke the foe!The thin lines buckle, the black masses fly!Imperator Romanus!No, Lucullus,But the good host who—plants his cherry-trees!Love? I have loved once, once.... That awful dayWe stormed in through the gates of Amisus....The loot-mad soldiers, howling, smote the townDown in a mud of blood and dirt and wine,Bodies and gold and priceless tapestries.Half-mad I rushed to stop them, beat and struck;I think they would have murdered me at once,But that one drunkard yelled “The General!Lower your swords, lads! Sir, we won this town!You take your pleasures and let us take ours!”I reeled into the blackness of an arch,And saw before me, white-robed, laurel-crowned,Just such a maiden as might once have dancedAlong the friezes of the Parthenon;A face like that on an old silver coin,Demetrius sent me, clear-cut, beautifulWith all the burning beauty of the Greek.Pure and serene her grey eyes gazed in mine....We spoke few words; what need to speak at allWhen just our eyes told all we had to tell,There in the soft, cool blackness, splashed with lightFrom the red pools of burning wine without?Few words. They chime like little silver bellsWithin my heart now, or like trumpet blastsBear up my soul a little towards the gods.We had three years. She died before my fall.I thought of love as a crooked knife,As a soft and passionate lord;Born when the kings’ beards dipped in wineAnd the gold cups clashed on the board.But my love came like a blast of cold,A straight, clean, sword.I thought of love as a secret thing,For an hour of incensed ease,When breast and breast together cling,Under sweet-scented trees.My love is all good-comradeship,More great than these.I thought of love as a toy for a day,Soon to be over-passed;Light and frail as a hollow shell,That into the brook is cast.My love holds while the earth endures,And the suns stand fast.I thought of love as mixed with earth,One with the bloom of the sods.My love is air and wine and fire,Breaker of metes and rods,A slender javelin tipped with light,Hurled at the gods.Life lies before me like a platter of coins.“Here are the new ones! Mark the choice design!”All cry: for me the others fade and dim,And one alone shines clear, an old Greek coinDemetrius sent me ... and that lovely face....Pompey would say that I am growing old,And Cicero would turn a phrase with meIn his next great oration, as a typeOf the old fool who mumbles of days past.Meanwhile I have my orchards—and my feasts.Those turbot now; the sauce is very good,A peacock’s breast is good, too, at this time,With other things, as——old Falernian,Tarentine oysters, and sweet wines from Thrace....Tarentine oysters and sweet wines from Thrace.

I dine in the Apollo room tonight,With Cicero and Pompey! See to it!

I dine in the Apollo room tonight,

With Cicero and Pompey! See to it!

Cicero! Pompey! But ten years agoLucullus was the hero, ConquerorOf Mithridates, Rescuer of Rome!All’s Pompey now; he goes far—and has gone;And, with it all, is just the honest, brave,Young captain that I saw that hot, raw, day;The first day of my shame. Oh gods, gods, gods!Must Rome have always victories, victories,Incredible conquests till the whole world reels,And still thrust traps into my path untilI fall at last?When Pompey came I knew.Oh he was kind, quite kind, considerateOf the old bitter man there who had failed,Recalled without a triumph! He was kindIn all his splendid, conquering, strength and youth!Yet, I had beaten Mithridates. SoLet the old lion growl through teeth once sharp!This sordid squabble of a vulgar crowdOf stiff patricians, ranting demagogues,Serves well for others. I, I have my trees,My cherries, rooted firm in Roman soil,Shedding a delicate whiteness on the hillsWhen spring comes. A far greater triumph thatThan all my conquests.Yes, they know me well,These young men, “That old dragon on the hill,Who gives such gorgeous dinners. Gods, his wines!Fit for Apollo!”Yes, an excellent host,Learned in sauces, skilled in oysters, game;Within whose heart no spark of ancient fireBurns on.... Oh Power! Power! Once to leadAn army, once again, and see the thickRain of the Parthian arrows and the blazeAs forty brazen cohorts broke the foe!The thin lines buckle, the black masses fly!Imperator Romanus!No, Lucullus,But the good host who—plants his cherry-trees!

Cicero! Pompey! But ten years ago

Lucullus was the hero, Conqueror

Of Mithridates, Rescuer of Rome!

All’s Pompey now; he goes far—and has gone;

And, with it all, is just the honest, brave,

Young captain that I saw that hot, raw, day;

The first day of my shame. Oh gods, gods, gods!

Must Rome have always victories, victories,

Incredible conquests till the whole world reels,

And still thrust traps into my path until

I fall at last?

When Pompey came I knew.

Oh he was kind, quite kind, considerate

Of the old bitter man there who had failed,

Recalled without a triumph! He was kind

In all his splendid, conquering, strength and youth!

Yet, I had beaten Mithridates. So

Let the old lion growl through teeth once sharp!

This sordid squabble of a vulgar crowd

Of stiff patricians, ranting demagogues,

Serves well for others. I, I have my trees,

My cherries, rooted firm in Roman soil,

Shedding a delicate whiteness on the hills

When spring comes. A far greater triumph that

Than all my conquests.

Yes, they know me well,

These young men, “That old dragon on the hill,

Who gives such gorgeous dinners. Gods, his wines!

Fit for Apollo!”

Yes, an excellent host,

Learned in sauces, skilled in oysters, game;

Within whose heart no spark of ancient fire

Burns on.... Oh Power! Power! Once to lead

An army, once again, and see the thick

Rain of the Parthian arrows and the blaze

As forty brazen cohorts broke the foe!

The thin lines buckle, the black masses fly!

Imperator Romanus!

No, Lucullus,

But the good host who—plants his cherry-trees!

Love? I have loved once, once.... That awful dayWe stormed in through the gates of Amisus....The loot-mad soldiers, howling, smote the townDown in a mud of blood and dirt and wine,Bodies and gold and priceless tapestries.Half-mad I rushed to stop them, beat and struck;I think they would have murdered me at once,But that one drunkard yelled “The General!Lower your swords, lads! Sir, we won this town!You take your pleasures and let us take ours!”I reeled into the blackness of an arch,And saw before me, white-robed, laurel-crowned,Just such a maiden as might once have dancedAlong the friezes of the Parthenon;A face like that on an old silver coin,Demetrius sent me, clear-cut, beautifulWith all the burning beauty of the Greek.Pure and serene her grey eyes gazed in mine....We spoke few words; what need to speak at allWhen just our eyes told all we had to tell,There in the soft, cool blackness, splashed with lightFrom the red pools of burning wine without?

Love? I have loved once, once.... That awful day

We stormed in through the gates of Amisus....

The loot-mad soldiers, howling, smote the town

Down in a mud of blood and dirt and wine,

Bodies and gold and priceless tapestries.

Half-mad I rushed to stop them, beat and struck;

I think they would have murdered me at once,

But that one drunkard yelled “The General!

Lower your swords, lads! Sir, we won this town!

You take your pleasures and let us take ours!”

I reeled into the blackness of an arch,

And saw before me, white-robed, laurel-crowned,

Just such a maiden as might once have danced

Along the friezes of the Parthenon;

A face like that on an old silver coin,

Demetrius sent me, clear-cut, beautiful

With all the burning beauty of the Greek.

Pure and serene her grey eyes gazed in mine....

We spoke few words; what need to speak at all

When just our eyes told all we had to tell,

There in the soft, cool blackness, splashed with light

From the red pools of burning wine without?

Few words. They chime like little silver bellsWithin my heart now, or like trumpet blastsBear up my soul a little towards the gods.

Few words. They chime like little silver bells

Within my heart now, or like trumpet blasts

Bear up my soul a little towards the gods.

We had three years. She died before my fall.

I thought of love as a crooked knife,As a soft and passionate lord;Born when the kings’ beards dipped in wineAnd the gold cups clashed on the board.But my love came like a blast of cold,A straight, clean, sword.

I thought of love as a crooked knife,

As a soft and passionate lord;

Born when the kings’ beards dipped in wine

And the gold cups clashed on the board.

But my love came like a blast of cold,

A straight, clean, sword.

I thought of love as a secret thing,For an hour of incensed ease,When breast and breast together cling,Under sweet-scented trees.My love is all good-comradeship,More great than these.

I thought of love as a secret thing,

For an hour of incensed ease,

When breast and breast together cling,

Under sweet-scented trees.

My love is all good-comradeship,

More great than these.

I thought of love as a toy for a day,Soon to be over-passed;Light and frail as a hollow shell,That into the brook is cast.My love holds while the earth endures,And the suns stand fast.

I thought of love as a toy for a day,

Soon to be over-passed;

Light and frail as a hollow shell,

That into the brook is cast.

My love holds while the earth endures,

And the suns stand fast.

I thought of love as mixed with earth,One with the bloom of the sods.My love is air and wine and fire,Breaker of metes and rods,A slender javelin tipped with light,Hurled at the gods.

I thought of love as mixed with earth,

One with the bloom of the sods.

My love is air and wine and fire,

Breaker of metes and rods,

A slender javelin tipped with light,

Hurled at the gods.

Life lies before me like a platter of coins.“Here are the new ones! Mark the choice design!”All cry: for me the others fade and dim,And one alone shines clear, an old Greek coinDemetrius sent me ... and that lovely face....

Life lies before me like a platter of coins.

“Here are the new ones! Mark the choice design!”

All cry: for me the others fade and dim,

And one alone shines clear, an old Greek coin

Demetrius sent me ... and that lovely face....

Pompey would say that I am growing old,And Cicero would turn a phrase with meIn his next great oration, as a typeOf the old fool who mumbles of days past.

Pompey would say that I am growing old,

And Cicero would turn a phrase with me

In his next great oration, as a type

Of the old fool who mumbles of days past.

Meanwhile I have my orchards—and my feasts.Those turbot now; the sauce is very good,A peacock’s breast is good, too, at this time,With other things, as——old Falernian,Tarentine oysters, and sweet wines from Thrace....

Meanwhile I have my orchards—and my feasts.

Those turbot now; the sauce is very good,

A peacock’s breast is good, too, at this time,

With other things, as——old Falernian,

Tarentine oysters, and sweet wines from Thrace....

Tarentine oysters and sweet wines from Thrace.

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