THE CHRISTMAS LETTER
I'm always glad when Christmas comes, and yet I'd like it better;If mother wouldn't bother me to write a Christmas letterTo uncle John and Cousin Kate and dear old Grand-aunt Gray,And all whose presents come to me from places far away.Of course I love my presents, and if givers should forget her,No little girl, my mother says, need write a Christmas letter.For oh! my ink makes awful blots, though I try to do real well,And when you write them out of school, all words are hard to spell.I mean to mind my mother, she's so kind I would not fret her,But when she says, "Stop playing, dear. Come, write this Christmas letter,"That's just the thing I hate to hear, and if I dared, I wouldn'tRemember how to hold a pen, I'd make believe I couldn't.
A VICTIM
My Auntie has a camera, and when I'm out at playAnd see her coming with it, I try to hide away.For oh, it is so bothersome to hear her, with a laugh,Call, "Stand just were you are, dear; I'll take a photograph."Sometimes, an angry lion, I have just begun to roar,And all the children run from me to sneak behind the door,When Auntie to our forest comes—why does she stop our fun?I'd like to shoot that camera there with my wooden gun.Perhaps, a fire engine, I am rushing to a fire,While people loudly call for help as flames rise higher and higher.I hurry toward the hydrant here, for oh! the flames are hot!When Auntie with her camera cries, "What a fine snapshot!"But then it doesn't seem to snap, so I must be polite,And when she says, "Oh please, stand still, the sun is not just right,"I have to pull up where I am, and see that house burn down,For Auntie doesn't understand, even when I twist and frown.She only says, "Don't squirm, my pet! Oh, what a cunning pose!Your scowl is better than a smile,"—so that's the way it goes—A p'liceman or an admiral, no matter what I am,I have to face that camera as quiet as a lamb.
JACK FROST
Oh! it is little Margery who has a garden-bed,Wherein grow purple pansies and geraniums white and red,With feverfew and dahlias, and delicate pink phlox,And grandmother's fair favorites, old-fashioned hollyhocks.One night we feared Jack Frost might come to blight the tender flowers—We almost felt his cruel breath in the early evening hours;So Margery took coverings and spread them, thick and warm,To shield the flowers, as blankets wrap a sleeping baby's form.Then in the morning, when we looked across the dewy grass,And saw the traces Jack Frost leaves where he is wont to pass—For each spreading tree and slender bush had felt his chill caress,And some had drooped, and some had blushed in crimson loveliness—We hastened to the garden-bed, and there, in bright array,The little flowers looked blithely up to greet the smiling day.Safe hid from Jack Frost's piercing breath, he never saw them there,And the flowers still bloom for Margery, to thank her for her care.
A CURIOSITY
I knew a little boy, not very long ago,Who was as bright and happy as any boy you know.He had an only fault, and you will all agreeThat from a fault like this a boy himself might free."I wonder who is there, oh, see! now, why is this?"And "Oh, where are they going?" and "Tell me what it is?"Ah! "which" and "why" and "who," and "what" and "where" and "when,"We often wished that never need we hear those words again.He seldom stopped to think; he almost always knewThe answer to the questions that around the world he threw.To children seeking knowledge a quick reply we give,But answering what he asked was pouring water through a sieve.Yet you'll admit his fate was as sad as it was strange.Our eyes we hardly trusted, who slowly saw him change.More curious grew his head, stemlike his limbs, and hark!He was at last a mere interrogation-mark!
THE FIRST LIE
I'm sure I did not break this cup;It just fell down,—I know it did—For I was only climbing up,Whydo they keep the cake-box hid?—I wanted such a little bit!And then I heard that creaking door,I can't tell what it was I hit,Nor how that cup got on the floor.The shelf it stood on was too high,That cup my mother loved the most!Oh dear! I never told a lie,And mother whispered, "Do not boast,"The day I said I never could.(But there's that broken cup!)—and thenI promised that I never would—So—I'll not tell a lie—again.
THE PARASOL
You are the loveliest parasolI ever saw,—and all my own,—What frilly frills! I feel as tallAs mother now. Here! take my doll.Dolls are for children—ladies grownHave parasols, and fans, and rings,And all those pretty, shiny things.Nurse calls you "sunshade," but I thinkThat is too plain a word, for see!You are so satiny and pinkAnd there is such a curly kinkHere in your handle, there could beNo name too fine, I love you so,I'll take you everywhere I go.Next Sunday when to church I walk,Above my head I'll hold you high.Oh! how the other girls will talk,And maybe some of them will mock,"How proud she feels," as I pass by—I'd hold you up, straight down the aisle,If only people wouldn't smile.
A MODERN GRANDMOTHER
I want to see a grandmother like those there used to be,In a cosy little farm-house, where I could go to tea;A grandmother with spectacles and a funny, frilly cap,Who would make me sugar cookies, and take me on her lap,And tell me lots of stories of the days when she was small,When everything was perfect—not like today at all.My grandmother is "grandma," and she lives in a hotel,And when they ask "What is his age?" she smiles and will not tell.Says she doesn't care to realize that she is growing old;Then whispers—"But you're far too big a boy for me to hold."Her dresses shine and rustle, and her hair is wavy brown,And she has an automobile, that she steers, herself, down town.My grandmother is pretty. "Do I love her?" Rather—yes;Our Norah calls her stylish, and on the whole I guessShe's better than the other kind, for once, when I was ill,She helped my mother nurse me, and read to me untilI fell asleep; and stayed with me, and wasn't tired, and thenShe played nine holes of golf with me when I got out again.Yet, because I've never seen one, just once I want to seeA real old-fashioned grandmother, like those there used to be.
SIGNS FOR THE SERIOUS
He has a taste that's superfine who flouts at every subway sign,He reckons not that some there be, who cannot tell, unless they seeSpelled plain before them on the wall, what things their own they ought to callFor instance, when I come to town, whom you may dub a country clown—How should I know what things to buy, if not a subway sign were nighTo show—the pills I ought to take my all-consuming thirst to slake;—The hair restorer that will soothe my infant son with his first tooth;—The ruddy catsup that is sure all family jars and ills to cure;—The dollar watch that daintily we'll serve, wound-up, for early tea;—The window-screens that will not hide our failings from the country-side;—What breakfast-food is our true friend, the dime cigars that I should sendMy wife to cure her racking cough. The hooks and eyes that won't come offAh! hats, and soaps, and castor-oil, and cocoa that we need not boil;—And well-made suits and patent soup, and phonographs.—But what a dupeOf every city tradesman I, if all these vendibles I'd tryTo purchase by my native wit! Yet what the subway "best" has writIn flaming words, with weird device—that make I mine,—and pay the price.
TRIMMING
When your father, long ago, tried to train you—and you knowHe thought mornings meant for school, and not for swimming—How your heart beat loud in dread as relentlessly he said,"You'llremember—when you've had another trimming."When your daughter buys a hat, and you're wondering thereat,As before the glass she stands, its beauty hymning;Ah! the mischief in her eyes, as she pleads, "Show no surpriseAt thecost. One has to pay forpretty trimming."When the butcher brings your bill, and you stare at it untilYour tongue with fervid words is fairly brimming,Then you hear him meekly say, as your anger you display,"It seems high, because there's so muchwastein trimming."So when politicians try your votes to beg or buyWith their sophistry—your common sense that's dimming—Justrememberthen thecost(and thewaste, should all be lost),Of the smooth-tongued, wordy trimmer'spretty trimming.
THE ANNEX
"Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage"High halls do not a College make, nor book-lined shelves a sage.So might I follow haltingly these olden words to showThat even in this newer home the Annex may not knowA greater zeal for learning than the old house could bestow.But comparisons are odious, so I'll merely try to sayThat cherished deep within the hearts of many here todayIs the memory of that early home in the classic Appian Way.There first did the young Annex (whose real Christian nameContains as many syllables as it has liens on fame)Win laurels even brighter than its friends had hoped to claim.And there, too, in their search, for intellectual recreationIts students formed the short-livedAppian Way AssociationOf which this later Club is but an "Idler" imitation.Just where the interloper dwelt was long a mystery.In the past to Harvard students and to townsmen equally,Till they cried, "There is no Annex—believe we only what we see!"Now the Annex and its mission every year are better known,From the smallest of beginnings strong and powerful it has grown:Only Harvard Freshmen speak of it in supercilious tone,Although custom would forbid us as we are passing near,To salute the ancient building with a rousing Annex cheer,We need no sign like this to prove that still we hold it dear.Now the students who have profited by their foreseeing careFondly thank the Annex founders who knew not the word "despair."Its best home was the hearts of those who planned the structure fair.
(Read at a College celebration.)
A LIBERTY BOND
A liberty bond! What a queer contradiction!Although truth, as you've heard, may be stranger than fiction.For Liberty should from all fetters release us,While bonds hold one fast, whether pauper or Crœsus.Yet a Liberty Bond—I'd advise you to buy it—Will ensure you your freedom—you'll see when you try it.'Twill aid you to conquer foes cruel, despotic,'Twill help save your Country, come, be patriotic!A Liberty Bond—I'd advise you to buy one—Will ensure you your freedom—rejoice when you try one!
A HERO
Like many another I have crossedOftener than once the broad Atlantic,And—feeling qualms when tempest-tossed,Have shuddered at the waves gigantic,Fearing that really nevermoreI'd find myself again ashore.Then when—upset—and scarce awake,In moments of perturbed reflection,My wandering thoughts would slowly takeTime and again the same direction.I'd think of that adventurous man,Who crossed the sea—first of my clan.'Tis not for me to hope to findUpon my family tree's broad branchesAncestors wholly to my mind;I know that I am taking chancesIn digging them up from the pastTo deck this hardy tree at last.Indeed I would not waste my breath,And even less my ink and paper,To prove from Queen ElizabethIs my descent (somecut this caper),Nor in King Alfred root my tree—Here's jocund genealogy.A Governor or two, of course,—Or even a Colonial preacherI'd not despise,—nor yet perforceA good Selectman, stern of feature,Provided they came early here.Such ancestors to me are dear.Yet of them all the man I holdA mighty hero—none seems greater—Is he—that honest man and bold—Whether Psalm-singer, or bear-baiter,First of my name to reach the strand,Of this almost unpeopled land.He may have been of high estate,He may have been a simple yeoman,Undaunted by an adverse fate,Brave was he as the bravest Roman.At naught he quailed, his heart was stout,When he for the New World set out.Compared with mine—a little skiffHis boat was, on the untracked ocean,Comforts were scarce, and breezes stiff—No luxuries,—though I've a notionBillows were just as high as now,While Danger sat upon the prow.Just where would be his landing-place.He hardly knew when waves he tossed onWhile my woes at sea effaceBy merely murmuring, "Home is Boston."Yet he had left his all behindIn the new world his all to find."R-e-e-d"—"e-i"—"e-a,"Just how we spell it need not matter.The name we honor here todayEach clan may claim with equal clatterBritish, euphonious, clear and short,Rede me a name of better sort!
Read at a meeting of a Genealogical Society.
THE RIVALS
Said the Bicycle to the Automobile:"How high and mighty and gay you feel;Yet I can remember the day when IWould let no other one pass me byCart horse and roadster and racehorse too,Far ahead of them all I flew.Now my tires are unpumped and my warning bellThe attention of nobody can compel."Though you maim your thousands where I hurt one,Though ten times my farthest is your day's run,Still I have been learning while lying here,That a rival's coming for you to fear.I have heard them talk of a wonderful thing,That can fly in the air like a bird on the wing,That can carry a man over land, over sea;In a twinkling he is where he wishes to be."So swiftly it speeds, in a week and a dayOne may girdle the globe, I have heard them say,While you are contented from dawn to darkWith a few score miles to have made your mark."The giant, throughout his quivering frame,Felt the truth that was mixed with his rival's blame."I'll never be such a clod as you,"He sputtered as off on the road he flew;And his end the Bicycle never knew.
FROM THE ODES OF HORACE
TO MÆCENAS. III-29
Mæcenas, scion of Tyrrhenian rulers,A jar, as yet unpierced, of mellow wineLong waits thee here, with balm for thee made readyAnd blooming roses in thy locks to twine.No more delay, nor always look with favorThe sloping fields of Æsula upon;Why gaze so long on ever marshy TiburNear by the mount of murderer Telegon?Give up thy luxury—it palls upon thee—Thy tower that reaches yonder lofty cloud;Cease to admire the smoke, the wealth, the uproar,And all that well hath made our Rome so proud.Sometimes a change is grateful to the rich man,A simple meal beneath a humble roofHas often smoothed from care the furrowed forehead,Though unadorned that home with purple woof.Bright Cepheus now his long-hid fire is showing,Now flames on high the angry lion-star,Now Procyon rages, and the sun revolvingBrings back the thirsty season from afar.Seeking a cooling stream, the weary shepherdHis languid flock leads to the shady woodWhere rough Sylvanus reigns, yet by the brookside.No truant breeze disturbs the solitude.Ah, who but thee is busy now with statecraft?Thou plannest for Rome's weal, disquieted,Lest warring Scythian, Bactrian, or PersianShould'st plunge the city into awful dread.A prudent deity in pitchy darknessThe issue of futurity conceals,And smiles when man beyond the right of mortals,His fear about the time to come reveals.Thou should'st concern thee only with the present,All else progresses as the river flows,Which gliding at one time in middle channelToward the Tuscan Sea unruffled goes;Or at another time, herds, trees, and houses,And broken rocks to one destruction drags,When wild the flood provokes the quiet currentWith noise from neighboring woods and distantcrags.Happy he lives, and of himself is master,That man who can at night with truth declare,"I have lived to-day, to-morrow let the FatherMake as he will my sky or dark or fair,"It is not his to render vain and worthlessMy happy past—the bliss has dearer grownThat the fleet-footed hour carried with it;The joys that once have been are still my own."Now upon me, again on others smiling,Fortune rejoices in her savage tradeOf shifting thus at will uncertain honors,As stubbornly her mocking game is played."I praise her when she stays, but if she leave me,Fluttering her airy wings in hasty flight,I yield her what she gave, and wrapped in virtue,In dowerless Poverty find my delight."Although the mast may crack beneath the Southwind,I will not rush with many a doleful prayerTo barter thus my vows, lest all my treasureFrom Tyre and Cyprus should become a share"Of what the greedy sea has in possession;Nay! then, protected in my two-oared boat,With favoring winds, and with twin Pollux guidingSafe through the Ægean tempests I will float."
(This version won, in 1890, the Sargent Prize, offered annually to students of Harvard University and Radcliffe College.)
TO LEUCONOË. I-11
Seek not to learn—Leuconoë,—a mortal may not know—What term of life on you or me our deities bestow.The Babylonian soothsayer consult not; better bearWhatever comes, whether to you more winters Jove shall spare,Or whether this may be the last, grinding the Tuscan seaOn yonder rocks. Even as we talk, time envious shall flee.Filter your wine, be wise, and clip your hopes to life's brief span.Then seize today; to-morrow trust as little as you can.
TO NEOBULÉ. III-12
Ah! Unhappy are the maidens, who love's game are kept from playing,Nor in mellow wine may wash away their cares;Who, scared by scolding uncles' tongues, their terror are displaying,—But from you, though, Neobulé, Cupid bearsYour basket and your webs, yet all the zeal you have been showingFor industrious Minerva, is the preyOf fair Hebrus, Liparæan, when his shoulders, oiled and glowing,He has bathed in Tiber's waters. Let me sayAs a horseman, than Bellerophon he's really something greater;Never worsted in a hand-fight, nor a race.Skilled to shoot the flying stag-herd in the open,—swift he laterSnares the boar, close-hidden in a shady place.
THE HARDY YOUTH. III-2
The hardy youth, my friends, in bitter warfareTo narrow poverty must learn to bend,And, for his spear a horseman to be dreaded,Courageous Parthians into flight must send.And he must try all dangerous adventures,His life out in the open he must pass;The warring tyrant's wife and growing daughterHim spying from their hostile walls, "Alas,"They sigh—for fear the royal husband,Unskilled in warlike arts, should dare attackThis lion, fierce to touch, whom bloody angerInto the midst of slaughter has dragged back.'Tis sweet and fit to perish for one's country,Death follows fast upon the man who flees,Nor spares the coward backs of youth retreating,Nor saves them trembling on their timid knees,Valor, of shabby failure all unconscious,Gleams with untarnished honor where she stands,Assuming not, nor laying down her emblems,As now the gaping populace demands.Valor, when opening Heaven to those, who dyingDeserve not death, by paths no other knowsPoints out the way, and still while she is soaring,Her scorn for crowds and humid earth she shows.And there's a sure reward for loyal silence.Him I'll forbid under my roof to sitWho has divulged the Elusinian mysteries,Nor in my fragile shallop shall he flitOften great Jupiter, when once neglected,The wicked near the innocent has put,But punishment to overtake the guiltyHas rarely failed, though she is lame of foot
TO THE STATE. I-14
Oh! Ship of State! fresh billows to sea will bear thee back,Then turn about and bravely toward the harbor tack,Thou see'st that thy naked sides defending oarsmen lack.Behold! thy mast lies shattered before the swift south wind,Listen! the yards are creaking, the ropes no longer bind,Strength to endure the boisterous waves thy keel can hardly find.Now all thy sails are ragged; the gods are swept awayTo whom, borne down by peril, thy quaking soul would pray.Though lofty be thy lineage, its pride is vain today.The power and name thou boastest are now of no avail,Thy stern is gayly painted, and still thy seamen quail,Beware lest thou art made the sport of every idle gale.Ah! dearly loved, my country; my fond yet heavy care!Thy discords lately wearied me, but now I breathe a prayerThat thee the tides of faction, the glittering rocks may spare.
TO APOLLO. I-31
What prays the poet of enshrined Apollo?What is he asking for with lifted hands,Pouring a fresh libation from his flagon?—Not fertile crop from rich Sardinian lands,—Not the fair herds of sultry, damp Calabria,—Not even Indian ivory and gold;—Nor meadows that the Liris, silent river,With sluggish flow has nibbled, as it rolled.Let those whom Fortune has endowed with vineyards,With the Calenian knife their grapevines trim,Let the rich merchant from his golden gobletDrink wine by Syrian traffic bought for him.Dear to the very gods he three times yearly,Yes four times, travels the Atlantic SeaUnharmed. But I—I feed myself on olives,Ay, succory and soft mallows are for me.Let one enjoy sound health and my possessions—Son of Latona, grant to me, I pray,With a sane mind an old age all unsullied,Nor let my gift—my lyre—be taken away.
TO DIANA. III-22
Diana, Protector of mountain and wood,Who when three times invoked, hast so well understood,And young mothers in child-birth hast rescued from death,Goddess, triply endowed!Let this tree overhanging my house here, this pineBe for thee, that each year I shall consecrate thine,Happy still—with the blood of a boar, whose last breath,Planned a side-long attack.
TO MELPOMENE. IV-3
Oh, him whom at birth you with favor regardedMelpomene! never an Isthmian gameShall render renowned, though he's skilled as a boxer,Nor shall a swift horse lead him onward to fame.Though a victor he rides in a chariot Achaian,Not him shall the fortune of war ever show.In the Capitol wearing the garland of laurelBecause the proud threatenings of kings he laid low.But every stream flowing over the countryFertile Tibur around, and so every groveWith its thick-growing leaves shall ennoble the poet,In Æolian song he ennobled shall prove.The offspring of Rome, that is Queen among cities,Me have deemed as a bard to be worthy a placeIn her glorious choir, and less and less keenlyAlready the sharp bite of Envy I trace.Oh—Pieris! oh Muse, who the sweet tone controllestOf the golden-tongued lyre, able too, to endowThe dumb fishes as well, if it happen to please thee,With the notes of the swan, 'tis from thee it comes now,That I by the finger of those who are passingThe Lord of our own Roman lyre am shown,For all inspiration, for all that is pleasing,If it happen to please, thou hast made it my own.
HORACE AND LYDIA. III-9
"One time when I was pleasing to you, Lydia,And when no other youth, preferred to me,Your snowy neck could with his arms encircle,Then happier I than Persia's King may be.""When of another you were less enamored,Nor ranked me after Chloe in your love,Then I, your Lydia, of wide reputation,Than Roman Ilia more renowned could prove.""Now Thracian Chloe, skilled in mellow measures,And expert on the harp, holds me her slave,To die for her would never cause me terror,If her—my soul—the Fates alive would save.""'Tis Calais, Ornytus' son, the Thurian,Who now consumes me with a mutual fire,Ah! death for him twice over would I suffer,Would but the Fates not let the boy expire.""What if our former love to us returning,Us in a stronger yoke should join again!Should I unbar the door to cast-off Lydia,And give up fair-haired Chloe, ah, what then?""Though he be lovelier than a constellation,Though lighter than a cork, my dear, are you,Than stormy Adriatic more uncertain,With you I'd love to live, die gladly, too."
TO CENSORINUS. IV-8
With kindly thought I'd give, Oh Censorinus,Bowls and bronze vases pleasing to each friend;Tripods I'd offer, prizes of brave Grecians,And not the worst of gifts to you I'd sendWere I, forsooth, rich in such artist's treasureAs Scopas and Parrhasius could convey,This one in stone, and that in liquid color,Skilled here a man,—a god there to portray.But mine no power like this, nor does your spiritOr your affairs need luxuries so choice.Songs we can give, and on the gift set value,Songs we can give, and you in songs rejoice.Not marble carved with popular inscriptionsWhereby the spirit and the life returnAfter their death unto our upright leaders,Nor Hannibal's swift flight, nor threatenings sternThrown back on him, nor flames from impious Carthage,Ever more clearly pointed out the praiseOf him who, after Africa was conquered,Acquired a name, than did the Calabrian lays.And you would lose, if writings should be silent,The price of all that you so well have done.And Romulus,—his fame had envy silenced—Where had he been—great Mars and Ilia's son?Æacus, rescued from the Stygian waters,The genius, the favor, and the tongueOf mighty bards sent to the blessed islands,He cannot die, whose praise the Muse has sung.The Muse can deify. So tireless HerculesIn Jove's desired banquets has a share.And the Tyndaridæ's clear constellationOf ships wrecked in the lowest depths takes care,Liber, his brows adorned with living vine-leaf,Brings to good issue every honest prayer.
TO THALIARCHUS. I-9
You see how our Soracte now is standingHoary with heavy snow, and now its weightTo bear the struggling woods are hardly able,And with the bitter cold the streams stagnate.The cold melt thou away, oh, Thaliarchus,By heaping logs upon thy fire, againReplenishing, and from a Sabine flagonWine of a four years' vintage draw thou then.Leave to the gods the rest; for at the momentThey felled the winds upon the boiling seaThat battled fiercely, then there was not stirringOr mountain-ash, or ancient cypress tree.Cease thou to ask what is to be to-morrow,The day that Fortune gives, score thou as gain.As when a boy, thou shalt not scorn love's sweetness,Nor smoothly moving dancers shalt disdainWhile crabbed age from thy fresh youth is distant.Now in the Field and in the Public SquareAll the soft whisperings that come at night-fallShall at the trysting be repeated there.Now, too, the tempting laugh from a far cornerThat must the maiden lurking there betray!Also the pledge that she in feigned resistance,Lets from her arm or hand be taken away!
TO CHLOE. I-23
Ah Chloe, like a fawn you now elude me,Seeking its timid dam on lonely hills,Its dam who not without an idle tremorAt breezes in the forest thrills.For if before the breeze the bushes quiverWith rustling leaves, or if green lizards startAcross the bramble, then it is it trembles,—This little fawn—in knees and heart.But Chloe, I am not a cruel tiger,Nor a Gætulian lion, thee to chase;And now that thou art old enough to marry,Beside thy mother take thy place.
TO FUSCUS. I-22
Oh, Fuscus, he whose life is pure and upright,Wants not the Moorish javelin nor the bow,Nor may he need the quiver, heavy ladenWith arrows poisoned for the lurking foe.Whether he is about to make a journeyTo sultry Libya, or the unfriendly heightOf Caucasus, or to the distant placesThat famed Hydaspes washes in his flight.For lately me a wolf fled in the forest—The Sabine forest, as my LalageI sang about,—beyond my boundaries wandering,Care-free, unarmed—the creature fled from me.Apulia, land of soldiers, never nourishedIn her broad woods a monster of such girth,Nor Mauritania, arid nurse of lions,To such a one has ever given birth.Ah, put me on those plains, remote and barren,Where not a tree can feel the summer wind,And grow again—a land of mist eternal—Whereover Jupiter still broods, unkind;Or place me in that land denied man's dwelling,Too near the chariot of the sun above,—Still my own Lalage so sweetly smiling,My sweetly-speaking Lalage I'll love.
TO VENUS. III-26
Lately was I to gentle maidens suited,And not without some glory did contend,But now my weapons and my lute made uselessFor contests, on this wall I will suspend,That guards the left side of our sea-born Venus;Here, here, place you my gleaming waxen torch,My levers and my crow-bars that can threatenThe doors that ought to open on this porch.Oh, Goddess, thou who blessed Cyprus rulest,And Memphis ever lacking Thracian snow,My Queen, in passing, with thy whip upliftedGive to my haughty Chloe just one blow.
A PALINODE. I-16
Oh, daughter, lovelier than your lovely mother,Whatever punishment you may desireGive my offending verses; in the fireThrow them, please you, or in the Adriatic.Not Dindymene, no, nor even ApolloSo shakes the minds of priests within the shrine;Nor so disturbing is the God of wine,Nor Corybantes doubling their shrill cymbals,As direful fits of anger that are frightenedNeither by Noric sword nor savage flame,Nor by ship-wrecking seas, nor them can tameGreat Jupiter himself, with all his thunders.To our original clay, they say PrometheusWas forced to add a portion he had madeOf bits from every creature, and he laidIn human hearts rage from the furious lion.With crushing ruin rage destroyed Thyestes;And as a final cause rage may be knownWhy mighty cities fell, quite overthrown,And why upon their walls a sneering armyIts plowshare drags along. But keep your temper!Me, too in my sweet youth a frenzied heartHas tempted sorely, and its maddening dartHas driven me to write impetuous versesTo change sad things for brighter I am seeking,And since my offending verses I retract,I beg of you in turn a friendly act,That you again to me your heart give over.
LASTING FAME. III-30
A monument outlasting brass I have builded,Higher than pyramids in their crumbling glory,That no devouring storm, nor futile North windCan overthrow, nor years in long succession,Nor fleeting seasons. I shall not wholly perish.In great part I'll escape the funeral pyre;And lately praised, my praise will go on growingTo latest years. As long as Priest and VestalAscend the Capitol, I shall be mentionedWhere Aufidus fierce rages, and where DaunusA rustic race rules in an arid country.Great, though of humble birth, I the first poetTo write in Latin rhythms Æolian lyrics,Take pride, Melpomene, in well-earned merits,And crown me willingly with Delphic laurel.
RELIGION. I-34
God's mean and careless servant—while I wanderDeep in the madness of Philosophy,—Now backward I must set my sail, and ponderWhere my forsaken course retraced shall be.For Jupiter, who with his glittering fireSo often cleaves apart the threatening clouds,His wingèd car and thundering horses higherToward air has driven where no shadow shrouds.Whereat the sluggish earth, each vagrant river,—The Styx, and hated Tænarus' dread abode,And the Atlantic borders shake and shiver.Ah—to reverse high things and low, our GodIs able, and the mighty he can lower,The obscure can raise. From this man Fortune stealsThe crown to give to that one;—in her power,Showing with hissing wings the joy she feels.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:
Inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original.
Inconsistencies between the poem titles in the Table of Contents and the titles of the poems in the text have been retained from the original except:
The Ravenin the Table of Contents changed toThe Rover
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected as follows:
Page 32:Rememeberchanged toRememberPage 37:everyhingchanged toeverything