The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSomething Else AgainThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Something Else AgainAuthor: Franklin P. AdamsRelease date: October 7, 2008 [eBook #26797]Most recently updated: January 4, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Diane Monico, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOMETHING ELSE AGAIN ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Something Else AgainAuthor: Franklin P. AdamsRelease date: October 7, 2008 [eBook #26797]Most recently updated: January 4, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Diane Monico, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Title: Something Else Again
Author: Franklin P. Adams
Author: Franklin P. Adams
Release date: October 7, 2008 [eBook #26797]Most recently updated: January 4, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Diane Monico, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOMETHING ELSE AGAIN ***
COPYRIGHT, 1920.
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANYALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OFTRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES,INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN
The author wishes to thank theNew York Tribune,Life,Harper's Magazine,Collier's Weekly, andThe Home Sector, for their kind permission to include in this volume material which has appeared in their pages.
The author wishes to thank theNew York Tribune,Life,Harper's Magazine,Collier's Weekly, andThe Home Sector, for their kind permission to include in this volume material which has appeared in their pages.
pagePresent Imperative3The Doughboy's Horace5From: Horace To: Phyllis7Advising Chloë8To an Aged Cut-up I9II10His Monument11Glycera Rediviva!12On a Wine of Horace's13"What Flavour?"14The Stalling of Q. H. F.15On the Flight of Time16The Last Laugh17Again Endorsing the Lady I19II20Propertius's Bid for Immortality21A Lament23Bon Voyage—and Vice Versa24Fragment25On the Uses of Adversity26After Hearing "Robin Hood"27Maud Muller Mutatur28The Carlyles31If Amy Lowell Had Been James Whitcomb Riley35If the Advertising Man Had Been Gilbert37If the Advertising Man Had Been Praed, or Locker39Georgie Porgie40On First Looking into Bee Palmer's Shoulders41To a Vers Librist43How Do You Tackle Your Work?45Recuerdo48On Tradition51Unshackled Thoughts on Chivalry, Romance, Adventure, Etc.52Results Ridiculous53Regarding (1) the U. S. and (2) New York54Broadmindedness55The Jazzy Bard56Lines on and from "Bartlett's Familiar Quotations"57Thoughts in a Far Country58When You Meet a Man from Your Own Home Town59The Shepherd's Resolution61"It Was a Famous Victory"62On Profiteering63Despite64The Return of the Soldier65"I Remember, I Remember"66The Higher Education68War and Peace69Fifty-Fifty70"So Shines a Good Deed in a Naughty World"71Vain Words72On the Importance of Being Earnest73It Happens in the B. R. Families74Abelard and Heloïse77Lines Written on the Sunny Side of Frankfort Street79Fifty-Fifty80To Myrtilla81A Psalm of Labouring Life82Ballade of Ancient Acts84To a Prospective Cook85Variation on a Theme86"Such Stuff as Dreams"88The Ballad of Justifiable Homicide89The Ballad of the Murdered Merchant90A Gotham Garden of Verses92Lines on Reading Frank J. Wilstach's "A Dictionary of Similes"94The Dictaphone Bard95The Comfort of Obscurity97Ballade of the Traffickers98To W. Hohenzollern, on Discontinuing The Conning Tower100To W. Hohenzollern, on Resuming The Conning Tower103Thoughts on the Cosmos105On Environment106The Ballad of the Thoughtless Waiter107Rus Vs. Urbs109"I'm Out of the Army Now"110"Oh Man!"112An Ode in Time of Inauguration113What the Copy Desk Might Have Done124Song of Synthetic Virility133
"Tu ne quaesieris—scire nefas—quem mihi; quem tibi——"
AD LEUCONOEN
Nay, query not, Leuconoë, the finish of the fable;Eliminate the worry as to what the years may hoard!You only waste your time upon the Babylonian Table—(Slang for the Ouija board).And as to whether Jupiter, the final, unsurpassed one,May add a lot of winters to our portion here below,Or this impinging season is to be our very last one—Really, I'd hate to know.Apply yourself to wisdom! Sweep the floor and wash the dishes,Nor dream about the things you'll do in 1928!My counsel is to cease to sit and yearn about your wishes,Cursing the throws of Fate.My! how I have been chattering on matters sad and pleasant!(Endure with me a moment while I polish off a rhyme).If I were you, I think, I'd bother only with the present—Now is the only time.
Nay, query not, Leuconoë, the finish of the fable;Eliminate the worry as to what the years may hoard!You only waste your time upon the Babylonian Table—(Slang for the Ouija board).
And as to whether Jupiter, the final, unsurpassed one,May add a lot of winters to our portion here below,Or this impinging season is to be our very last one—Really, I'd hate to know.
Apply yourself to wisdom! Sweep the floor and wash the dishes,Nor dream about the things you'll do in 1928!My counsel is to cease to sit and yearn about your wishes,Cursing the throws of Fate.
My! how I have been chattering on matters sad and pleasant!(Endure with me a moment while I polish off a rhyme).If I were you, I think, I'd bother only with the present—Now is the only time.
"Donec eram gratus tibi——"
HORACE, PVT. ——TH INFANTRY, A. E. F., WRITES:While I was fussing you at homeYou put the notion in my domeThat I was the Molasses Kid.I batted strong. I'll say I did.LYDIA, ANYBURG, U. S. A., WRITES:While you were fussing me aloneTo other boys my heart was stone.When I was all that you could seeNo girl had anything on me.HORACE:Well, say, I'm having some romanceWith one Babette, of Northern France.If that girl gave me the commandI'd dance a jig in No Man's Land.LYDIA:I, too, have got a young affairWith Charley—say, that boy isthere!I'd just as soon go out and dieIf I thought it'd please that guy.HORACE:Suppose I can this foreign wrenAnd start things up with you again?Suppose I promise to be good?I'd love you, Lyd. I'll say I would.LYDIA:Though Charley's good and handsome—oh, boy!And you're a stormy, fickle doughboy,Go give the Hun his final whack,And I'll marry you when you come back.
HORACE, PVT. ——TH INFANTRY, A. E. F., WRITES:
While I was fussing you at homeYou put the notion in my domeThat I was the Molasses Kid.I batted strong. I'll say I did.
LYDIA, ANYBURG, U. S. A., WRITES:
While you were fussing me aloneTo other boys my heart was stone.When I was all that you could seeNo girl had anything on me.
HORACE:
Well, say, I'm having some romanceWith one Babette, of Northern France.If that girl gave me the commandI'd dance a jig in No Man's Land.
LYDIA:
I, too, have got a young affairWith Charley—say, that boy isthere!I'd just as soon go out and dieIf I thought it'd please that guy.
HORACE:
Suppose I can this foreign wrenAnd start things up with you again?Suppose I promise to be good?I'd love you, Lyd. I'll say I would.
LYDIA:
Though Charley's good and handsome—oh, boy!And you're a stormy, fickle doughboy,Go give the Hun his final whack,And I'll marry you when you come back.
"Est mihi nonum superantis annum——"
Phyllis, I've a jar of wine,(Alban, B. C. 49),Parsley wreaths, and, for your tresses,Ivy that your beauty blesses.Shines my house with silverware;Frondage decks the altar stair—Sacred vervain, a deviceFor a lambkin's sacrifice.Up and down the household stairsWhat a festival prepares!Everybody's superintending—See the sooty smoke ascending!What, you ask me, is the dateOf the day we celebrate?13th April, month of Venus—Birthday of my boss, Mæcenas.Let me, Phyllis, say a wordTouching Telephus, a birdRanking far too high above you;(And the loafer doesn't love you).Lessons, Phyllie, may be learnedFrom Phaëton—how he was burned!And recall Bellerophon wasOne equestrian who thrown was.Phyllis, of my loves the last,My philandering days are past.Sing you, in your clear contralto,Songs I write for the rialto.
Phyllis, I've a jar of wine,(Alban, B. C. 49),Parsley wreaths, and, for your tresses,Ivy that your beauty blesses.
Shines my house with silverware;Frondage decks the altar stair—Sacred vervain, a deviceFor a lambkin's sacrifice.
Up and down the household stairsWhat a festival prepares!Everybody's superintending—See the sooty smoke ascending!
What, you ask me, is the dateOf the day we celebrate?13th April, month of Venus—Birthday of my boss, Mæcenas.
Let me, Phyllis, say a wordTouching Telephus, a birdRanking far too high above you;(And the loafer doesn't love you).
Lessons, Phyllie, may be learnedFrom Phaëton—how he was burned!And recall Bellerophon wasOne equestrian who thrown was.
Phyllis, of my loves the last,My philandering days are past.Sing you, in your clear contralto,Songs I write for the rialto.
"Vitas hinnuleo me similis, Chloë——"
Why shun me, my Chloë? Nor pistol nor bowieIs mine with intention to kill.And yet like a llama you run to your mamma;You tremble as though you were ill.No lion to rend you, no tiger to end you,I'm tame as a bird in a cage.That counsel maternal can run forThe Journal—You get me, I guess.... You're of age.
Why shun me, my Chloë? Nor pistol nor bowieIs mine with intention to kill.And yet like a llama you run to your mamma;You tremble as though you were ill.
No lion to rend you, no tiger to end you,I'm tame as a bird in a cage.That counsel maternal can run forThe Journal—You get me, I guess.... You're of age.
I"Uxor pauperis Ibyci,Tandem nequitiæ fige modum tuæ——"
IN CHLORIN
Dear Mrs. Ibycus, accept a little sound advice,Your manners and your speech are over-bold;To chase around the sporty way you do is far from nice;Believe me, darling, you are growing old.Now Pholoë may fool around (she dances like a doe!)A débutante has got to think of men;But you were twenty-seven over thirty years ago—You ought to be asleep at half-past ten.O Chloris, cut the ragging and the roses and the rum—Delete the drink, or better, chop the booze!Go buy a skein of yarn and make the knitting needles hum,And imitate the art of Sister Suse.
Dear Mrs. Ibycus, accept a little sound advice,Your manners and your speech are over-bold;To chase around the sporty way you do is far from nice;Believe me, darling, you are growing old.
Now Pholoë may fool around (she dances like a doe!)A débutante has got to think of men;But you were twenty-seven over thirty years ago—You ought to be asleep at half-past ten.
O Chloris, cut the ragging and the roses and the rum—Delete the drink, or better, chop the booze!Go buy a skein of yarn and make the knitting needles hum,And imitate the art of Sister Suse.
II
Chloris, lay off the flapper stuff;What's fit for Pholoë, a fluff,Is not for Ibycus's wife—A woman at your time of life!Ignore, old dame, such pleasures asThe shimmy and "the Bacchus Jazz";Your presence with the maidens jars—You are the cloud that dims the stars.Your daughter Pholoë may stayOut nights upon the Appian Way;Her love for Nothus, as you know,Makes her as playful as a doe.No jazz for you, no jars of wine,No rose that blooms incarnadine.For one thing only are you fit:Buy some Lucerian wool—and knit!
Chloris, lay off the flapper stuff;What's fit for Pholoë, a fluff,Is not for Ibycus's wife—A woman at your time of life!
Ignore, old dame, such pleasures asThe shimmy and "the Bacchus Jazz";Your presence with the maidens jars—You are the cloud that dims the stars.
Your daughter Pholoë may stayOut nights upon the Appian Way;Her love for Nothus, as you know,Makes her as playful as a doe.
No jazz for you, no jars of wine,No rose that blooms incarnadine.For one thing only are you fit:Buy some Lucerian wool—and knit!
"Exegi monumentum aere perennius——"
The monument that I have built is durable as brass,And loftier than the Pyramids which mock the years that pass.Nor blizzard can destroy it, nor furious rain corrode—Remember, I'm the bard that built the first Horatian ode.I shall not altogether die; a part of me's immortal.A part of me shall never pass the mortuary portal;And when I die my fame shall stand the nitric test of time—The fame of me of lowly birth, who built the lofty rhyme!Ay, fame shall be my portion when no trace there is of me,For I first made Æolian songs the songs of Italy.Accept I pray, Melpomene, my modest meed of praise,And crown my thinning, graying locks with wreaths of Delphic bays!
The monument that I have built is durable as brass,And loftier than the Pyramids which mock the years that pass.Nor blizzard can destroy it, nor furious rain corrode—Remember, I'm the bard that built the first Horatian ode.
I shall not altogether die; a part of me's immortal.A part of me shall never pass the mortuary portal;And when I die my fame shall stand the nitric test of time—The fame of me of lowly birth, who built the lofty rhyme!
Ay, fame shall be my portion when no trace there is of me,For I first made Æolian songs the songs of Italy.Accept I pray, Melpomene, my modest meed of praise,And crown my thinning, graying locks with wreaths of Delphic bays!
"Mater sæva Cupidinum"
Venus, the cruel mother ofThe Cupids (symbolising Love),Bids me to muse upon and sighFor things to which I've said "Good-bye!"Believe me or believe me not,I give this Glycera girl a lot:Pure Parian marble are her arms—And she has eighty other charms.Venus has left her Cyprus homeAnd will not let me pull a pomeAbout the Parthians, fierce and rough,The Scythian war, and all that stuff.Set up, O slaves, a verdant shrine!Uncork a quart of last year's wine!Place incense here, and here verbenas,And watch me while I jolly Venus!
Venus, the cruel mother ofThe Cupids (symbolising Love),Bids me to muse upon and sighFor things to which I've said "Good-bye!"
Believe me or believe me not,I give this Glycera girl a lot:Pure Parian marble are her arms—And she has eighty other charms.
Venus has left her Cyprus homeAnd will not let me pull a pomeAbout the Parthians, fierce and rough,The Scythian war, and all that stuff.
Set up, O slaves, a verdant shrine!Uncork a quart of last year's wine!Place incense here, and here verbenas,And watch me while I jolly Venus!
What time I read your mighty line,O Mr. Q. Horatius Flaccus,In praise of many an ancient wine—You twanged a wicked lyre to Bacchus!—I wondered, like a Yankee hick,If that old stuff contained a kick.So when upon a Paris cardI glimpsed Falernian, I said: "Waiter,I'll emulate that ancient bard,And pass upon his merits later."Professor Mendell,quelquesport,Suggested that we split a quart.O Flaccus, ere I ceased to drinkThree glasses and a pair of highballs,I could not talk; I could not think;For I was pickled to the eyeballs.If you sopped up Falernian wineHow did you ever write a line?
What time I read your mighty line,O Mr. Q. Horatius Flaccus,In praise of many an ancient wine—You twanged a wicked lyre to Bacchus!—I wondered, like a Yankee hick,If that old stuff contained a kick.
So when upon a Paris cardI glimpsed Falernian, I said: "Waiter,I'll emulate that ancient bard,And pass upon his merits later."Professor Mendell,quelquesport,Suggested that we split a quart.
O Flaccus, ere I ceased to drinkThree glasses and a pair of highballs,I could not talk; I could not think;For I was pickled to the eyeballs.If you sopped up Falernian wineHow did you ever write a line?
"O fons Bandusiæ, splendidior vitro——"
Worthy of flowers and syrups sweet,O fountain of Bandusian onyx,To-morrow shall a goatling's bleatMix with the sizz of thy carbonics.A kid whose budding horns portendA life of love and war—but vainly!For thee his sanguine life shall end—He'll spill his blood, to put it plainly.And never shalt thou feel the heatThat blazes in the days of Sirius,But men shall quaff thy soda sweet,And girls imbibe thy drinks delirious.Fountain whose dulcet cool I sing,Be thou immortal by this Ode (aNot wholly meretricious thing),Bandusian fount of ice-cream soda!
Worthy of flowers and syrups sweet,O fountain of Bandusian onyx,To-morrow shall a goatling's bleatMix with the sizz of thy carbonics.
A kid whose budding horns portendA life of love and war—but vainly!For thee his sanguine life shall end—He'll spill his blood, to put it plainly.
And never shalt thou feel the heatThat blazes in the days of Sirius,But men shall quaff thy soda sweet,And girls imbibe thy drinks delirious.
Fountain whose dulcet cool I sing,Be thou immortal by this Ode (aNot wholly meretricious thing),Bandusian fount of ice-cream soda!
"Mollis inertia cur tantam diffuderit imis"
Mæcenas, you fret me, you worry meDemanding I turn out a rhyme;Insisting on reasons, you hurry me;You want my iambics on time.You say my ambition's diminishing;You ask why my poem's not done.The god it is keeps me from finishingThe stuff I've begun.Be not so persistent, so clamorous.Anacreon burned with a flameCandescently, crescently amorous.You rascal, you're doing the same!Was no fairer the flame that burned Ilium.Cheer up, you're a fortunate scamp,... Consider avuncular WilliamAnd Phryne, the vamp.
Mæcenas, you fret me, you worry meDemanding I turn out a rhyme;Insisting on reasons, you hurry me;You want my iambics on time.You say my ambition's diminishing;You ask why my poem's not done.The god it is keeps me from finishingThe stuff I've begun.
Be not so persistent, so clamorous.Anacreon burned with a flameCandescently, crescently amorous.You rascal, you're doing the same!Was no fairer the flame that burned Ilium.Cheer up, you're a fortunate scamp,... Consider avuncular WilliamAnd Phryne, the vamp.
"Tu ne quæsieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi"
AD LEUCONOEN
Look not, Leuconoë, into the future;Seek not to find what the Answer may be;Let no Chaldean clairvoyant compute yourTime of existence.... It irritates me!Better to bear what may happen soeverPatiently, playing it through like a sport,Whether the end of your breathing is Never,Or, as is likely, your time will be short.This is the angle, the true situation;Get me, I pray, for I'm putting you hep:While I've been fooling with versificationTime has been flying.... Both gates!Watch your step!
Look not, Leuconoë, into the future;Seek not to find what the Answer may be;Let no Chaldean clairvoyant compute yourTime of existence.... It irritates me!
Better to bear what may happen soeverPatiently, playing it through like a sport,Whether the end of your breathing is Never,Or, as is likely, your time will be short.
This is the angle, the true situation;Get me, I pray, for I'm putting you hep:While I've been fooling with versificationTime has been flying.... Both gates!Watch your step!
"Nox erat et cælo fulgebat Luna sereno——"
"How sweet the moonlight sleeps," I quoted,"Upon this bank!" that starry night—The night you vowed you'd be devoted—I'll tell the world you held me tight.The night you said until OrionShould cease to whip the wintry sea,Until the lamb should love the lion,You would, you swore, be all for me.Some day, Neæra, you'll be sorry.No mollycoddle swain am I.I shall not sit and pine, by gorry!Because you're with some other guy!No, I shall turn my predilectionUpon some truer, fairer Jane;And all your prayer and genuflexionFor my return shall be in vain.And as foryou, who choose to sneer, O,Though deals in lands and stocks you swing,Though handsome as a movie hero,Though wise you are—and everything;Yet, when the loss of her you're mourning,How I shall laugh at all your woe!How I'll remind you of this warning,And laugh, "Ha! ha! I told you so!"
"How sweet the moonlight sleeps," I quoted,"Upon this bank!" that starry night—The night you vowed you'd be devoted—I'll tell the world you held me tight.
The night you said until OrionShould cease to whip the wintry sea,Until the lamb should love the lion,You would, you swore, be all for me.
Some day, Neæra, you'll be sorry.No mollycoddle swain am I.I shall not sit and pine, by gorry!Because you're with some other guy!
No, I shall turn my predilectionUpon some truer, fairer Jane;And all your prayer and genuflexionFor my return shall be in vain.
And as foryou, who choose to sneer, O,Though deals in lands and stocks you swing,Though handsome as a movie hero,Though wise you are—and everything;
Yet, when the loss of her you're mourning,How I shall laugh at all your woe!How I'll remind you of this warning,And laugh, "Ha! ha! I told you so!"
"Liber eram et vacuo meditabar vivere lecto——"
I
I was free. I thought that I had entered Love's Antarctic Zone."A truce to sentiment," I said. "My nights shall be my own."But Love has double-crossed me. How can Beauty be so fair?The grace of her, the face of her—and oh, her yellow hair!And oh, the wondrous walk of her! So doth a goddess glide.Jove's sister—ay, or Pallas—hath no statelier a stride.Fair as Ischomache herself, the Lapithanian maid;Or Brimo when at Mercury's side her virgin form she laid.Surrender now, ye goddesses whom erst the shepherd spied!Upon the heights of Ida lay your vestitures aside!And though she reach the countless years of the Cumæan Sibyl,May never, never Age at those delightful features nibble!
I was free. I thought that I had entered Love's Antarctic Zone."A truce to sentiment," I said. "My nights shall be my own."But Love has double-crossed me. How can Beauty be so fair?The grace of her, the face of her—and oh, her yellow hair!
And oh, the wondrous walk of her! So doth a goddess glide.Jove's sister—ay, or Pallas—hath no statelier a stride.Fair as Ischomache herself, the Lapithanian maid;Or Brimo when at Mercury's side her virgin form she laid.
Surrender now, ye goddesses whom erst the shepherd spied!Upon the heights of Ida lay your vestitures aside!And though she reach the countless years of the Cumæan Sibyl,May never, never Age at those delightful features nibble!
II
I thought that I was wholly free,That I had Love upon the shelf;"Hereafter," I declared in glee,"I'll have my evenings to myself."How can such mortal beauty live?(Ah, Jove, thine errings I forgive!)Her tresses pale the sunlight's gold;Her hands are featly formed, and taper;Her—well, the rest ought not be toldIn any modest family paper.Fair as Ischomache, and brightAs Brimo.Quæquequeen is right.O goddesses of long ago,A shepherd called ye sweet and slender.He saw ye, so he ought to know;But sooth, to her ye must surrender.O may a million years not traceA single line upon that face!
I thought that I was wholly free,That I had Love upon the shelf;"Hereafter," I declared in glee,"I'll have my evenings to myself."How can such mortal beauty live?(Ah, Jove, thine errings I forgive!)
Her tresses pale the sunlight's gold;Her hands are featly formed, and taper;Her—well, the rest ought not be toldIn any modest family paper.Fair as Ischomache, and brightAs Brimo.Quæquequeen is right.
O goddesses of long ago,A shepherd called ye sweet and slender.He saw ye, so he ought to know;But sooth, to her ye must surrender.O may a million years not traceA single line upon that face!
"Carminis interea nostri redæmus in orbem——"
Let us return, then, for a time,To our accustomed round of rhyme;And let my songs' familiar artNot fail to move my lady's heart.They say that Orpheus with his luteHad power to tame the wildest brute;That "Variations on a Theme"Of his would stay the swiftest stream.They say that by the minstrel's songCithæron's rocks were moved alongTo Thebes, where, as you may recall,They formed themselves to frame a wall.And Galatea, lovely maid,Beneath wild Etna's fastness stayedHer horses, dripping with the mere,Those Polypheman songs to hear.What marvel, then, since Bacchus andApollo grasp me by the hand,That all the maidens you have heardShould hang upon my slightest word?Tænerian columns in my homeAre not; nor any golden dome;No parks have I, nor Marcian spring,Nor orchards—nay, nor anything.The Muses, though, are friends of mine;Some readers love my lyric line;And never is CalliopeAwearied by my poetry.O happy she whose meed of praiseHath fallen upon my sheaf of lays!And every song of mine is sentTo be thy beauty's monument.The Pyramids that point the sky,The House of Jove that soars so high,Mausolus' tomb—they are not freeFrom Death his final penalty.For fire or rain shall steal awayThe crumbling glory of their day;But fame for wit can never die,And gosh! I was a gay old guy!
Let us return, then, for a time,To our accustomed round of rhyme;And let my songs' familiar artNot fail to move my lady's heart.
They say that Orpheus with his luteHad power to tame the wildest brute;That "Variations on a Theme"Of his would stay the swiftest stream.
They say that by the minstrel's songCithæron's rocks were moved alongTo Thebes, where, as you may recall,They formed themselves to frame a wall.
And Galatea, lovely maid,Beneath wild Etna's fastness stayedHer horses, dripping with the mere,Those Polypheman songs to hear.
What marvel, then, since Bacchus andApollo grasp me by the hand,That all the maidens you have heardShould hang upon my slightest word?
Tænerian columns in my homeAre not; nor any golden dome;No parks have I, nor Marcian spring,Nor orchards—nay, nor anything.
The Muses, though, are friends of mine;Some readers love my lyric line;And never is CalliopeAwearied by my poetry.
O happy she whose meed of praiseHath fallen upon my sheaf of lays!And every song of mine is sentTo be thy beauty's monument.
The Pyramids that point the sky,The House of Jove that soars so high,Mausolus' tomb—they are not freeFrom Death his final penalty.
For fire or rain shall steal awayThe crumbling glory of their day;But fame for wit can never die,And gosh! I was a gay old guy!
"Eripitur nobis iam pridem cara puella——"
While she I loved is being tornFrom arms that held her many years,Dost thou regard me, friend, with scorn,Or seek to check my tears?Bitter the hatred for a jilt,And hot the hates of Eros are;My hatred, slay me an thou wilt,For thee'd be gentler far.Can I endure that she reclineUpon another's arm? Shall theyNo longer call that lady "mine"Who "mine" was yesterday?For Love is fleeting as the hours.The town of Thebes is draped with moss,And Ilium's well-known topless towersAre now a total loss.Fell Thebes and Troy; and in the graveHave fallen lords of high degree.What songs I sang! What gifts I gave!...Shenever fell for me.
While she I loved is being tornFrom arms that held her many years,Dost thou regard me, friend, with scorn,Or seek to check my tears?
Bitter the hatred for a jilt,And hot the hates of Eros are;My hatred, slay me an thou wilt,For thee'd be gentler far.
Can I endure that she reclineUpon another's arm? Shall theyNo longer call that lady "mine"Who "mine" was yesterday?
For Love is fleeting as the hours.The town of Thebes is draped with moss,And Ilium's well-known topless towersAre now a total loss.
Fell Thebes and Troy; and in the graveHave fallen lords of high degree.What songs I sang! What gifts I gave!...Shenever fell for me.
"Tune igitur demens, nec te mea cura moratur?"