Echoes from the Sabine Farm | Page 6

E.F.
AN INVITATION TO MÆCENAS
Dear, noble friend! a virgin cask
Of wine solicits your attention;

And roses fair, to deck your hair,
And things too numerous to
mention.
So tear yourself awhile away
From urban turmoil, pride,
and splendor,
And deign to share what humble fare
And sumptuous
fellowship I tender.
The sweet content retirement brings
Smoothes
out the ruffled front of kings.
The evil planets have combined
To make the weather hot and hotter;

By parboiled streams the shepherd dreams
Vainly of ice-cream
soda-water.
And meanwhile you, defying heat,
With patriotic ardor
ponder
On what old Rome essays at home,
And what her heathen
do out yonder.
Mæcenas, no such vain alarm
Disturbs the quiet of
this farm!
God in His providence obscures
The goal beyond this vale of sorrow,


And smiles at men in pity when
They seek to penetrate the morrow.

With faith that all is for the best,
Let's bear what burdens are
presented,
That we shall say, let come what may,
"We die, as we
have lived, contented!
Ours is to-day; God's is the rest,--
He doth
ordain who knoweth best."
Dame Fortune plays me many a prank.
When she is kind, oh, how I
go it!
But if again she's harsh,--why, then
I am a very proper poet!

When favoring gales bring in my ships,
I hie to Rome and live in
clover;
Elsewise I steer my skiff out here,
And anchor till the storm
blows over.
Compulsory virtue is the charm
Of life upon the Sabine
farm!
CHLORIS PROPERLY REBUKED
Chloris, my friend, I pray you your misconduct to forswear; The wife
of poor old Ibycus should have more savoir faire. A woman at your
time of life, and drawing near death's door, Should not play with the
girly girls, and think she's en rapport.
What's good enough for Pholoe you cannot well essay;
Your daughter
very properly courts _the jeunesse dorée_,--
A Thyiad, who, when
timbrel beats, cannot her joy restrain, But plays the kid, and laughs and
giggles _à l'Américaine_.
'T is more becoming, Madame, in a creature old and poor,
To sit and
spin than to engage in an affaire d'amour.
The lutes, the roses, and
the wine drained deep are not for you; Remember what the poet says:
Ce monde est plein de fous!
TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA
O fountain of Bandusia!
Whence crystal waters flow,
With garlands
gay and wine I'll pay
The sacrifice I owe;
A sportive kid with
budding horns
I have, whose crimson blood
Anon shall dye and
sanctify
Thy cool and babbling flood.

O fountain of Bandusia!
The Dog-star's hateful spell
No evil brings
into the springs
That from thy bosom well;
Here oxen, wearied by
the plow,
The roving cattle here
Hasten in quest of certain rest,

And quaff thy gracious cheer.
O fountain of Bandusia!
Ennobled shalt thou be,
For I shall sing the
joys that spring
Beneath yon ilex-tree.
Yes, fountain of Bandusia,

Posterity shall know
The cooling brooks that from thy nooks

Singing and dancing go.
TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA
O fountain of Bandusia! more glittering than glass,
And worthy of the
pleasant wine and toasts that freely pass; More worthy of the flowers
with which thou modestly art hid, To-morrow willing hands shall
sacrifice to thee a kid.
In vain the glory of the brow where proudly swell above
The growing
horns, significant of battle and of love;
For in thy honor he shall
die,--the offspring of the herd,-- And with his crimson life-blood thy
cold waters shall be stirred.
The Dog-star's cruel season, with its fierce and blazing heat, Has never
sent its scorching rays into thy glad retreat;
The oxen, wearied with
the plow, the herd which wanders near, Have found a grateful respite
and delicious coolness here.
When of the graceful ilex on the hollow rocks I sing,
Thou shalt
become illustrious, O sweet Bandusian spring!
Among the noble
fountains which have been enshrined in fame, Thy dancing, babbling
waters shall in song our homage claim.
THE PREFERENCE DECLARED
Boy, I detest the Persian pomp;
I hate those linden-bark devices;

And as for roses, holy Moses!
They can't be got at living prices!


Myrtle is good enough for us,--
For you, as bearer of my flagon;

For me, supine beneath this vine,
Doing my best to get a jag on!
A TARDY APOLOGY
I
Mæcenas, you will be my death,--though friendly you profess
yourself,-- If to me in a strain like this so often you address yourself:
"Come, Holly, why this laziness? Why indolently shock you us? Why
with Lethean cups fall into desuetude innocuous?"
A god, Mæcenas! yea, a god hath proved the very curse of me! If my
iambics are not done, pray, do not think the worse of me; Anacreon for
young Bathyllus burned without apology,
And wept his simple
measures on a sample of conchology.
Now, you yourself, Mæcenas, are enjoying this beatitude;
If by no
brighter beauty Ilium fell, you've cause for gratitude. A certain Phryne
keeps me on the rack with lovers numerous; This is the artful hussy's
neat conception of the humorous!
A TARDY APOLOGY
II
You ask me, friend,
Why I don't send
The long since
due-and-paid-for