Echoes from the Sabine Farm | Page 9

contain you,
Nor blush of modesty
restrain you.
Well, then, begone, fool that thou art!
But do not come to me and cry,

When critics strike you to the heart:
"Oh, wretched little book am
I!"
You know I tried to educate you
To shun the fate that must
await you.
In youth you may encounter friends
(Pray this prediction be not
wrong),
But wait until old age descends
And thumbs have smeared
your gentlest song;
Then will the moths connive to eat you
And
rural libraries secrete you.
However, should a friend some word
Of my obscure career request,

Tell him how deeply I was stirred
To spread my wings beyond the
nest;
Take from my years, which are before you,
To boom my
merits, I implore you.
Tell him that I am short and fat,
Quick in my temper, soon appeased,

With locks of gray,--but what of that?
Loving the sun, with nature
pleased.
I'm more than four and forty, hark you,--
But ready for a
night off, mark you!
FAME vs. RICHES
The Greeks had genius,--'t was a gift
The Muse vouchsafed in
glorious measure;
The boon of Fame they made their aim
And
prized above all worldly treasure.
But we_,--how do we train _our youth?
Not in the arts that are
immortal,
But in the greed for gains that speed
From him who
stands at Death's dark portal.

Ah, when this slavish love of gold
Once binds the soul in greasy
fetters,
How prostrate lies,--how droops and dies
The great, the
noble cause of letters!
THE LYRIC MUSE
I love the lyric muse!
For when mankind ran wild in grooves
Came
holy Orpheus with his songs
And turned men's hearts from bestial
loves,
From brutal force and savage wrongs;
Amphion, too, and on
his lyre
Made such sweet music all the day
That rocks, instinct with
warm desire,
Pursued him in his glorious way.
I love the lyric muse!
Hers was the wisdom that of yore
Taught
man the rights of fellow man,
Taught him to worship God the more,

And to revere love's holy ban.
Hers was the hand that jotted down

The laws correcting divers wrongs;
And so came honor and
renown
To bards and to their noble songs.
I love the lyric muse!
Old Homer sung unto the lyre;
Tyrtæus, too,
in ancient days;
Still warmed by their immortal fire,
How doth our
patriot spirit blaze!
The oracle, when questioned, sings;
So our first
steps in life are taught.
In verse we soothe the pride of kings,
In
verse the drama has been wrought.
I love the lyric muse!
Be not ashamed, O noble friend,
In honest
gratitude to pay
Thy homage to the gods that send
This boon to
charm all ill away.
With solemn tenderness revere
This voiceful
glory as a shrine
Wherein the quickened heart may hear
The
counsels of a voice divine!
A COUNTERBLAST AGAINST GARLIC
May the man who has cruelly murdered his sire--
A crime to be
punished with death--
Be condemned to eat garlic till he shall expire

Of his own foul and venomous breath!
What stomachs these rustics

must have who can eat
This dish that Canidia made,
Which imparts
to my colon a torturous heat,
And a poisonous look, I'm afraid!
They say that ere Jason attempted to yoke
The fire-breathing bulls to
the plow
He smeared his whole body with garlic,--a joke
Which I
fully appreciate now.
When Medea gave Glauce her beautiful dress,

In which garlic was scattered about,
It was cruel and rather
low-down, I confess,
But it settled the point beyond doubt.
On thirsty Apulia ne'er has the sun
Inflicted such terrible heat;
As
for Hercules' robe, although poisoned, 't was fun
When compared
with this garlic we eat!
Mæcenas, if ever on garbage like this
You
express a desire to be fed,
May Mrs. Mæcenas object to your kiss,

And lie at the foot of the bed!
AN EXCUSE FOR LALAGE
To bear the yoke not yet your love's submissive neck is bent, To share a
husband's toil, or grasp his amorous intent;
Over the fields, in cooling
streams, the heifer longs to go, Now with the calves disporting where
the pussy-willows grow.
Give up your thirst for unripe grapes, and, trust me, you shall learn
How quickly in the autumn time to purple they will turn.
Soon she
will follow you, for age steals swiftly on the maid; And all the precious
years that you have lost she will have paid.
Soon she will seek a lord, beloved as Pholoe, the coy,
Or Chloris, or
young Gyges, that deceitful, girlish boy,
Whom, if you placed among
the girls, and loosed his flowing locks, The wondering guests could not
decide which one decorum shocks.
AN APPEAL TO LYCE
Lyce, the gods have heard my prayers, as gods will hear the dutiful,
And brought old age upon you, though you still affect the beautiful.

You sport among the boys, and drink and chatter on quite aimlessly;
And in your cups with quavering voice you torment Cupid shamelessly.
For blooming Chia, Cupid has a feeling more than brotherly; He knows
a handsaw from a hawk whenever winds are southerly. He pats her
pretty cheeks, but looks on you as a monstrosity; Your wrinkles and
your yellow teeth excite his animosity.
For