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Whilst I was dear, and thou wert kind,
And I - and I alone -- might lie
Upon thy snowy breast reclined,
Not Persia's king so blest as I.
Whilst I to thee was all in all,
Nor Chloe might with Lydia vie,
Renowned in ode or madrigal,
Not Roman Ilia famed as I.
I now am Thracian Chloe's slave,
With hand and voice that charm the air,
For whom even death itself I'd brave,
So Fate the darling girl would spare.
I dote on Calaïs; and I
Am all his passion, all his care,
For whom a double death I'd die,
So Fate the darling boy would spare.
What if our ancient love return,
And bind us with a closer tie,
If I the fair-haired Chloe spurn,
And, as of old, for Lydia sigh?
Though lovelier than yon star is he,
And lighter thou than cork - ah, why?
More churlish too than Adria's sea,
With thee I'd live, with thee I'd die.
THOUGH India's virgin mine,
And wealth of Araby be thine;
Though thy wave-circled palaces
Usurp the Tyrrhene and Apulian seas,
When on thy devoted head
The iron hand of Fate has laid
The symbols of eternal doom,
What power shall loose the fetters of the dead ?
What hope dispel the terrors of the tomb ?
Happy the nomad tribes whose wains
Drag their rude huts o'er Scythian plains;
Happier the Gætan horde
To whom unmeasured fields afford
Abundant harvests, pastures free:
For one short year they toil,
Then claim once more their liberty,
And yield to other hands the unexhausted soil.
The tender-hearted stepdame there
Nurtures with all a mother's care
The orphan babe: no wealthy bride
Insults her lord, or yields her heart
To the sleek suitor's glozing art.
The maiden's dower is purity,
Her parent's worth, her womanly pride,
To hate the sin, to scorn the lie,
Chastely to live, or, if dishonored, die.
Breathes there a patriot, brave and strong,
Would right his erring country's wrong,
Would heal her wounds and quell her rage ?
Let him, with noble daring, first
Curb Faction's tyranny accurst,
So may some future age
Grave on his bust with pious hand,
The Father of his Native Land.
Virtue yet living we despise,
Adore it lost, and vanished from our eyes.
Cease idle wail ! The sin unpunished, what can sighs avail ?
How weak the laws by man ordained
If Virtue's law be unsustained.
A second sin is thine! The sand
Of Araby, Gætulia's sun-scorched land,
The desolate regions of Hyperborean ice,
Call with one voice to wrinkled Avarice :
He hears; he feels no toil, nor sword, nor sea,
Shrinks from no disgrace but virtuous poverty.
Forth ! 'mid a shouting nation bring
Thy precious gems, thy wealth untold;
Into the seas or temple fling
Thy vile, unprofitable gold.
Roman, repent, and from within
Eradicate thy darling sin;
Repent, and from thy bosom tear
The sordid shame that festers there.
Bid thy degenerate sons to learn
In rougher schools a lesson stern.
The high-born youth, mature in vice,
Pursues his vain and reckless course,
Rolls the Greek hoop, or throws the dice,
But shuns and dreads the horse.
His perjured sire, with jealous care,
Heaps riches for his worthless heir,
Despised, disgraced, supremely blest,
Cheating his partner, friend, and guest,
Uncounted stores his bursting coffers fill;
But something unpossessed is ever wanting still
THE LIVELY CIT TURNED FARMER.
PHILIP, the famous counsel, on a day
(A burly man, and wilful in his way)
From court returning, somewhere about two,
And grumbling for his years were far from few
That his home in Ship-Street was so distant, though
But from the Forum half a mile or so,
Descried a fellow in a barber's booth
All by himself, his chin shaved fresh and smooth,
Trimming his nails, and with the easy air
Of one uncumbered by a wish or care.
“ Demetrius!” ('t was his page, a boy of tact,
In comprehension swift, and swift of act,)
“Go ascertain his rank, name, fortune ; track
His father, patron!” In a trice he's back.
“An auction-crier, Volteius Mena, sir,
Means poor enough, no spot on character;
Good or to work or idle, get or spend,
Has his own house, delights to see a friend.
Fond of the play and sure, when work is done,
Of those who crowd the campus to make one."
“I'd like to hear all from himself. Away! Bid him come dine with me -- at once-to-day!” Mena some trick in the request divines, Turns it all ways, then civilly declines. “What! says me nay?” “'T is, even so, sir, - why, Can't say. Dislikes you, or, more likely, shy."
Next morning Philip searches Mena out,
And finds him vending to a rabble rout
Old crazy lumber, frippery of the worst,
And with all courtesy salutes him first.
Mena pleads occupation, ties of trade,
His services else he would by dawn have paid
At Philip's house; was grieved to think that how
He should have failed to notice him till now.
“On one condition I accept your plea.
You come this afternoon and dine with me."
“Yours to command.” “Be there, then, sharp at four.
Now go, work hard, and make your little more!”
At dinner Mena rattled on, expressed
What e'er came uppermost, then home to rest.
The hook was baited craftily, and when
The fish came nibbling ever and again,
At morn a client, and when asked to dine,
Not now at all in humor to decline.
Philip himself one holiday drove him down
To see his villa some few miles from town.
Mena keeps praising up the whole way there
The Sabine country and the Sabine air,
So Philip sees his fish is fairly caught,
And smiles with inward triumph at the thought;
Resolved at any price to have his whim,
For that is best of all repose to him.
Several hundred pounds he gives him there and then,
Proffers on easy terms as much again;
And so persuades him that, with tastes like his,
Ee ought to buy a farm. So bought it is.
Not to detain you longer than enough, The dapper cit becomes a farmer bluff. Talks drains and subsoils, ever on the strain, Grows lean, and ages with the lust of gain. But when his sheep are stolen, when murrains smite His goats, and his best crops are killed with blight, When at the plough his oxen drop down dead, Stung with his losses, up one night from bed He springs, and on a cart-horse makes his way VOL. XL-5
All wrath to Philip's house, by break of day.
“How's this ? " cries Philip, seeing him unshorn
And shabby. “Why, Volteius, you look worn.
You work, methinks, too long upon the stretch."
“Oh, that's not it, my patron. Call me wretch;
That is the only fitting naine for me.
Oh by the Genius, by the gods that be
Thy hearth's protectors, I beseech, implore,
Give me, oh, give me back my life of yorel'
If for the worse you find you've changed your place,
Pause not to think, but straight your steps retrace.
In every state the maxim still is true,
On your own last take care to fit your shoe.
A VALETUDINARIAN'S INQUIRIES WHICH place is best supplied with corn, d'ye think? Have they rain water or fresh springs to drink ? Their wines I care not for; when at my farm, I can drink any sort without much harm; But at the sea I need a generous kind To warm my veins and pass into my mind, Enrich me with new hopes, choice words supply, And make me comely in a lady's eye. Which tract is best for game ? On which sea-coast Urchins and other fish abound the most ? That so, when I return, my friends may see A sleek Phæacian come to life in me: These things you needs must tell me, Vala dear, And I no less must act on what I hear.
LET not the frowns of fate
Disquiet thee, my friend,
Nor when she smiles on thee, do thou elate
With vanishing thoughts ascend
Beyond the limits of becoming mirth,
For Dellius, thou must die, become a clod of earth.
Thy woods, thy treasured pride,
Thy mansion's pleasant seat,
Thy lawns washed by the Tiber's yellow tide,
Each favorite retreat,
Thou must leave us all — all, and thine heir shall run
In riot through the wealth thy years of toil have won.