Echoes from the Sabine Farm
Public-domain ebook
Echoes from the Sabine Farm
by Horace
Language: en523 downloads on Project Gutenberg
Subjects
In: Poetry
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #13885.
The opening · free to read
The last stanza in the epilogue of this book reads:
Or if we part to meet no more This side the misty Stygian river, Be sure of this: On yonder shore Sweet cheer awaiteth such as we-- A Sabine pagan's heaven, O friend-- And fellowship that knows no end.
FRANCIS WILSON.
January 22, 1896.
TO M.L. GRAY.
Come, dear old friend, and with us twain To calm Digentian groves repair; The turtle coos his sweet refrain And posies are a-blooming there; And there the romping Sabine girls Bind myrtle in their lustrous curls.
I know a certain ilex-tree Whence leaps a fountain cool and clear. Its voices summon you and me; Come, let us haste to share its cheer! Methinks the rapturous song it sings Should woo our thoughts from mortal things.
But, good old friend, I charge thee well, Watch thou my brother all the while, Lest some fair Lydia cast her spell Round him unschooled in female guile. Those damsels have no charms for me; Guard thou that brother,--I'll guard thee!
And, lo, sweet friend! behold this cup, Round which the garlands intertwine; With Massic it is foaming up, And we would drink to thee and thine. And of the draught thou shalt partake, Who lov'st us for our father's sake.
Hark you! from yonder Sabine farm Echo the songs of long ago, With power to soothe and grace to charm What ills humanity may know; With that sweet music in the air, 'T is Love and Summer everywhere.
So, though no grief consumes our lot (Since all our lives have been discreet), Come, in this consecrated spot, Let's see if pagan cheer be sweet. Now, then, the songs; but, first, more wine. The gods be with you, friends of mine!
E.F.
Written in Collaboration with Roswell Martin Field
TO M.L. GRAY E.F. AN INVITATION TO MÆCENAS. Odes, III. 29 E.F. CHLORIS PROPERLY REBUKED. Odes, III. 15 R.M.F. TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA. Odes, III. 13 E.F. TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA. R.M.F. THE PREFERENCE DECLARED. Odes, I. 38 E.F. A TARDY APOLOGY. I. Epode XIV R.M.F. A TARDY APOLOGY. II. E.F. TO THE SHIP OF STATE. Odes, I. 14 R.M.F. QUITTING AGAIN. Odes, III. 26 E.F. SAILOR AND SHADE. Odes, I. 28 E.F. LET US HAVE PEACE. Odes, I. 27 E.F. TO QUINTUS DELLIUS. Odes, II. 3 E.F. POKING FUN AT XANTHIAS. Odes, II. 4 R.M.F. TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS. Odes, I. 22 E.F. TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS. I. Odes, I. 33 E.F. TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS. II. R.M.F. To MÆCENAS. Odes, I. 1 R.M.F. TO HIS BOOK. Epistle XX R.M.F. FAME vs. RICHES. Ars Poetica, line 323 E.F. THE LYRIC MUSE. Ars Poetica, line 301 E.F. A COUNTERBLAST AGAINST GARLIC. Epode III. R.M.F. AN EXCUSE FOR LALAGE. Odes, II. 5 R.M.F. AN APPEAL TO LYCE. Odes, IV. 13 R.M.F. A ROMAN WINTER-PIECE I. Odes, I. 9 E.F. A ROMAN WINTER-PIECE II. R.M.F. TO DIANA. Odes, III. 22 R.M.F. TO HIS LUTE. Odes, I. 32 E.F. TO LEUCONÖE I. Odes, I. 11 R.M.F. TO LEUCONÖE II. E.F. TO LIGURINUS I. Odes, IV. 10 R.M.F. TO LIGURINUS II. E.F. THE HAPPY ISLES. Epode XIV. line 41 E.F. CONSISTENCY. Ars Poetica E.F. TO POSTUMUS. Odes, II. 14 R.M.F. TO MISTRESS PYRRHA I. Odes, I. 5 E.F. TO MISTRESS PYRRHA II. R.M.F. TO MELPOMENE. Odes, III. 30 E.F. TO PHYLLIS I. Odes, IV. 11. E.F. TO PHYLLIS II. R.M.F. TO CHLOE I. Odes, I. 23 R.M.F. TO CHLOE II. E.F. A PARAPHRASE. E.F. ANOTHER PARAPHRASE. E.F. A THIRD PARAPHRASE. E.F. A FOURTH PARAPHRASE. E.F. TO MÆCENAS. Odes, I. 20 E.F. TO BARINE. Odes, II. 8 R.M.F. THE RECONCILIATION. I. Odes, III. 9 E.F. THE RECONCILIATION. II. R.M.F. THE ROASTING OF LYDIA. Odes, I. 25 R.M.F. TO GLYCERA. Odes, I. 19 R.M.F. TO LYDIA. I. Odes, I. 13 E.F. TO LYDIA. II. R.M.F. TO QUINTIUS HIRPINUS. Odes, II. 11 E.F. WINE, WOMEN, AND SONG. Odes, I. 18 E.F. AN ODE TO FORTUNE. Odes, I. 35 E.F. TO A JAR OF WINE. Odes, III. 21 E.F. TO POMPEIUS VARUS. Odes, II. 1 E.F. THE POET'S METAMORPHOSIS. Odes, II. 20 E.F. TO VENUS. Odes, I. 30 E.F. IN THE SPRINGTIME. I. Odes, I. 4 E.F. IN THE SPRINGTIME. II. R.M.F. TO A BULLY. Epode VI. E.F. TO MOTHER VENUS. TO LYDIA. Odes, I. 8 E.F. TO NEOBULE. Odes, III. 12 R.M.F. AT THE BALL GAME. Odes, V. 17. R.M.F. EPILOGUE. 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!
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!
Ii
You ask me, friend, Why I don't send The long since due-and-paid-for numbers; Why, songless, I As drunken lie Abandoned to Lethean slumbers.
Long time ago (As well you know) I started in upon that carmen; My work was vain,-- But why complain? When gods forbid, how helpless are men!
Some ages back, The sage Anack Courted a frisky Samian body, Singing her praise In metered phrase As flowing as his bowls of toddy.
Till I was hoarse Might I discourse Upon the cruelties of Venus; 'T were waste of time As well of rhyme, For you've been there yourself, Mæcenas!
Perfect your bliss If some fair miss Love you yourself and not your minæ; I, fortune's sport, All vainly court The beauteous, polyandrous Phryne!
To the Ship of State
O ship of state Shall new winds bear you back upon the sea? What are you doing? Seek the harbor's lee Ere 't is too late!
Do you bemoan Your side was stripped of oarage in the blast? Swift Africus has weakened, too, your mast; The sailyards groan.
Of cables bare, Your keel can scarce endure the lordly wave. Your sails are rent; you have no gods to save, Or answer pray'r.
Though Pontic pine, The noble daughter of a far-famed wood, You boast your lineage and title good,-- A useless line!
The sailor there In painted sterns no reassurance finds; Unless you owe derision to the winds, Beware--beware!
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