Echoes from the Sabine Farm. Гораций

      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, 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!

      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.

      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.

      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