Chapter II

The western breeze is springing up, the ships are in the bay, And spring has brought a happy change as winter melts away. No more in stall or fire the herd or plowman finds delight; No longer with the biting frosts the open fields are white.

Our Lady of Cythera now prepares to lead the dance, While from above the kindly moon gives an approving glance; The Nymphs and comely Graces join with Venus and the choir, And Vulcan's glowing fancy lightly turns to thoughts of fire.

Now it is time with myrtle green to crown the shining pate, And with the early blossoms of the spring to decorate; To sacrifice to Faunus, on whose favor we rely, A sprightly lamb, mayhap a kid, as he may specify.

Impartially the feet of Death at huts and castles strike; The influenza carries off the rich and poor alike. O Sestius, though blessed you are beyond the common run, Life is too short to cherish e'en a distant hope begun.

The Shades and Pluto's mansion follow hard upon the grip. Once there you cannot throw the dice, nor taste the wine you sip; Nor look on blooming Lycidas, whose beauty you commend, To whom the girls will presently their courtesies extend.

TO A BULLY

You, blatant coward that you are, Upon the helpless vent your spite. Suppose you ply your trade on me; Come, monkey with this bard, and see How I'll repay your bark with bite!

Ay, snarl just once at me, you brute! And I shall hound you far and wide, As fiercely as through drifted snow The shepherd dog pursues what foe Skulks on the Spartan mountain-side.

The chip is on my shoulder--see? But touch it and I'll raise your fur; I'm full of business, so beware! For, though I'm loaded up for bear, I'm quite as like to kill a cur!

TO MOTHER VENUS

O mother Venus, quit, I pray,
Your violent assailing!
The arts, forsooth, that fired my youth
At last are unavailing;
My blood runs cold, I'm getting old,
And all my powers are failing.

Speed thou upon thy white swans' wings,
And elsewhere deign to mellow
With thy soft arts the anguished hearts
Of swains that writhe and bellow;
And right away seek out, I pray,
Young Paullus,--he's your fellow!

You'll find young Paullus passing fair,
Modest, refined, and tony;
Go, now, incite the favored wight!
With Venus for a crony
He'll outshine all at feast and ball
And conversazione!

Then shall that godlike nose of thine
With perfumes be requited,
And then shall prance in Salian dance
The girls and boys delighted,
And while the lute blends with the flute
Shall tender loves be plighted.

But as for me, as you can see,
I'm getting old and spiteful.
I have no mind to female kind,
That once I deemed delightful;
No more brim up the festive cup
That sent me home at night full.

Why do I falter in my speech,
O cruel Ligurine?
Why do I chase from place to place
In weather wet and shiny?
Why down my nose forever flows
The tear that's cold and briny?

TO LYDIA

Tell me, Lydia, tell me why,
By the gods that dwell above,
Sybaris makes haste to die
Through your cruel, fatal love.

Now he hates the sunny plain;
Once he loved its dust and heat.
Now no more he leads the train
Of his peers on coursers fleet.

Now he dreads the Tiber's touch,
And avoids the wrestling-rings,--
He who formerly was such
An expert with quoits and things.

Come, now, Mistress Lydia, say
Why your Sybaris lies hid,
Why he shuns the martial play,
As we're told Achilles did.

TO NEOBULE

A sorry life, forsooth, these wretched girls are undergoing, Restrained from draughts of pleasant wine, from loving favors showing, For fear an uncle's tongue a reprimand will be bestowing!

Sweet Cytherea's winged boy deprives you of your spinning, And Hebrus, Neobule, his sad havoc is beginning, Just as Minerva thriftily gets ready for an inning.

Who could resist this gallant youth, as Tiber's waves he breasted, Or when the palm of riding from Bellerophon he wrested, Or when with fists and feet the sluggers easily he bested?

He shot the fleeing stags with regularity surprising; The way he intercepted boars was quite beyond surmising,-- No wonder that your thoughts this youth has been monopolizing!

So I repeat that with these maids fate is unkindly dealing, Who never can in love's affair give license to their feeling, Or share those sweet emotions when a gentle jag is stealing.

AT THE BALL GAME

What gods or heroes, whose brave deeds none can dispute, Will you record, O Clio, on the harp and flute? What lofty names shall sportive Echo grant a place On Pindus' crown or Helicon's cool, shadowy space?

Sing not, my Orpheus, sweeping oft the tuneful strings, Of gliding streams and nimble winds and such poor things; But lend your measures to a theme of noble thought, And crown with laurel these great heroes, as you ought.

Now steps Ryanus forth at call of furious Mars, And from his oaken staff the sphere speeds to the stars; And now he gains the tertiary goal, and turns, While whiskered balls play round the timid staff of Burns.

Lo! from the tribunes on the bleachers comes a shout, Beseeching bold Ansonius to line 'em out; And as Apollo's flying chariot cleaves the sky, So stanch Ansonius lifts the frightened ball on high.

Like roar of ocean beating on the Cretan cliff, The strong Komiske gives the panting sphere a biff; And from the tribunes rise loud murmurs everywhere, When twice and thrice Mikellius beats the mocking air.

And as Achilles' fleet the Trojan waters sweeps, So horror sways the throng,--Pfefferius sleeps! And stalwart Konnor, though by Mercury inspired, The Equus Carolus defies, and is retired.

So waxes fierce the strife between these godlike men; And as the hero's fame grows by Virgilian pen, So let Clarksonius Maximus be raised to heights As far above the moon as moon o'er lesser lights.

But as for me, the ivy leaf is my reward, If you a place among the lyric bards accord; With crest exalted, and O "People," with delight, I'll proudly strike the stars, and so be out of sight.