Part 5 (1/2)

Prologue

Of borrow'd plumes I take the sin, My extracts will apply To some few silly songs which in These pages scatter'd lie.

The words are Edgar Allan Poe's, As any man may see, But what a POE-t wrote in prose, Shall make blank verse for me.

These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected while going at random the rounds of the Press. I am naturally anxious that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate at all. * *

* * * * In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is inc.u.mbent upon me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the public, or very creditable to myself.

E. A. P.

(See Preface to Poe's Poetical Works.)

Epilogue

And now that my theft stands detected, The first of my extracts may call To some of the rhymes here collected Your notice, the second to all.

Ah! friend, you may shake your head sadly, Yet this much you'll say for my verse, I've written of old something badly, But written anew something worse.

Pastor c.u.m [Translation from Horace]

When he, that shepherd false, 'neath Phrygian sails, Carried his hostess Helen o'er the seas, In fitful slumber Nereus hush'd the gales, That he might sing their future destinies.

A curse to your ancestral home you take With her, whom Greece, with many a soldier bold Shall seek again, in concert sworn to break Your nuptial ties and Priam's kingdom old.

Alas! what sweat from man and horse must flow, What devastation to the Trojan realm You carry, even now doth Pallas show Her wrath, preparing buckler, car, and helm.

In vain, secure in Aphrodite's care, You comb your locks, and on the girlish lyre Select the strains most pleasant to the fair; In vain, on couch reclining, you desire To shun the darts that threaten, and the thrust Of Cretan lance, the battle's wild turmoil, And Ajax swift to follow--in the dust Condemned, though late, your wanton curls to soil.

Ah! see you not where (fatal to your race) Laertes' son comes with the Pylean sage; Fearless alike, with Teucer joins the chase Stenelaus, skill'd the fistic strife to wage, Nor less expert the fiery steeds to quell; And Meriones, you must know. Behold A warrior, than his sire more fierce and fell, To find you rages,--Diomed the bold, Whom like the stag that, far across the vale, The wolf being seen, no herbage can allure, So fly you, panting sorely, dastard pale!-- Not thus you boasted to your paramour.

Achilles' anger for a s.p.a.ce defers The day of wrath to Troy and Trojan dame; Inevitable glide the allotted years, And Dardan roofs must waste in Argive flame.

A Legend of Madrid

[Translated from the Spanish]

Francesca.

Crush'd and throng'd are all the places In our amphitheatre, 'Midst a sea of swarming faces I can yet distinguish her; Dost thou triumph, dark-brow'd Nina?

Is my secret known to thee?

On the sands of yon arena I shall yet my vengeance see.

Now through portals fast careering Picadors are disappearing; Now the barriers nimbly clearing Has the hindmost chulo flown.

Clots of dusky crimson streaking, Brindled flanks and haunches reeking, Wheels the wild bull, vengeance seeking, On the matador alone.

Features by sombrero shaded, Pale and pa.s.sionless and cold; Doublet richly laced and braided, Trunks of velvet slash'd with gold, Blood-red scarf, and bare Toledo,-- Mask more subtle, and disguise Far less shallow, thou dost need, oh, Traitor, to deceive my eyes.