Part 6 (1/2)

All this, and more, the G.o.ds have sent, And I am heartily content.

Oh son of Maia, that I may These bounties keep is all I pray.

If ne'er by craft or base design I've swelled what little store is mine, Nor mean, it ever shall be wrecked By profligacy or neglect; If never from my lips a word Shall drop of wishes so absurd As,--'Had I but that little nook Next to my land, that spoils its look!

Or--'Would some lucky chance unfold A crock to me of hidden gold, As to the man whom Hercules Enriched and settled at his ease, Who,--with, the treasure he had found, Bought for himself the very ground Which he before for hire had tilled!'

If I with grat.i.tude am filled For what I have--by this I dare Adjure you to fulfil my prayer, That you with fatness will endow My little herd of cattle now, And all things else their lord may own, Except his sorry wits alone, And be, as heretofore, my chief Protector, guardian, and relief!

So, when from town and all its ills I to my perch among the hills Retreat, what better theme to choose Than satire for my homely Muse?

No fell ambition wastes me there, No, nor the south wind's leaden air, Nor Autumn's pestilential breath, With victims feeding hungry death.

Sire of the morn, or if more dear The name of Ja.n.u.s to thine ear, Through whom whate'er by man is done, From life's first dawning, is begun (So willed the G.o.ds for man's estate), Do thou my verse initiate!

At Rome you hurry me away To bail my friend; 'Quick, no delay, Or some one--could worse luck befall you?-- Will in the kindly task forestall you.'

So go I must, although the wind Is north and killingly unkind, Or snow, in thickly-falling flakes, The wintry day more wintry makes.

And when, articulate and clear, I've spoken what may cost me dear, Elbowing the crowd that round me close, I'm sure to crush somebody's toes.

'I say, where are you pus.h.i.+ng to?

What would you have, you madman, you?'

So flies he at poor me, 'tis odds, And curses me by all his G.o.ds.

'You think that you, now, I daresay, May push whatever stops your way, When you are to Maecenas bound!'

Sweet, sweet, as honey is the sound, I won't deny, of that last speech, But then no sooner do I reach The dusky Esquiline, than straight Buzz, buzz around me runs the prate Of people pestering me with cares, All about other men's affairs.

'To-morrow, Roscius bade me state, He trusts you'll be in court by eight!'

'The scriveners, worthy Quintus, pray, You'll not forget they meet to-day, Upon a point both grave and new, One touching the whole body, too.'

'Do get Maecenas, do, to sign This application here of mine!'

'Well, well, I'll try.' 'You can with ease Arrange it, if you only please.'

Close on eight years it now must be, Since first Maecenas numbered me Among his friends, as one to take Out driving with him, and to make The confidant of trifles, say, Like this, 'What is the time of day?'

'The Thracian gladiator, can One match him with the Syrian?'

'These chilly mornings will do harm, If one don't mind to wrap up warm;'

Such nothings as without a fear One drops into the c.h.i.n.kiest ear.

Yet all this tune hath envy's glance On me looked more and more askance.

From mouth to mouth such comments run: 'Our friend indeed is Fortune's son.

Why, there he was, the other day, Beside Maecenas at the play; And at the Campus, just before, They had a bout at battledore.'

Some chilling news through lane and street Spreads from the Forum. All I meet Accost me thus--'Dear friend, you're so Close to the G.o.ds, that you must know: About the Dacians, have you heard Any fresh tidings? Not a word!'

'You're always jesting!' 'Now may all The G.o.ds confound me, great and small, If I have heard one word!' 'Well, well, But you at any rate can tell, If Caesar means the lands, which he Has promised to his troops, shall be Selected from Italian ground, Or in Trinacria be found?'

And when I swear, as well I can, That I know nothing, for a man Of silence rare and most discreet They cry me up to all the street.

Thus do my wasted days slip by, Not without many a wish and sigh, When, when shall I the country see, Its woodlands green,--oh, when be free, With books of great old men, and sleep, And hours of dreamy ease, to creep Into oblivion sweet of life, Its agitations and its strife? [1]

When on my table shall be seen Pythagoras's kinsman bean, And bacon, not too fat, embellish My dish of greens, and give it relis.h.!.+

Oh happy nights, oh feasts divine, When, with the friends I love, I dine At mine own hearth-fire, and the meat We leave gives my bluff hinds a treat!

No stupid laws our feasts control, But each guest drains or leaves the bowl, Precisely as he feels inclined.

If he be strong, and have a mind For b.u.mpers, good! if not, he's free To sip his liquor leisurely.

And then the talk our banquet rouses!

But not about our neighbours' houses, Or if 'tis generally thought That Lepos dances well or not?

But what concerns us nearer, and Is harmful not to understand, By what we're led to choose our friends,-- Regard for them, or our own ends?

In what does good consist, and what Is the supremest form of that?

And then friend Cervius will strike in With some old grandam's tale, akin To what we are discussing. Thus, If some one have cried up to us Arellius' wealth, forgetting how Much care it costs him, 'Look you now, Once on a time,' he will begin, 'A country mouse received within His rugged cave a city brother, As one old comrade would another.

”A frugal mouse upon the whole, But loved his friend, and had a soul,”

And could be free and open-handed, When hospitality demanded.