They say that by the minstrel's song Cithæron's rocks were moved along To Thebes, where, as you may recall, They formed themselves to frame a wall.
And Galatea, lovely maid, Beneath wild Etna's fastness stayed Her horses, dripping with the mere, Those Polypheman songs to hear.
What marvel, then, since Bacchus and Apollo grasp me by the hand, That all the maidens you have heard Should hang upon my slightest word?
Tænerian columns in my home Are not; nor any golden dome; No parks have I, nor Marcian spring, Nor orchards--nay, nor anything.
The Muses, though, are friends of mine; Some readers love my lyric line; And never is Calliope Awearied by my poetry.
O happy she whose meed of praise Hath fallen upon my sheaf of lays! And every song of mine is sent To be thy beauty's monument.
The Pyramids that point the sky, The House of Jove that soars so high, Mausolus' tomb--they are not free From Death his final penalty.
For fire or rain shall steal away The crumbling glory of their day; But fame for wit can never die, And gosh! I was a gay old guy!
_"Eripitur nobis iam pridem cara puella----"_
While she I loved is being torn From arms that held her many years, Dost thou regard me, friend, with scorn, Or seek to check my tears?
Bitter the hatred for a jilt, And hot the hates of Eros are; My hatred, slay me an thou wilt, For thee'd be gentler far.
Can I endure that she recline Upon another's arm? Shall they No longer call that lady "mine" Who "mine" was yesterday?
For Love is fleeting as the hours. The town of Thebes is draped with moss, And Ilium's well-known topless towers Are now a total loss.
Fell Thebes and Troy; and in the grave Have fallen lords of high degree. What songs I sang! What gifts I gave! ... _She_ never fell for me.
_"Tune igitur demens, nec te mea cura moratur?"_
O Cynthia, hast thou lost thy mind? Have I no claim on thine affection? Dost love the chill Illyrian wind With something passing predilection? And is thy friend--whoe'er he be-- The kind to take the place of _me_?
Ah, canst thou bear the surging deep? Canst thou endure the hard ship's-mattress? For scant will be thy hours of sleep From Staten Island to Cape Hatt'ras; And won't thy fairy feet be froze With treading on the foreign snows?