A Handbook for Latin Clubs, Susan Paxson [digital book reader .TXT] 📗
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I went on my sandals golden;
Of love and pleasure I took my fill;
Of love and pleasure I took my fill;
With Paris' kisses my lips were holden,
Nor guessed I, when life went at my will,
That the fates behind me went softlier still.
Nor guessed I, when life went at my will,
That the fates behind me went softlier still.
—Nora Hopper
AN ETRUSCAN RING
Where, girt with orchard and with oliveyard,
The white hill-fortress glimmers on the hill,
Day after day an ancient goldsmith's skill
Day after day an ancient goldsmith's skill
Guided the copper graver, tempered hard
By some lost secret, while he shaped the sard
By some lost secret, while he shaped the sard
Slowly to beauty, and his tiny drill,
Edged with corundum, ground its way until
Edged with corundum, ground its way until
The gem lay perfect for the ring to guard.
Then seeing the stone complete to his desire,
With mystic imagery carven thus,
And dark Egyptian symbols fabulous,
He drew through it the delicate golden wire,
And bent the fastening; and the Etrurian sun
Sank behind Ilva, and the work was done.
With mystic imagery carven thus,
And dark Egyptian symbols fabulous,
He drew through it the delicate golden wire,
And bent the fastening; and the Etrurian sun
Sank behind Ilva, and the work was done.
What dark-haired daughter of a Lucumo
Bore on her slim white finger to the grave
This the first gift her Tyrrhene lover gave,
This the first gift her Tyrrhene lover gave,
Those five-and-twenty centuries ago?
What shadowy dreams might haunt it, lying low
What shadowy dreams might haunt it, lying low
So long, while kings and armies, wave on wave,
Above the rock-tomb's buried architrave
Above the rock-tomb's buried architrave
Went trampling million-footed to and fro?
Who knows? but well it is so frail a thing,
Unharmed by conquering Time's supremacy,
Still should be fair, though scarce less old than Rome.
Now once again at rest from wandering
Across the high Alps and the dreadful sea,
In utmost England let it find a home.
Unharmed by conquering Time's supremacy,
Still should be fair, though scarce less old than Rome.
Now once again at rest from wandering
Across the high Alps and the dreadful sea,
In utmost England let it find a home.
—J. W. Mackail
ORPHEUS WITH HIS LUTE
Orpheus with his lute made trees,
And the mountain tops that freeze,
And the mountain tops that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing:
To his music, plants and flowers
Ever sprung: as sun and showers
Ever sprung: as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.
Everything that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,
Even the billows of the sea,
Hung their heads, and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,
Killing care and grief of heart
Killing care and grief of heart
Fall asleep or hearing, die.
—William Shakespeare
A HYMN IN PRAISE OF NEPTUNE
Of Neptune's empire let us sing
At whose command the waves obey;
To whom the rivers tribute pay,
At whose command the waves obey;
To whom the rivers tribute pay,
Down the high mountains sliding:
To whom the scaly nation yields
Homage for the crystal fields
Wherein they dwell:
To whom the scaly nation yields
Homage for the crystal fields
Wherein they dwell:
And every sea-god pays a gem
Yearly out of his wat'ry cell
Yearly out of his wat'ry cell
To deck great Neptune's diadem.
The Tritons dancing in a ring
Before his palace gates do make
The waters with their echoes quake,
Before his palace gates do make
The waters with their echoes quake,
Like the great thunder sounding:
The sea-nymphs chant their accents shrill,
And the sirens, taught to kill
With their sweet voice,
The sea-nymphs chant their accents shrill,
And the sirens, taught to kill
With their sweet voice,
Make every echoing rock reply
Unto their gentle murmuring noise
Unto their gentle murmuring noise
The praise of Neptune's empery.
—Thomas Campion
HORACE'S PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE
Book II, Ode 16
(In part, only)
He lives on little, and is blest,
On whose plain board the bright
Salt-cellar shines, which was his sire's delight,
On whose plain board the bright
Salt-cellar shines, which was his sire's delight,
Nor terrors, nor cupidity's unrest,
Disturb his slumbers light.
Disturb his slumbers light.
Why should we still project and plan,
We creatures of an hour?
Why fly from clime to clime, new regions scour?
We creatures of an hour?
Why fly from clime to clime, new regions scour?
Where is the exile, who, since time began,
To fly from self had power?
To fly from self had power?
Fell care climbs brazen galley's sides;
Nor troops of horse can fly
Her foot, which than the stag's is swifter, ay,
Nor troops of horse can fly
Her foot, which than the stag's is swifter, ay,
Swifter than Eurus when he madly rides
The clouds along the sky.
The clouds along the sky.
Careless what lies beyond to know,
And turning to the best,
The present, meet life's bitters with a jest,
And turning to the best,
The present, meet life's bitters with a jest,
And smile them down; since nothing here below
Is altogether blest.
Is altogether blest.
In manhood's prime Achilles died,
Tithonus by the slow
Decay of age was wasted to a show,
Tithonus by the slow
Decay of age was wasted to a show,
And Time may what it hath to thee denied
On me perchance bestow.
On me perchance bestow.
To me a farm of modest size,
And slender vein of song,
Such as in Greece flowed vigorous and strong,
And slender vein of song,
Such as in Greece flowed vigorous and strong,
Kind fate hath given, and spirit to despise
The base, malignant throng.
The base, malignant throng.
—Sir Theodore Martin
AN INVITATION TO DINE WRITTEN BY HORACE TO VIRGIL
Book IV, Ode 12
Yes, a small box of nard from the stores of Sulpicius3
A cask shall elicit, of potency rare
A cask shall elicit, of potency rare
To endow with fresh hopes, dewy-bright and delicious,
And wash from our hearts every cobweb of care.
And wash from our hearts every cobweb of care.
If you'd dip in such joys, come—the better the quicker!—
But remember the fee—for it suits not my ends,
But remember the fee—for it suits not my ends,
To let you make havoc, scot-free, 'with my liquor,
As though I were one of your heavy-pursed friends.
As though I were one of your heavy-pursed friends.
To the winds with base lucre and pale melancholy!—
In the flames of the pyre these, alas! will be vain,
In the flames of the pyre these, alas! will be vain,
Mix your sage ruminations with glimpses of folly,—
'Tis delightful at times to be somewhat insane.
'Tis delightful at times to be somewhat insane.
—Sir Theodore Martin
THE GOLDEN MEAN Horace. Book II, Ode 10
Receive, dear friends, the truths I teach,
So shalt thou live beyond the reach
So shalt thou live beyond the reach
Of adverse Fortune's power;
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep
Nor always timorously creep
Along the treacherous shore.
He that holds fast the golden mean
And lives contentedly between
And lives contentedly between
The little and the great,
Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,
Imbittering all his state.
The tallest pines feel most the power
Of wintry blasts; the loftiest tower
Of wintry blasts; the loftiest tower
Comes heaviest to the ground;
The bolts that spare the mountain's side
His cloud-capt eminence divide,
His cloud-capt eminence divide,
And spread the ruin round.
The well-informed philosopher
Rejoices with a wholesome fear,
Rejoices with a wholesome fear,
And hopes in spite of pain;
If winter bellow from the north,
Soon the sweet spring comes dancing forth,
Soon the sweet spring comes dancing forth,
And nature laughs again.
What if thine heaven be overcast?
The dark appearance will not last;
The dark appearance will not last;
Expect a brighter sky.
The god that strings a silver bow
Awakes sometimes the Muses too,
Awakes sometimes the Muses too,
And lays his arrows by.
If hindrances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,
Thy magnanimity display,
And let thy strength be seen:
But O! if Fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,
With more than a propitious gale,
Take half thy canvas in.
—William Cowper
TO THE READER
Martial
He unto whom thou art so partial,
O reader, is the well-known Martial,
The Epigrammatist: while living,
Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving
So shall he hear, and feel, and know it:
Post-obits rarely reach a poet.
O reader, is the well-known Martial,
The Epigrammatist: while living,
Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving
So shall he hear, and feel, and know it:
Post-obits rarely reach a poet.
—Lord Byron
ON PORTIA
Martial. Book I, xlii
When the sad tale, how Brutus fell, was brought,
And slaves refused the weapon Portia sought;
"Know ye not yet," she said, with towering pride,
"Death is a boon that cannot be denied?
I thought my father amply had imprest
This simple truth upon each Roman breast."
Dauntless she gulph'd the embers as they flamed
And, while their heat within her raged, exclaim'd
"Now, troublous guardians of a life abhorr'd,
Still urge your caution, and refuse the sword."
And slaves refused the weapon Portia sought;
"Know ye not yet," she said, with towering pride,
"Death is a boon that cannot be denied?
I thought my father amply had imprest
This simple truth upon each Roman breast."
Dauntless she gulph'd the embers as they flamed
And, while their heat within her raged, exclaim'd
"Now, troublous guardians of a life abhorr'd,
Still urge your caution, and refuse the sword."
—George Lamb
TO POTITUS Martial. Book X, lxx
That scarce a piece I publish in a year,
Idle perhaps to you I may appear.
But rather, that I write at all, admire,
When I am often robbed of days entire.
Now with my friends the evening I must spend:
To those preferred my compliments must send.
Now at the witnessing a will make one:
Hurried from this to that, my morning's gone.
Some office must attend; or else some ball;
Or else my lawyer's summons to the hall.
Now a rehearsal, now a concert hear;
And now a Latin play at Westminster.
Home after ten return, quite tir'd and dos'd.
When is the piece, you want, to be compos'd?
Idle perhaps to you I may appear.
But rather, that I write at all, admire,
When I am often robbed of days entire.
Now with my friends the evening I must spend:
To those preferred my compliments must send.
Now at the witnessing a will make one:
Hurried from this to that, my morning's gone.
Some office must attend; or else some ball;
Or else my lawyer's summons to the hall.
Now a rehearsal, now a concert hear;
And now a Latin play at Westminster.
Home after ten return, quite tir'd and dos'd.
When is the piece, you want, to be compos'd?
—John Hay
WHAT IS GIVEN TO FRIENDS IS NOT LOST
Martial
Your slave will with your gold abscond,
The fire your home lay low,
The fire your home lay low,
Your debtor will disown his bond
Your farm no crops bestow;
Your farm no crops bestow;
Your steward a mistress frail shall cheat;
Your freighted ship the storms will beat;
Your freighted ship the storms will beat;
That only from mischance you'll save,
Which to your friends is given;
Which to your friends is given;
The only wealth you'll always have
Is that you've lent to heaven.
Is that you've lent to heaven.
—English Journal of Education, Jan., 1856
TO COTILUS Martial
They tell me, Cotilus, that you're a beau:
What this is, Cotilus, I wish to know.
"A beau is one who, with the nicest care,
In parted locks divides his curling hair;
One who with balm and cinnamon smells sweet,
Whose humming lips some Spanish air repeat;
Whose naked arms are smoothed with pumice-stone,
And tossed about with graces all his own:
A beau is one who takes his constant seat
From morn till evening, where the ladies meet;
And ever, on some sofa hovering near,
Whispers some nothing in some fair one's ear;
Who scribbles thousand billets-doux a day;
Still reads and scribbles, reads, and sends away;
A beau is one who shrinks, if nearly pressed
By the coarse garment of a neighbor guest;
Who knows who flirts with whom, and still is found
At each good table in successive round:
A beau is one—none better knows than he
A race-horse, and his noble pedigree"—
Indeed? Why Cotilus, if this be so,
What teasing trifling thing is called a beau!
What this is, Cotilus, I wish to know.
"A beau is one who, with the nicest care,
In parted locks divides his curling hair;
One who with balm and cinnamon smells sweet,
Whose humming lips some Spanish air repeat;
Whose naked arms are smoothed with pumice-stone,
And tossed about with graces all his own:
A beau is one who takes his constant seat
From morn till evening, where the ladies meet;
And ever, on some sofa hovering near,
Whispers some nothing in some fair one's ear;
Who scribbles thousand billets-doux a day;
Still reads and scribbles, reads, and sends away;
A beau is one who shrinks, if nearly pressed
By the coarse garment of a neighbor guest;
Who knows who flirts with whom, and still is found
At each good table in successive round:
A beau is one—none better knows than he
A race-horse, and his noble pedigree"—
Indeed? Why Cotilus, if this be so,
What teasing trifling thing is called a beau!
—Elton
THE HAPPY LIFE
Martial
To Julius Martialis
The things that make a life to please,
(Sweetest Martial), they are these:
Estate inherited, not got:
A thankful field, hearth always hot:
City seldom, law-suits never:
Equal friends, agreeing forever:
Health of body, peace of mind:
Sleeps that till the morning bind:
Wise simplicity, plain fare:
Not drunken nights, yet loos'd from care:
A sober, not a sullen spouse:
Clean strength, not such as his that plows;
Wish only what thou art, to be;
Death neither wish, nor fear to see.
(Sweetest Martial), they are these:
Estate inherited, not got:
A thankful field, hearth always hot:
City seldom, law-suits never:
Equal friends, agreeing forever:
Health of body, peace of mind:
Sleeps that till the morning bind:
Wise simplicity, plain fare:
Not drunken nights, yet loos'd from care:
A sober, not a sullen spouse:
Clean strength, not such as his that plows;
Wish only what thou art, to be;
Death neither wish, nor fear to see.
—Sir Richard Fanshawe
TO A SCHOOLMASTER
Martial. Book X, lxii
Thou monarch of eight parts of speech,
Who sweep'st with birch a youngster's breech,
Oh! now awhile withhold your hand!
So may the trembling crop-hair'd band
Around your desk attentive hear,
And pay you love instead of fear;
So may yours ever be as full,
As writing or as dancing school.
The scorching dog-day is begun;
The harvest roasting in the sun;
Each Bridewell keeper, though requir'd
To use the lash, is too much tir'd.
Let ferula and rod together
Lie dormant, till the frosty weather.
Boys do improve enough in reason,
Who miss a fever in this season.
Who sweep'st with birch a youngster's breech,
Oh! now awhile withhold your hand!
So may the trembling crop-hair'd band
Around your desk attentive hear,
And pay you love instead of fear;
So may yours ever be as full,
As writing or as dancing school.
The scorching dog-day is begun;
The harvest roasting in the sun;
Each Bridewell keeper, though requir'd
To use the lash, is too much tir'd.
Let ferula and rod together
Lie dormant, till the frosty weather.
Boys do improve enough in reason,
Who miss a fever in this season.
—John Hay
EPITAPH ON EROTION Martial. Book X, lxi
Underneath this greedy stone,
Lies little sweet Erotion;4
Whom the Fates, with hearts as cold,
Nipp'd away at six years old.
Thou, whoever thou mayst be,
That hast this small field after me,
Let the yearly rites be paid
To her little slender shade;
So shall no disease or jar
Hurt thy house, or chill thy Lar;
But this tomb be here alone
The only melancholy stone.
Lies little sweet Erotion;4
Whom the Fates, with hearts as cold,
Nipp'd away at six years old.
Thou, whoever thou mayst be,
That hast this small field after me,
Let the yearly rites be paid
To her little slender shade;
So shall no disease or jar
Hurt thy house, or chill thy Lar;
But this tomb be here alone
The only melancholy stone.
—Leigh Hunt
NON AMO TE
Martial. I, 32
Non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere quare:
Hoc tantum possum dicere, non amo te.5
Hoc tantum possum dicere, non amo te.5
GRATITUDE
Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat and we can eat
And sae the Lord be thanket.
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat and we can eat
And sae the Lord be thanket.
—Burns
TRANSLATION
Sunt quibus est panis
nec amor tamen ullus edendi:
nec amor tamen ullus edendi:
Sunt quibus hic amor est
deest tamen ipse cibus.
deest tamen ipse cibus.
Panis at est nobis
et amor quoque panis edendi
et amor quoque panis edendi
Pro quibus est Domino
gratia habenda Deo.
gratia habenda Deo.
—The Lawrence Latinist
A HYMN TO THE LARES
It was, and still my care is,
To worship ye, the Lares,
With crowns of greenest parsley,
And garlick chives not scarcely;
For favors here to warme me,
And not by fire to harme me;
For gladding so my hearth here,
With inoffensive mirth here;
That while the wassaile bowle here
With North-down ale doth troule here,
No sillable doth fall here,
To marre the mirth at all here.
For which, O chimney-keepers!
(I dare not call ye sweepers)
So long as I am able
To keep a country-table
Great be my fare, or small cheere,
I'll eat and drink up all here.
To worship ye, the Lares,
With crowns of greenest parsley,
And garlick chives not scarcely;
For favors here to warme me,
And not by fire to harme me;
For gladding so my hearth here,
With inoffensive mirth here;
That while the wassaile bowle here
With North-down ale doth troule here,
No sillable doth fall here,
To marre the mirth at all here.
For which, O chimney-keepers!
(I dare not call ye sweepers)
So long as I am able
To keep a country-table
Great be my fare, or small cheere,
I'll eat and drink up all here.
—Robert Herrick
ELYSIUM
Past the despairing wail—
And the bright banquets of the Elysian Vale
Melt every care away!
Delight, that breathes and moves forever,
Glides through sweet fields like some sweet river!
Elysian life survey!
There, fresh with youth, o'er jocund meads,
His merry west-winds blithely leads
The ever-blooming May!
Through gold-woven dreams goes the dance of the Hours,
In space without bounds swell the soul and its powers,
And Truth, with no veil, gives
And the bright banquets of the Elysian Vale
Melt every care away!
Delight, that breathes and moves forever,
Glides through sweet fields like some sweet river!
Elysian life survey!
There, fresh with youth, o'er jocund meads,
His merry west-winds blithely leads
The ever-blooming May!
Through gold-woven dreams goes the dance of the Hours,
In space without bounds swell the soul and its powers,
And Truth, with no veil, gives
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