Ovarus mine, Plant thou the vine Within this kindly soil of Tibur; Nor temporal woes, Nor spiritual, knows The man who's a discreet imbiber. For who doth croak Of being broke, Or who of warfare, after drinking? With bowl atween us, Of smiling Venus And Bacchus shall we sing, I'm thinking. Of symptoms fell Which brawls impel, Historic data give us warning; The wretch who fights When full, of nights, Is bound to have a head next morning. I do not scorn A friendly horn, But noisy toots, I can't abide 'em! Your howling bat Is stale and flat To one who knows, because he's tried 'em! The secrets of The life I love (Companionship with girls and toddy) I would not drag With drunken brag Into the ken of everybody; But in the shade Let some coy maid With smilax wreathe my flagon's nozzle, Then all day long, With mirth and song, Shall I enjoy a quiet sozzle!

AN ODE TO FORTUNE

O Lady Fortune! 't is to thee I call, Dwelling at Antium, thou hast power to crown The veriest clod with riches and renown, And change a triumph to a funeral The tillers of the soil and they that vex the seas, Confessing thee supreme, on bended knees Invoke thee, all. Of Dacian tribes, of roving Scythian bands, Of cities, nations, lawless tyrants red With guiltless blood, art thou the haunting dread; Within thy path no human valor stands, And, arbiter of empires, at thy frown The sceptre, once supreme, slips surely down From kingly hands. Necessity precedes thee in thy way; Hope fawns on thee, and Honor, too, is seen Dancing attendance with obsequious mien; But with what coward and abject dismay The faithless crowd and treacherous wantons fly When once their jars of luscious wine run dry,— Such ingrates they! Fortune, I call on thee to bless Our king,—our Cæsar girt for foreign wars! Help him to heal these fratricidal scars That speak degenerate shame and wickedness; And forge anew our impious spears and swords, Wherewith we may against barbarian hordes Our Past redress!

TO A JAR OF WINE

O gracious jar,—my friend, my twin, Born at the time when I was born,— Whether tomfoolery you inspire Or animate with love's desire, Or flame the soul with bitter scorn, Or lull to sleep, O jar of mine! Come from your place this festal day; Corvinus hither wends his way, And there's demand for wine! Corvinus is the sort of man Who dotes on tedious argument. An advocate, his ponderous pate Is full of Blackstone and of Kent; Yet not insensible is he, O genial Massic flood! to thee. Why, even Cato used to take A modest, surreptitious nip At meal-times for his stomach's sake, Or to forefend la grippe. How dost thou melt the stoniest hearts, And bare the cruel knave's design; How through thy fascinating arts We discount Hope, O gracious wine! And passing rich the poor man feels As through his veins thy affluence steals. Now, prithee, make us frisk and sing, And plot full many a naughty plot With damsels fair—nor shall we care Whether school keeps or not! And whilst thy charms hold out to burn We shall not deign to go to bed, But we shall paint creation red; So, fill, sweet wine, this friend of mine,— My lawyer friend, as aforesaid.

TO POMPEIUS VARUS

Pompey, what fortune gives you back To the friends and the gods who love you? Once more you stand in your native land, With your native sky above you. Ah, side by side, in years agone, We've faced tempestuous weather, And often quaffed The genial draught From the same canteen together. When honor at Philippi fell A prey to brutal passion, I regret to say that my feet ran away In swift Iambic fashion. You were no poet; soldier born, You stayed, nor did you wince then. Mercury came To my help, which same Has frequently saved me since then. But now you're back, let's celebrate In the good old way and classic; Come, let us lard our skins with nard, And bedew our souls with Massic! With fillets of green parsley leaves Our foreheads shall be done up; And with song shall we Protract our spree Until the morrow's sun-up.

THE POET'S METAMORPHOSIS

Mæcenas, I propose to fly To realms beyond these human portals; No common things shall be my wings, But such as sprout upon immortals. Of lowly birth, once shed of earth, Your Horace, precious (so you've told him), Shall soar away; no tomb of clay Nor Stygian prison-house shall hold him. Upon my skin feathers begin To warn the songster of his fleeting; But never mind, I leave behind Songs all the world shall keep repeating. Lo! Boston girls, with corkscrew curls, And husky westerns, wild and woolly, And southern climes shall vaunt my rhymes, And all profess to know me fully. Methinks the West shall know me best, And therefore hold my memory dearer; For by that lake a bard shall make My subtle, hidden meanings clearer. So cherished, I shall never die; Pray, therefore, spare your dolesome praises, Your elegies, and plaintive cries, For I shall fertilize no daisies!

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