'It is true that with stone-axe employment, Or with celts I can hammer my way, But no rational means of enjoyment Is known to the world in this day. 'Wild animals, wolfish or beary, Howl fierce round my forest-tree brown; And when I build huts on the prairie The buffaloes batter them down. 'And so, to the beaver a debtor, I build for myself in the flood; The further from firm land the better, A pile-dam in shingle and mud. 'But much I am forced to dispense with What ages to come will behold; I'd be glad of a good sword to fence with, But as yet there's no iron or gold. 'In stocks I would gladly grow wealthy, But exchange is not yet understood: A good glass of beer would be healthy; But never a drop has been brewed. 'And then how my horror increases To think of our cookery rude! How we crack a pig's bones into pieces, And suck out the marrow for food. 'And how can the soul be expected To form an ideal of taste, When nothing but poles are erected Around in a watery waste?' He sang With a voice hoarse and failing, With rheumatics his temper was grim; Two wild bears slipped over the poling, And, climbing, came snapping at him. Down he threw, as with anger he flushes, Axe, deer-horn, and drink-cup of clay, Sprang, splash! like a frog to the rushes, And paddled with curses away. Where once the Lacustrians plying, Drove many a pillar or stake, A strata of relics is lying 'Neath the mud and the turf of the lake. And he who this song made for singing, Himself through those layers has mined, And the relics to daylight upbringing, Felt pride as a mortal refined. HESIOD. Licht glühte des Helicon Klippe In Mittagspurpur und Blau. Light gleamed upon Helicon's mountain In the purple of mid-day and blue, As by Aganippe's clear fountain A shepherd boy slept in the dew. In seeking the lambs of his master, From Askra, he'd roamed through the wood, But now all the strength of the pastor By the heat of the sun was subdued. Then from sun-lighted fields of old story, Came Nine who were heavenly fair; Their limbs were of beauty a glory, And a glory of gold was their hair. They moved as in musical numbers, To the grove, Aganippe across, And laid by the youth in his slumbers, Their gifts in the emerald moss. The first a bronze style like a feather, The second an inkstand of brass, The third a neat album in leather, The fourth a Bohemian glass, The fifth gave red wax and a taper, The sixth a gold eye-glass and sheath, The seventh cigars wrapped in paper, The eighth a sweet asphodel wreath.