I see you blush--nay, comrades, hush! Come, friend, though they despise you, Tell me the name of that fair dame-- Perchance I may advise you. O wretched youth! and is it truth You love that fickle lady? I, doting dunce, courted her once, And she is reckoned shady! HEINE'S "WIDOW OR DAUGHTER." Shall I woo the one or the other? Both attract me--more's the pity! Pretty is the widowed mother, And the daughter, too, is pretty. When I see that maiden shrinking, By the gods, I swear I'll get 'er! But, anon, I fall to thinking That the mother'll suit me better! So, like any idiot ass-- Hungry for the fragrant fodder, Placed between two bales of grass, Lo, I doubt, delay, and dodder! HORACE II, 20. Maecenas, 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! HORACE'S SPRING POEM. (Odes I, 4.) The western breeze is springing up, the ships are in the bay, And Spring has brought a happy change as Winter melts away; No more in stall or fire the herd or plowman finds delight, No longer with the biting frosts the open fields are white. Our Lady of Lythera now prepares to lead the dance, While from above the ruddy moon bestows a friendly glance; The nymphs and comely Graces join with Venus and the choir, And Vulcan's glowing fancy lightly turns to thoughts of fire. Now is the time with myrtle green to crown the shining pate, And with the early blossoms of the spring to decorate; To sacrifice to Faunus--on whose favor we rely-- A sprightly lamb, mayhap a kid, as he may specify. Impartially the feet of Death at huts and castles strike-- The influenza carries off the rich and poor alike; O Sestius! though blest you are beyond the common run, Life is too short to cherish e'en a distant hope begun. The Shades and Pluto's mansion follow hard upon la grippe-- Once there you cannot throw at dice or taste the wine you sip, Nor look on Lycidas, whose beauty you commend, To whom the girls will presently their courtesies extend. HORACE TO LIGURINE. (Odes IV, 10.)