The Greeks had genius--'twas a gift The Muse vouchsafed in glorious measure; The boon of Fame they made their aim And prized above all worldly treasure. But _we_--how do we train _our_ youth? _Not_ in the arts that are immortal, But in the greed for gains that speed From him who stands at Death's dark portal. Ah, when this slavish love of gold Once binds the soul in greasy fetters, How prostrate lies--how droops and dies The great, the noble cause of letters! HORACE I, 34. I have not worshiped God, my King-- Folly has led my heart astray; Backward I turn my course to learn The wisdom of a wiser way. How marvelous is God, the King! How do His lightnings cleave the sky-- His thundering car spreads fear afar, And even hell is quaked thereby! Omnipotent is God, our King! There is no thought He hath not read, And many a crown His hand plucks down To place it on a worthier head! HORACE I, 33. Not to lament that rival flame Wherewith the heartless Glycera scorns you, Nor waste your time in maudlin rhyme, How many a modern instance warns you. Fair-browed Lycoris pines away Because her Cyrus loves another; The ruthless churl informs the girl He loves her only as a brother. For he, in turn, courts Pholoe-- A maid unscotched of love's fierce virus-- Why, goats will mate with wolves they hate Ere Pholoe will mate with Cyrus! Ah, weak and hapless human hearts-- By cruel Mother Venus fated To spend this life in hopeless strife, Because incongruously mated! Such torture, Albius, is my lot; For, though a better mistress wooed me, My Myrtale has captured me And with her cruelties subdued me! THE "ARS POETICA" OF HORACE--I. (Lines 1-23.) Should painters attach to a fair human head The thick, turgid neck of a stallion, Or depict a spruce lass with the tail of a bass-- I am sure you would guy the rapscallion! Believe me, dear Pisos, that such a freak Is the crude and preposterous poem Which merely abounds in a torrent of sounds With no depth of reason below 'em. 'Tis all very well to give license to art-- The wisdom of license defend I; But the line should be drawn at the fripperish sprawn Of a mere cacoethes scribendi. It is too much the fashion to strain at effects-- Yes, that's what's the matter with Hannah! Our popular taste by the tyros debased Paints each barnyard a grove of Diana! Should a patron require you to paint a marine, Would you work in some trees with their barks on? When his strict orders are for a Japanese jar, Would you give him a pitcher like Clarkson? Now this is my moral: Compose what you may, And fame will be ever far distant, Unless you combine with a simple design A treatment in toto consistent. THE GREAT JOURNALIST IN SPAIN.