Studies in the Poetry of Italy, Part I. Roman

John Stuart Mill · en
Some chilling news through lane and street
    Spreads from the Forum. All I meet
    Accost me thus--"Dear friend, you're so
    Close to the gods, that you must know;
    About the Dacians have you heard
    Any fresh tidings?" "Not a word."
    "You're always jesting!" "Now may all
    The gods confound me, great and small,
    If I have heard one word!" "Well, well
    But you at any rate can tell
    If Cæsar means the lands which he
    Has promised to his troops shall be
    Selected from Italian ground,
    Or in Trinacria be found?"
    And when I swear, as well I can,
    That I know nothing, for a man
    Of silence rare and most discreet
    They cry me up to all the street.
    Thus do my wasted days slip by,
    Not without many a wish and sigh:
    Oh, when shall I the country see,
    Its woodlands green? Oh, when be free,
    With books of great old men, and sleep,
    And hours of dreamy ease, to creep
    Into oblivion sweet of life,
    Its agitations and its strife?
    When on my table shall be seen
    Pythagoras' kinsman bean,
    And bacon, not too fat, embellish
    My dish of greens, and give it relish?
    Oh happy nights, oh feasts divine,
    When, with the friends I love, I dine
    At mine own hearth-fire, and the meat
    We leave gives my bluff hinds a treat!
    No stupid laws our feasts control,
    But each guest drains or leaves the bowl,
    Precisely as he feels inclined.
    If he be strong, and have a mind
    For bumpers, good! If not, he's free
    To sip his liquor leisurely.
    And then the talk our banquet rouses!
    Not gossip 'bout our neighbors' houses,
    But what concerns us nearer, and
    Is harmful not to understand;
    Whether by wealth or worth, 'tis plain
    That men to happiness attain;
    By what we're led to choose our friends,--
    Regard for them, or our own ends;
    In what does good consist, and what
    Is the supremest form of that.

At some such informal gathering of neighbors as this the story of the
city mouse and the country mouse would be told. The poet's own moral of
this homely tale is gathered from the farewell words of the country
mouse as he escapes from the splendors--and terrors of the city:

    "Ho!" cries the country mouse. "This kind
    Of life is not for me, I find.
    Give me my woods and cavern. There
    At least I'm safe! And though both spare
    And poor my food may be, rebel
    I never will; so, fare ye well!"


3. AULUS PERSIUS FLACCUS