A Handbook for Latin Clubs Part 24

Martial. Book X, lxi

Underneath this greedy stone, Lies little sweet Erotion;[3]

Whom the Fates, with hearts as cold, Nipp'd away at six years old.

Thou, whoever thou mayst be, That hast this small field after me, Let the yearly rites be paid To her little slender shade; So shall no disease or jar Hurt thy house, or chill thy Lar; But this tomb be here alone The only melancholy stone.

--Leigh Hunt

[Footnote 3: A little girl who died at six years of age.]

_NON AMO TE_

Martial. I, 32

Non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere quare: Hoc tantum possum dicere, non amo te.[4]

[Footnote 4: This well known epigram is the original of one equally famous in English, that written by Tom Brown on Dr. John Fell, about 1670.

"I do not like thee, Dr. Fell.

The reason why I cannot tell; But this I know and know full well I do not like thee, Dr. Fell." ]

GRAt.i.tUDE

Some hae meat and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it; But we hae meat and we can eat And sae the Lord be thanket.

--Burns

Translation

Sunt quibus est panis nec amor tamen ullus edendi: Sunt quibus hic amor est deest tamen ipse cibus.

Panis at est n.o.bis et amor quoque panis edendi Pro quibus est Domino gratia habenda Deo.

--_The Lawrence Latinist_

A HYMN TO THE LARES

It was, and still my care is, To worship ye, the Lares, With crowns of greenest parsley, And garlick chives not scarcely; For favors here to warme me, And not by fire to harme me; For gladding so my hearth here, With inoffensive mirth here; That while the wa.s.saile bowle here With North-down ale doth troule here, No sillable doth fall here, To marre the mirth at all here.

For which, O chimney-keepers!

(I dare not call ye sweepers) So long as I am able To keep a country-table Great be my fare, or small cheere, I'll eat and drink up all here.

--Robert Herrick

ELYSIUM

Past the despairing wail-- And the bright banquets of the Elysian Vale Melt every care away!

Delight, that breathes and moves forever, Glides through sweet fields like some sweet river!

Elysian life survey!

There, fresh with youth, o'er jocund meads, His merry west-winds blithely leads The ever-blooming May!

Through gold-woven dreams goes the dance of the Hours, In s.p.a.ce without bounds swell the soul and its powers, And Truth, with no veil, gives her face to the day.

And joy today and joy tomorrow But wafts the airy soul aloft; The very name is lost to Sorrow, And Pain is Rapture tuned more exquisitely soft.

Here the Pilgrim reposes the world-weary limb, And forgets in the shadow, cool-breathing and dim, The load he shall bear never more; Here the mower, his sickle at rest, by the streams Lull'd with harp strings, reviews, in the calm of his dreams The fields, when the harvest is o'er.

Here, He, whose ears drank in the battle roar, Whose banners streamed upon the startled wind A thunder-storm,--before whose thunder tread The mountains trembled,--in soft sleep reclined, By the sweet brook that o'er its pebbly bed In silver plays, and murmurs to the sh.o.r.e, Hears the stern clangour of wild spears no more.

--Schiller

ORPHEUS

Orpheus he went (as poets tell) To fetch Euridice from h.e.l.l; And had her; but it was upon This short, but strict, condition: Backward he should not looke while he Led her through h.e.l.l's obscuritie.

But ah! it happened as he made His pa.s.sage through that dreadful shade, Revolve he did his loving eye, For gentle feare, or jelousie, And looking back, that look did sever Him and Euridice forever.

--Robert Herrick

CERBERUS

Dear Reader, should you chance to go To Hades, do not fail to throw A "Sop to Cerberus" at the gate, His anger to propitiate.

Don't say "Good dog!" and hope thereby His three fierce Heads to pacify.

What though he try to be polite And wag his tail with all his might, How shall one amiable Tail Against three angry Heads prevail?

The Heads _must_ win.--What puzzles me Is why in Hades there should be A watchdog; 'tis, I should surmise, The _last_ place one would burglarize.

--Oliver Herford

THE HARPY

They certainly contrived to raise Queer ladies in the olden days.

Either the type had not been fixed, Or else Zoology got mixed.

I envy not primeval man This female on the feathered plan.

We only have, I'm glad to say, Two kinds of human birds today-- Women and warriors, who still Wear feathers when dressed up to kill.

--Oliver Herford

CUPID AND THE BEE

Anacreon[5]

Young Cupid once a rose caressed, And sportively its leaflets pressed.

The witching thing, so fair to view One could not but believe it true, Warmed, on its bosom false, a bee, Which stung the boy-G.o.d in his glee.

Sobbing, he raised his pinions bright, And flew unto the isle of light, Where, in her beauty, myrtle-crowned, The Paphian G.o.ddess sat enthroned.

Her Cupid sought, and to her breast His wounded finger, weeping, pressed.

"O mother! kiss me," was his cry-- "O mother! save me, or I die; A winged little snake or bee With cruel sting has wounded me!"

The blooming G.o.ddess in her arms Folded and kissed his budding charms; To her soft bosom pressed her pride, And then with truthful words replied: "If thus a little insect thing Can pain thee with its tiny sting, How languish, think you, those who smart Beneath my Cupid's cruel dart?

How fatal must that poison prove That rankles on the shafts of Love."