Books let me have, and stores to last a year,-
So 'scape a life all flutter, hope and fear!"
At this I stop. It is enough to pray
To Jove for what he gives and takes away.
Let him give life, and means to live; a mind
Well-poised behooves me for myself to find.

THEODORE MARTIN

The Lure of the Country

Or if we'd seek a spot whereon to raise
A home to shelter our declining days,
What place so fitting as the country? Where
Comes nipping winter with a kindlier air?
Where find we breezes balmier to cool
The fiery dog-days when the sun's at full?
Or where is envious care less apt to creep,
And scare the blessings of heart-easing sleep?
Is floor mosaic, gemmed with malachite,
One half so fragrant or one half so bright

As the sweet herbage? Or the stream town-sped,
That frets to burst its cerements of lead,

More pure than that which shoots and gleams along,
Murmuring its low and lulling undersong?

SIR THEODORE MARTIN

A Roman Poet's Philosophy of Life

My stream of pure water, my woodland of few acres, and sure trust in my crop of corn, bring me more blessing than the lot of the dazzling lord of fertile Africa, though he know it not. Though neither Calabrian bees bring me honey, nor wine lies mellowing for me in Laestrygonian jar, nor thick fleeces are waxing for me in Gallic pastures, yet distressing poverty is absent; nor, did I wish more, would you refuse to grant it. By narrowing my desires, I shall better enlarge my scanty revenues than were I to make the realm of Alyattes continuous with the Mygdonian plains. To those who seek for much, much is ever lacking; blest is he to whom the god with chary hand has given just enough. C. E. BENNETT

Quem bibulum liquidi media de luce Falerni,
cena brevis iuvat et prope rivum somnus in herba.
nec lussise pudet sed non incidere ludum.
non istic obliquo oculo mea commoda quisquam
limat, non odio obscuro morsuque venenat;
rident vicini glaebas et saxa moventem.

Hor. Ep. i. 14, 34-39.

O fons Bandusiae, splendidior vitro,
dulci digne mero non sine floribus,
cras donaberis haedo,

cui frons turgida cornibus

primis et venerem et proelia destinat;
frustra: nam gelidos inficiet tibi
rubro sanguine rivos
lascivi suboles gregis.

te flagrantis atrox hora Caniculae
nescit tangere, tu frigus amabile
fessis vomere tauris

Praebes et pecori vago.

fies nobilium tu quoque fontium,
me dicente cavis inpositam ilicem
saxis, unde loquaces
lymphae desiliunt tuae.

Hor. C. iii. 13.

Amoenum

Lucretilem.

Hor. C. i. 17, 1.

It is uncertain whether the Fons Bandusia was near Venusia, the birthplace of Horace or in the neighborhood of the Sabine Farm. It is possible that the poet may have transferred the name from the spring he knew in his childhood to the one in this region.

Now called M. Gennaro, of which mountain it was probably a part in Horace's day.

The Convert

He who of yore caroused from noon till night
Now quits the table soon, and lives to dream
And drowse upon the grass beside the stream,
Nor blushes that of sport he took his full;—
He'd blush, indeed, to be tomfooling stili.
In that calm spot no evil eye askance
Upon my simple comforts brings mischance.
Nor does cold hate, with slanderous fang obscure,
Its venom drop for my discomfiture.

True, as I turn a sod or shift a stone,

My neighbors laugh,-no mighty harm, you'll own.

SIR THEODORE MARTIN

The Fountain of Bandusia

Bandusia, stainless mirror of the sky,

Thine is the flower-crown'd bowl! for thee shall die, When dawns yon sun, the kid;

Whose horns, half-seen, half-hid, Challenge to dalliance or to strife—in vain! Soon must the darling of the herd be slain, And those cold springs of thine

With blood incarnadine.

Fierce glows the Dog-star, but his fiery beam
Toucheth not thee: still grateful thy cool stream
To labour-wearied ox,

Or wanderer from the flocks:

And henceforth thou shalt be a royal fountain:
My harp shall tell how from yon cavernous mountain,
Topt by the brown oak-tree,

Thou breakest babblingly.

CHARLES STUART CAVERLEY

Fair Lucretilis.5

C. E. BENNETT

Perditur haec inter misero lux non sine votis:

O rus, quando ego te adspiciam? quandoque licebit.
nunc veterum libris nunc somno et inertibus horis
ducere sollicitae iucunda oblivia vitae?

o quando faba Pythagorae cognata simulque
uncta satis pingui ponentur oluscula lardo?
o noctes cenaeque deum, quibus ipse meique
ante Larem proprium vescor vernasque procaces
pasco libatis dapibus. prout cuique libidost
siccat inaequales calices conviva, solutus
legibus insanis, seu quis capit acria fortis
pocula seu modicis uvescit laetius. ergo
sermo oritur, non de villis domibusve alienis,
nec male necne Lepos saltet; sed, quod magis ad nos
pertinet et nescire malumst, agitamus, utrumne
divitiis homines an sint virtute beati;

quidve ad amicitias, usus rectumne, trahat nos;
et quae sit natura boni summumque quid eius.

Hor. S. ii. 6, 59-76.

Pleasant Memories

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 beans 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,
Or if 'tis generally thought

That Lepos dances well or not.

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?

SIR THEODORE MARTIN