Short Poems

Of French Mules.

To a gouty Critic.

Canst thou talk of feet? Dost blame my verses and criticize my lines, thou whose own feet are so weak? This couplet, you say, will scarcely stand: the scansion is shaky. Dear friend, a gouty man thinks nothing at all can stand.

Quintius' Baths.

Stay awhile and bathe in these waters, traveller; then set forth again upon thy journey refreshed. An thou become its guest, warm will be thy gratitude towards him that built this bath and set it by the side of this long dusty road.

On the Tomb of a Beauty.

Fate allows not beauty a long life: sudden is the end of all that is noble and pre-eminent. Here lies a lovely woman: hers was the beauty of Venus and hers the illwill of Heaven for a gift so rare.

Of Beaver's Overcoat.

'Tis but the shadow of a name that is left. I cannot call it a coat of beaver, not though Beaver swear it is one. It cost six shillings. Now you know what it is like. If you don't believe me, believe the price.

The Porcupine.

I had heard the strange tale, Stymphalus, that the birds that haunted thy marshes let fall from them arrows of death in their flight, and for long I could not bring myself to believe this story of iron feathers. But here is proof: the porcupine who is surely related to those birds of Hercules is their warrant.

Anger affords a weapon to him who seeks one.

Whate'er it carries, that rage converts into a weapon. Wrath supplies all with arms. When an angry man thirsts for blood anything will serve him for a spear. Fury turns a stick into a cudgel.

To Aeternalis.

Phoebus' every breath from the Castalian spring, the tripod's every moan within the shrine of prophecy — all these are poetry. Of prose the Muses will have none. In poetry only can I express myself, so wholly does my patron, Apollo, possess me.

Description of the harbour at Smyrna.

The city that meets our gaze veils the mountain peaks, fronting a tranquil sea. The two head-lands that enclose the harbour protect the quiet water from the north wind. Here the sea is disarmed by the encircling land and learns to lie in undisturbed tranquillity.

To Stilicho.

Crown with a wreath of flowers, Stilicho, that head more often graced with the shining helmet. Bid cease the trumpets and let the happy marriage-torch banish fierce war afar. Let the blood derived from a kingly race flow on through royal veins. Do a father's duty and establish the firm bond of wedlock between thy daughter and adoptive son. Thou wert an emperor's son-in-law; now an emperor will be thine. What cause is there now for envy, what excuse for jealousy? Stilicho is at once father and father-in-law.