XII.

TO POSTUMUS.

Postume, plorantem potuisti linquere Gallam.

O COULDST thou leave thy Galla weeping here,
In arms with Caesar's conquering hosts to fare?
Did Parthian spoil so glorious then appear

As to outweigh thy wife's incessant prayer?

Die, misers, die! and all who thus disdain
A faithful partner for the gory glave;
Go, madman! wrapt in martial cloak, and drain,
Wayworn, from out thy casque Araxes' wave.

She'll pine, distraught by rumour's idle breath,
Lest this thy valour win thee bitter meed,
The quiver'd Parthian glory in thy death,
Or mail-clad warrior in thy gilded steed,

And all she gets of thee an urnful prove;

For so return the brave who perish there: Thrice, four times blest in Galla's spotless love, Thou, Postumus, deserv'dst a colder fair.

What will she do when fears no more restrain,
And Rome's seductive snares are round her set?

Yet go in peace: no gifts her heart will gain—
Thy very cruelty she'll e'en forget.

If fate shall bring thee safely home, I ween Chaste Galla round thy neck will fondly cling; Thou'lt mate Ulysses with his peerless queen, Leal after all his years of wandering,

The ten years' siege, the armed Ciconian bands,
Ta'en Ismarus, the Cyclops' burnt-out sight,
The wiles of Circe, and the lotus-lands,

And herbs that held him long by magic might;

Hoarse Scylla's and Charybdis' bosom dread,

Where lashed and lashing waves alternate split; The steers Lampetië for Phoebus fed,

That low'd when roasting on the plunderer's spit;

The fond Aeaean maiden left to weep,

The stormy nights and days he sailed the blue, The journey to the still shades' dreary keep, The Sirens' lake approached with deafened crew,

And the old bow he strung again to kill

The suitor-band and bid his wanderings cease. 'Twas well; his wife at home was stainless still: Thy Galla's faith excels Penelope's.

XIII.

ON WOMAN'S AVARICE.

Quaeritis, unde avidis nox sit pretiosa puellis.

You ask why vice has so expensive grown,
And coffers drained by lust their loss bemoan?
The reason's clear and certain as can be—
The path to luxury is far too free.

The Indian ant sends gold from hollow mine,
The Eastern Ocean pearls of rarest shine;
Cadmean Tyre her purple dyes; the son
Of Araby sweet-scented cinnamon;

Such arms by storm take e'en the spotless bride
And wives, Penelope, with all thy pride.*

In spendthrifts' fortunes clad, proud walks the dame,
And to our face parades the spoils of shame.
Ask all-give all-for scruple now there's none;
She's shy-bid higher, and the maiden's won.

Blest is your funeral rite, ye Eastern swains!
Whom with her steeds the ruddy Morn ingrains;
For when above your bier the death-fires gleam,
Round crowd your loving wives with locks a-stream,
Strive which shall first their husbands' footsteps trace,

And deem refusal bitterest disgrace.

The favoured seek the flames with dauntless breast, And die, their scorched lips to their husbands' prest.

Here wives are faithless; here we never prove
Evadne's truth, Penelopea's love.

O happy were the peaceful swains of yore,
Whose only wealth the fields and orchards bore;
Their gifts were quinces shaken from the trees,
And baskets filled with luscious blackberries;
Posies of violets with white lilies blent,

In wicker-baskets to their girls they sent;
Grape-clusters wrapt in leaves 'mong which they grew,
Or speckled bird with plumes of changing hue;
For which the woodland suitor freely got

The fair one's kisses in some hidden grot.
Then lovers clothed their forms in skins of fawn,
And slept on Nature's couch-the grassy lawn;
'Neath waving pine-trees found an ample shade,
And, free from harm, the robeless nymph surveyed.
Back to the Idaean shepherd's empty shed
The well-grazed flock the ram spontaneous led,
And all the rural gods and goddesses

Cheered smiling hearths with happy words like these:
"Whoe'er thou art, come, hunt the hare, O swain !
And shouldst thou seek for bird in my domain,
Call Pan to join thee from the rocks around,
Whether the sport be with the rod or hound."
Now groves and shrines are visited by none,
All worship gold since Piety is gone:.
Honour, right, law, are bartered now for gold,
And soon will decency itself be sold.

See Pythian Phoebus' threshold lightning-brent
When Brennus sought his shrine on pillage bent !
Shook Mount Parnassus with its laurel crown,

And direful hailstones on the Gauls showered down.

The guilty Thracian Polymnestor nursed
And slew young Polydore for gold accursed;
Thy golden bracelets, Eriphyla, too,
Amphiaräus with his horses slew.

I'll prophesy: O be my boding vain!

By pride and wealth my country-Rome is slain.
I speak the truth: none heed-'twas so of old
With her who Ilium's woes too well foretold;
Alone she said that Paris would destroy
The realm of Phrygia, and the fir-horse, Troy.
Her frenzy might have saved her home and sire ;
In vain did Heaven her prescient tongue inspire.

XIV.

FEMALE SPORTS AT SPARTA.

Multa tuae, Sparte, miramur jura palaestrae.

SPARTA, we thy Palaestra's laws admire,

But more thy female training-schools we prize, Where maidens, thinly clad, in games aspire

To cope with youths in blameless exercise.

There the fleet ball eludes the deftest hands;

Rings on the wire the hoop fast whirling round; At the far goal the dust-grimed maiden stands, And bears hard hits within the boxing-ground.

K