TO Q. H. F.

SUGGESTED BY A CHAPTER IN SIR THEODORE MARTIN'S "HORACE."

("ANCIENT CLASSICS FOR ENGLISH READERS.")

"HORATIUS FLACCUS, B. c. 8,"

There's not a doubt about the date, -
You're dead and buried:

As you observed, the seasons roll;
And 'cross the Styx full many a soul
Has Charon ferried,

Since, mourned of men and Muses nine,
They laid you on the Esquiline.

And that was centuries ago!

You'd think we'd learned enough, I know, To help refine us,

Since last you trod the Sacred Street,

And tacked from mortal fear to meet
The bore Crispinus;

Or, by your cold Digentia, set

The web of winter birding-net.

Ours is so far-advanced an age!
Sensation tales, a classic stage,

Commodious villas!

We boast high art, an Albert Hall,
Australian meats, and men who call
Their sires gorillas!

We have a thousand things, you see,
Not dreamt in your philosophy.

And yet, how strange! Our "world," to-day, Tried in the scale, would scarce outweigh Your Roman cronies;

Walk in the Park — you'll seldom fail

To find a Sybaris on the rail

By Lydia's ponies,

Or hap on Barrus, wigged and stayed,
Ogling some unsuspecting maid.

The great Gargilius, then, behold!
His "long-bow" hunting tales of old
Are now but duller;

Fair Neobule too! Is not

One Hebrus here- from Aldershot?
Aha, you colour!

Be wise. There old Canidia sits;

No doubt she's tearing you to bits.

And look, dyspeptic, brave, and kind,
Comes dear Mæcenas, half behind

Terentia's skirting;

Here's Pyrrha, "golden-haired" at will;
Prig Damasippus, preaching still;

Asterie flirting,

Radiant, of course. We'll make her black,Ask her when Gyges' ship comes back.

So with the rest. Who will may trace
Behind the new each elder face

Defined as clearly;

Science proceeds, and man stands still;
Our "world" to-day 's as good or ill, -
As cultured (nearly),

As yours was, Horace! You alone,
Unmatched, unmet, we have not known.

TO "LYDIA LANGUISH."

"Il me faut des émotions."

BLANCHE AMORY.

You ask me, Lydia, “whether I,
If you refuse my suit, shall die."
(Now pray don't let this hurt you!)
Although the time be out of joint,
I should not think a bodkin's point
The sole resource of virtue;

Nor shall I, though your mood endure,
Attempt a final Water-cure

Except against my wishes;

For I respectfully decline

To dignify the Serpentine,

And make hors-d'œuvres for fishes;

But, if you ask me whether I

Composedly can go,

Without a look, without a sigh,
Why, then I answer - No.

"You are assured," you sadly say (If in this most considerate way To treat my suit your will is), That I shall "quickly find as fair

Some new Neæra's tangled hair
Some easier Amaryllis."

I cannot promise to be cold

If smiles are kind as yours of old
On lips of later beauties;
Nor can I, if I would, forget

The homage that is Nature's debt,

While man has social duties;

But, if you ask shall I prefer

To you I honour so,

A somewhat visionary Her,

I answer truly― No.

You fear, you frankly add, "to find
In me too late the altered mind

That altering Time estranges." To this I make response that we (As physiologists agree)

Must have septennial changes; This is a thing beyond control, And it were best upon the whole

To try and find out whether

We could not, by some means, arrange This not-to-be-avoided change

So as to change together:

But, had you asked me to allow

That you could ever grow