Ah, ever and

Tænarian Dis. Look hither, Apollo; willing love awaits thee; the spring winds are full of honeyed supplication. Odorous Zephyr lightly claps his cinnamon-scented wings, and the very birds seem to bear thee blandishments. Nor does Earth, overbold, come empty-handed to seek the bridals of her longing. She brings thee medicinable herbs, whereby she may help thy fame as healer. If riches, if shining gifts, will win thee (and love is still purchased with gifts), she lays before thee all the treasures hidden under the mighty sea or under the roots of the hills. again, when thou, wearied by the steep sky, hast cast thyself into the vesperine waters, she cries, "Oh, why! Apollo, must it be the cerulean ocean-mother who receives thee when thou comest to the west weary from thy day's course? What is Tethys to thee? What to thee the Hesperian tide? Why wilt thou bathe thy divine face in impure brine? A better coolness, Apollo, thou mayst find in my shade. Come hither, and lay thy glories in my breast. Where thou liest a breeze will soothe with gentle sibillations our bodies strewn with dewy roses. Believe me, I fear not Semele's fate; I fear not thy chariot, nor thy smoking sun-steeds. If thou wilt use thy fires right wisely, Apollo, come hither, and lay thy glories in my breast!"

Thus amorously breathes the wanton Earth, and all the rout of her children follow headlong after her example. For now over the whole world Cupid wanders, and at the fire of the sun rekindles his torch. On the lethal horns of his bow sounds a new string; new tips shine baleful on his bright arrows. Now he attempts to conquer even unconquered Diana, even the pure Vestal as she sits by the sacred hearth. Venus now purges all signs of age from her form, and seems once more just risen from the warm sea. Through the marble walls of cities the young men cry Hymena! the shores and hollow rocks give back the cry Io, Hymen! Hymen himself comes seemlier-garbed in a new tunic, breathing fragrance from his crocus vest. In crowds

Egrediturque frequens ad amoni gaudia

veris

110

Virgineos auro cincta puella sinus. Votum est cuique suum; votum est tamen omnibus unum,

Ut sibi quem cupiat det Cytherea virum. Nunc quoque septenâ modulatur arundine pastor,

Et sua quæ jungat carmina Phyllis habet. Navita nocturno placat sua sidera cantu, Delphinasque leves ad vada summa vocat,

Jupiter ipse alto cum conjuge ludit Olympo. Convocat et famulos ad sua festa Deos. Nunc etiam Satyri, cum sera crepuscula surgunt,

120

Pervolitant celeri florea rura choro, Sylvanusque suâ cyparissi fronde revinctus, Semicaperque Deus, semideusque caper. Quæque sub arboribus Dryades latuere vetustis

Per juga, per solos expatiantur agros. Per sata luxuriat fruticetaque Mænalius Pan;

Vix Cybele mater, vix sibi tuta Ceres; Atque aliquam cupidus prædatur Oreada Faunus,

Consulit in trepidos dum sibi nympha pedes,

Jamque latet, latitansque cupit malè tecta videri,

Et fugit, et fugiens pervelit ipsa capi. 130 Dii quoque non dubitant cælo præponere sylvas,

Et sua quisque sibi numina lucus habet. Et sua quisque diu sibi numina lucus habeto, Nec vos arboreâ, dii, precor, ite domo. Te referant, miseris te, Jupiter, aurea terris

Sæcla! quid ad nimbos, aspera tela, redis? Tu saltem lentè rapidos age, Phoebe, jugales Quà potes, et sensim tempora veris eant: Brumaque productas tardè ferat hispida

noctes,

Ingruat et nostro serior umbra polo! 140

the man she loves for husband.

Now, too, the shepherd pipes on his seven reeds, and Phyllis has a song to match. The sailor hymns nightly to the stars; the dolphins come to the surface of the waves to listen. Jove himself and his spouse make merry in Olympus, and call the subject gods to feast. And now, when the late twilight falls, fleet bands of Satyrs skim over the blossomy fields; and with them Sylvanus, cypress - crowned, half god and half goat. The Dryads who hide amid old trees now roam abroad over the ridges and the lonely fields. Through the sown boskets riots Mænalian Pan; mother Cybele and Ceres are scarce safe from him. Wanton Faunus makes prey of the oread. She flies with startled feet. Now she hides, but not too well, lest she might fail to be found; flees, but even as she flees longs to be caught. The gods desert the sky for the woods of earth; each grove has its deity.

she

Long may each grove have its deity! Gods, desert not, I pray, your homes amid the trees. O Jove, bring back to the wretched world its golden age. Why hast thon returned to thy clouds and harsh arrow? of lightning? At least do thou, Phoebus. curb as much as may be thy rapid team, and let the days of spring pass slowly. Let it be long ere rough winter brings us its tedious nights; let the shades fall later than their wont about our pole!

softer and the sterner sides of the poet's vocation; and it gives an account of the Hymn on the Nativity, just completed, or perhaps still under way. The picture of Christmas merrymaking in an English country-house gains a peculiar charm from the queer medium of seventeenth century Latin in which it is conveyed.

UNSURFEITED with feasting, I send you a good-health, for which your full stomach may give you need. Why do you tempt me to write verses by sending me yours? Why will you not allow my Muse to stay in the shadow she loves? You desire me to tell in verse how much I love and cherish you? Believe me, that is a thing you can scarcely hope to learn in verse; my love cannot be held in the strict bonds of metre, nor be put whole and unimpaired into measured syllables.

How well you tell of your high feastings, of your December merriment, and all the gaieties that celebrate the coming of the heavenly One to earth! How well you tell of the joys of winter in the country, and of the French must sipped pleasantly by the fireside! But why do you imply that a poet must keep aloof from drinking and feasting? Song loves Bacchus, and Bacchus loves song. Apollo was not ashamed to bear the green corymbus; nay, even to put the ivy of the wine-god above his own laurel. Many a time the nine Muses have mixed with the Bacchic chorus crying Eva on the Baotian hills. Those verses which Ovid sent from the fields of Thrace were

1 A double reference is intended, to Christ and to Saturn; the Roman Saturnalia was celebrated in December.

Lyæum,

Cantavit brevibus Tëia Musa modis ? Pindaricosque inflat numeros Teumesius Euan,

Et redolet sumptum pagina quæque me

and no vineyards. What but roses and the grape-laden vine did Anacreon sing in those delicate staves of his ? Teumesian Bacchus inspired Pindar's strain; each page of his breathes ardor from the drained cup, as he sings of the crash of the heavy chariot overturned, and the rider flying by, dark with the dust of the Elean race-course. The Roman lyrist drank first of the fouryear-old vintage, ere he sang so sweetly of Glycera and blond-haired Chloe. The sinews of thy genius, too, draw strength from the generously laden table. Massic cups foam with a rich vein of song; from the very jar you pour a learned strain. Add to such incitements those of the arts, and of Apollo penetrant within the inmost chambers of your heart, and it is little wonder that such delightful verses come from you, since three gods in accord, Bacchus, Apollo, and Ceres, brought them to birth.

Your

For you, too, the lute, Orpheus's instrument, gold-embossed, sounds now, gently touched by a master hand. In tapestried rooms is heard the lyre, swaying with subtle rhythm the feet of young girls in the dance. Let such gracious sights as this hold your Muse at gaze, and they will call back all the skill and ardor that dull repletion drove away. Trust me, when the ivory keys of the virginal leap under the player's fingers, and the crowd of dancers fills the perfumed chambers, you will feel the spirit of song stealing into your heart, penetrating your very bones with a sudden glow. From the eyes and fingers of the girlish player, Thalia will slip into your breast and possess it all.

For light elegy is the care of many gods, and calls to its numbers whom it will; Erato, Ceres, Venus, all gladly come, and tender stripling Love with his rosy mother. But the poet who will tell of wars, and of Heaven under adult Jove, and of pious heroes, and leaders half-divine, singing now

Et nunc sancta canit superûm consulta deorum,

Nunc latrata fero regna profunda cane, Ille quidem parcè, Samii pro more magistri,

Vivat, et innocuos præbeat herba cibos; 60 Stet prope fagineo pellucida lympha catillo,

Sobriaque e puro pocula fonte bibat. Additur huic scelerisque vacans et casta juventus,

Et rigidi mores, et sine labe manus; Qualis veste nitens sacrâ, et lustralibus undis,

Surgis ad infensos augur iture Deos. Hoc ritu vixisse ferunt post rapta saga

cem

Lumina Tiresian, Ogygiumque Linon, Et lare devoto profugum Calchanta, senemque

Orpheon edomitis sola per antra feris; 70 Sie dapis exiguus, sie rivi potor Homerus Dulichium vexit per freta longa virum, Et per monstrificam Perseiæ Phœbados aulam,

Et vada fœmineis insidiosa sonis, Perque tuas, rex ime, domos, ubi sanguine nigro

Dicitur umbrarum detinuisse greges: Diis etenim sacer est vates, divûmque sacerdos,

Spirat et occultum pectus et ora Jovem. At tu si quid agam scitabere (si modò saltem

Esse putas tanti noscere siquid agam). 80 Paciferum canimus cælesti semine regem, Faustaque sacratis sæcula pacta libris; Vagitumque Dei, et stabulantem paupere

the holy counsels of the gods above, and now the realms profound where Cerberus howls, such a poet must live sparely, after the manner of Pythagoras, the Samian teacher. Herbs must furnish him his innocent food; clear water in a beechen cup, sober draughts from the pure spring, must be his drink. His youth must be chaste and void of offence; his manners strict, his hands without stain. He shall be like a priest shining in sacred vestment, washed with lustral waters, who goes up to make augury before the jealous gods. Thus righteously, they say, wise Tiresias lived, after his eyes were darkened; and Linus, and Calchas, who fled from his doomed hearth, and Orpheus, roaming in old age through lonely caverns, quelling the wild beasts with his music. So, a spare eater and a drinker of water, Homer carried Odysseus through the long straits, through the monster-haunted hall of Circe, and the shoals where the Sirens made insidious music; and through thy realms, nethermost king, where they say he held with a spell of black blood the troops of the shades. Yea, for the bard is sacred to the god; he is their priest; mysteriously from his lips and his breast he breathes Jove.

But if you will know what I am doing, I will tell you, if indeed you think my doings worth your concern. I am singing the King of Heaven, bringer of peace, and the fortunate days promised by the holy book; the wanderings of God, and the stabling under a poor roof of Him who rules with his father the realms above; the star that led the wizards, the hymning of angels in the air, and the gods flying to their endangered fanes. This poem I made as a birthday gift for Christ; the first light of Christmas dawn brought me the theme.

The poor strains which I have piped musingly to my homely reed await you; you, when I recite them to you, will be my judge.