Echoes from the Sabine Farm eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 50 pages of information about Echoes from the Sabine Farm.

  Tell him that I am short and fat,
Quick in my temper, soon appeased,
  With locks of gray,—­but what of that? 
Loving the sun, with nature pleased. 
  I’m more than four and forty, hark you,—­
  But ready for a night off, mark you!


The Greeks had genius,—­’t was a gift
  The Muse vouchsafed in glorious measure;
The boon of Fame they made their aim
  And prized above all worldly treasure.

But we,—­how do we train our youth?
  Not in the arts that are immortal,
But in the greed for gains that speed
  From him who stands at Death’s dark portal.

Ah, when this slavish love of gold
  Once binds the soul in greasy fetters,
How prostrate lies,—­how droops and dies
  The great, the noble cause of letters!


  I love the lyric muse! 
For when mankind ran wild in grooves
  Came holy Orpheus with his songs
And turned men’s hearts from bestial loves,
  From brutal force and savage wrongs;
Amphion, too, and on his lyre
  Made such sweet music all the day
That rocks, instinct with warm desire,
  Pursued him in his glorious way.

  I love the lyric muse! 
Hers was the wisdom that of yore
  Taught man the rights of fellow man,
Taught him to worship God the more,
  And to revere love’s holy ban. 
Hers was the hand that jotted down
  The laws correcting divers wrongs;
And so came honor and renown
  To bards and to their noble songs.

  I love the lyric muse! 
Old Homer sung unto the lyre;
  Tyrtaeus, too, in ancient days;
Still warmed by their immortal fire,
  How doth our patriot spirit blaze! 
The oracle, when questioned, sings;
  So our first steps in life are taught. 
In verse we soothe the pride of kings,
  In verse the drama has been wrought.

  I love the lyric muse! 
Be not ashamed, O noble friend,
  In honest gratitude to pay
Thy homage to the gods that send
  This boon to charm all ill away. 
With solemn tenderness revere
  This voiceful glory as a shrine
Wherein the quickened heart may hear
  The counsels of a voice divine!


May the man who has cruelly murdered his sire—­
  A crime to be punished with death—­
Be condemned to eat garlic till he shall expire
  Of his own foul and venomous breath! 
What stomachs these rustics must have who can eat
  This dish that Canidia made,
Which imparts to my colon a torturous heat,
  And a poisonous look, I’m afraid!

They say that ere Jason attempted to yoke
  The fire-breathing bulls to the plow
He smeared his whole body with garlic,—­a joke
  Which I fully appreciate now. 
When Medea gave Glauce her beautiful dress,
  In which garlic was scattered about,
It was cruel and rather low-down, I confess,
  But it settled the point beyond doubt.

Project Gutenberg
Echoes from the Sabine Farm from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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