My cottage wears a gracious smile—­
    The altar decked in floral glory,—­
  Yearns for the lamb which bleats the while
    As though it pined for honors gory.

  Hither our neighbors nimbly fare—­
    The boys agog, the maidens snickering,
  And savory smells possess the air
    As skyward kitchen flames are flickering.

  You ask what means this grand display,
    This festive throng and goodly diet? 
  Well—­since you’re bound to have your way—­
    I don’t mind telling on the quiet.

  ’Tis April 13, as you know—­
    A day and month devote to Venus,
  Whereon was born some years ago,
    My very worthy friend, Macenas.

  Nay, pay no heed to Telephus—­
    Your friends agree he doesn’t love you;
  The way he flirts convinces us
    He really is not worthy of you!

  Aurora’s son, unhappy lad! 
    You know the fate that overtook him? 
  And Pegasus a rider had—­
    I say he had before he shook him!

  Haec docet (as you may agree): 
    ’Tis meet that Phyllis should discover
  A wisdom in preferring me
    And mittening every other lover.

  So come, O Phyllis, last and best
    Of loves with which this heart’s been smitten;
  Come, sing my jealous fears to rest—­
    And let your songs be those I’ve written.

HUGO’S “POOL IN THE FOREST.”

  How calm, how beauteous, and how cool—­
    How like a sister to the skies,
  Appears the broad, transparent pool
    That in this quiet forest lies. 
  The sunshine ripples on its face,
    And from the world around, above,
  It hath caught down the nameless grace
    Of such reflections as we love.

  But deep below its surface crawl
    The reptile horrors of the Night—­
  The dragons, lizards, serpents—­all
    The hideous brood that hate the Light;
  Through poison fern and slimy weed,
    And under ragged, jagged stones
  They scuttle, or, in ghoulish greed,
    They lap a dead man’s bones.

  And as, O pool, thou dost cajole
    With seemings that beguile us well,
  So doeth many a human soul
    That teemeth with the lusts of hell.

  HORACE I, 4.

  ’Tis spring! the boats bound to the sea;
    The breezes, loitering kindly over
  The fields, again bring herds and men
    The grateful cheer of honeyed clover.

  Now Venus hither leads her train,
    The Nymphs and Graces join in orgies,
  The moon is bright and by her light
    Old Vulcan kindles up his forges.

  Bind myrtle now about your brow,
    And weave fair flowers in maiden tresses—­
  Appease God Pan, who, kind to man,
    Our fleeting life with affluence blesses.

  But let the changing seasons mind us
    That Death’s the certain doom of mortals—­
  Grim Death who waits at humble gat
    And likewise stalks through kingly portals.