Short Poems

Though for convivial hours my verse be fit
Somewhat of sober thought doth lurk in it.

Stay , traveller, and pass not by
This noble monument unread,
The city's darling here doth lie,
Wit, art, and grace with him are fled
And Rome doth mourn uncomforted.
Lost is her dear delight and prize,
For love and all desire are dead,
Hid in the grave where Paris lies.

For lighter verse is Turnus known,
The tragic bays he would not claim;
Since these had Memor made his own,
He would not mar a brother's fame.

Ennobled by the poet's crown,
Memor, the glory of the stage,
Death may not vanquish thy renown,
Art bids thee live from age to age.

HOME-GODS , whom great Aeneas saved of old,
Leaving his wealth when Troy was all afire,
And Jove, now imaged in eternal gold,
Thou child, thou sister of the heavenly sire,
And Janus too, fulfil my heart's desire—
Preserve unchanged the prince thou hast enrolled
Thrice on thy page—and let the Senate be
In following Nerva, perfect e'en as he.

Upon the maple leaves
The dew shines red,
But on the lotus blossom
It has the pale transparence of tears.

Sea-lashed coast outside the gate reaches to the hedge;
the stairs here have a fishy smell,
the sand-crabs are so fat.
The baby's only two years old—he's never seen his dad:
the man is east of the great sea—when will he return?

Why give me garlands that you've never fingered?
Send rather roses where your hands have lingered.

A GUEST , going home to his lodging at night,
Had near Sinuessa an unpleasant fright,
For hurrying down a long stairway he fell,
And all but joined hapless Elpenor in hell.
He would never have fallen, ye Nymphs of the shrine,
If he'd kept to your water and kept off the wine.

How often you've promised that to me you'ld come,
And fixed both the time and the place;
While I, all impatience, have waited at home,
And ne'er got a glimpse of your face.
What curse shall I ask on your shoulders be laid?
May you carry a one-eyed old lady's sunshade!