Short Poems

The Cyclops of old, could he only behold
Polyphemus, would start with surprise,
And Scylla for shame's sake would turn from her namesake
So ghastly their faces and size.
Ah, would it were fated the pair should be mated
Their terror they hardly could smother,
Just think of the sight when each shuddered with fright
And fainted at view of the other!

You know the dread signal of death I suppose?
But one whimsical quaestor has lately ordained
A new one, and said if he once blew his nose
It was sentence of death on the culprit arraigned.
Till winter drew on was the custom maintained,
Then the judge caught catarrh from December's chill breath
And his colleagues rushed up and his hands they restrained
Or all the accused had been sentenced to death.

What time my rugged cot endured the bane
Of winter's drenching floods, your kindly care
Sent wherewithal the havoc to repair
And so my roof defies the sudden rain.
Think how rude Boreas roars; the boon is vain
That clothes the farm but leaves the farmer bare.

Thou would'st embroil me with my Juvenal!
What wilt not dare? A tongue so treacherous
Might sour the love of Pylades to gall,
Or sever Theseus from Pirithous,
Pollux from Castor, rob Amphinomus
Or Agamemnon of a brother's heart;
No fouler thing can be, — I curse thee thus,
Mayst thou continue even what thou art!

Though but a worthless log it seem to be,
Of old through seas, unknown before, it steered;
Unscathed it passed the Clashing Rocks, nor feared
The deadlier perils of the Scythian Sea,
And now, though Time, the Victor, vanquish thee,
Brave plank, what stately ship is so revered?

I' VE not a shilling left; what can I do
Save sell your presents? May I sell them you?

In Tibur's sunshine she was told
That ivory though stained and old
May win its whiteness back;
Alcides' hills have potent air;
A little while she sojourned there
And now returns jet black.

At sixty years of age is he
A man of promise still:
Methinks he needs eternity
That promise to fulfil!

To pallid skin his verse is due,
To this alone we owe it;
He thought that interesting hue
Enough to make a poet.

You ask me why my books were never sent?
For fear you might return the compliment.