No More Learning

Cares with a linked chain of sorrows wait.
Mirth tarries not; but soon on wing is flown.
With both hands hold it--clasped in full embrace,
Still from thy breast it oft will glide away!
To say, "I mean to live," is folly's place:
To-morrow's life comes late; live, then, to-day.


A DAY IN ROME

(First Century A. D. )

The first two hours Rome spends on morning calls,
And with the third the busy lawyer bawls.
Into the fifth the town plies varied tasks;
The sixth, siesta; next hour closing asks.
The eighth sees bath and oil and exercise;
The ninth brings guest on dining-couch who lies.
The tenth is claimed for Martial's poetry,
When you, my friend, contrive high luxury
To please great Caesar, and fine nectar warms
The mighty hand that knows a wine-cup's charms.
Eve is the time for jest: with step so bold
My muse dare not at morn great Jove behold.


BOREDOM, VERSUS ENJOYMENT

If you and I, dear Martial, might
Enjoy our days in Care's despite,
And could control each leisure hour,
Both free to cull life's real flower,
Then should we never know the halls
Of patrons or law's wearying calls,
Or troublous court or family pride;
But we should chat or read or ride,
Play games or stroll in porch or shade,
Visit the hot baths or "The Maid. "

Such haunts should know us constantly,
Such should engage our energy.
Now neither lives his life, but he
Marks precious days that pass and flee.
These days are lost, but their amount
Is surely set to our account.
Knowledge the clue to life can give;
Then wherefore hesitate to live?


THE HAPPY LIFE

The things that make a life of ease,
Dear Martial, are such things as these:
Wealth furnished not by work but birth,
A grateful farm, a blazing hearth,
No lawsuit, seldom formal dress;
But leisure, stalwart healthiness,
A tactful candour, equal friends,
Glad guests at board which naught pretends,
No drunken nights, but sorrow free,
A bed of joy yet chastity;
Sleep that makes darkness fly apace,
So well content with destined place,
Unenvious so as not to fear
Your final day, nor wish it near.


AT THE SEASIDE

Sweet strand of genial Formiae,
Apollinaris loves to flee
From troublous thought in serious Rome,
And finds thee better than a home.
Here Thetis' face is ruffled by
A gentle wind; the waters lie
Not in dead calm, but o'er the main
A peaceful liveliness doth reign,
Bearing gay yachts before a breeze
Cool as the air that floats with ease
From purple fan of damozel
Who would the summer heat dispel.
The angler need not far away
Seek in deep water for his prey--
Your line from bed or sofa throw,
And watch the captured fish below!
How seldom, Rome, dost thou permit
Us by such joys to benefit?
How many days can one long year
Credit with wealth of Formian cheer?
We, round whom city worries swarm,
Envy our lacqueys on a farm.
Luck to you, happy slaves, affords
The joys designed to please your lords!


THE POET'S FINAL RETREAT IN SPAIN

Mayhap, my Juvenal, your feet
Stray down some noisy Roman street,
While after many years of Rome
I have regained my Spanish home.
Bilbilis, rich in steel and gold,
Makes me a rustic as of old.
With easy-going toil at will
Estates of uncouth name I till.
Outrageous lengths of sleep I take,
And oft refuse at nine to wake.
I pay myself nor more nor less
For thirty years of wakefulness!
No fine clothes here--but battered dress,
The first that comes, snatched from a press!
I rise to find a hearth ablaze
With oak the nearest wood purveys.