They certainly contrived to raise Queer ladies in the olden days. Either the type had not been fixed, Or else Zoölogy got mixed. I envy not primeval man This female on the feathered plan. We only have, I'm glad to say, Two kinds of human birds today— Women and warriors, who still Wear feathers when dressed up to kill.
—Oliver Herford
Young Cupid once a rose caressed, And sportively its leaflets pressed. The witching thing, so fair to view One could not but believe it true, Warmed, on its bosom false, a bee, Which stung the boy-god in his glee. Sobbing, he raised his pinions bright, And flew unto the isle of light, Where, in her beauty, myrtle-crowned, The Paphian goddess sat enthroned. Her Cupid sought, and to her breast His wounded finger, weeping, pressed. "O mother! kiss me," was his cry— "O mother! save me, or I die; A winged little snake or bee With cruel sting has wounded me!"
The blooming goddess in her arms Folded and kissed his budding charms; To her soft bosom pressed her pride, And then with truthful words replied: "If thus a little insect thing Can pain thee with its tiny sting, How languish, think you, those who smart Beneath my Cupid's cruel dart? How fatal must that poison prove That rankles on the shafts of Love."
O'er rolling stars, from heavenly stalls advancing, The coaches soon were seen, and a long train
Of mules with litters, horses fleet and prancing, Their trappings all embroidery, nothing plain;
And with fine liveries, in the sunbeams glancing, More than a hundred servants, rather vain
Of handsome looks and of their stature tall, Followed their masters to the Council Hall.
First came the Prince of Delos, Phoebus hight, In a gay travelling carriage, fleetly drawn
By six smart Spanish chestnuts, shining bright, Which with their tramping shook the aerial lawn;
Red was his cloak, three-cocked his hat, and light Around his neck the golden fleece was thrown;
And twenty-four sweet damsels, nectar-sippers, Were running near him in their pumps or slippers.
Pallas, with lovely but disdainful mien, Came on a nag of Basignanian race;
Tight round her leg, and gathered up, was seen Her gown, half Greek, half Spanish; o'er her face
Part of her hair hung loose, a natural screen, Part was tied up, and with becoming grace;
A bunch of feathers on her head she wore, And on her saddle-bow her falchion bore.
But Ceres and the God of Wine appeared At once, conversing; and the God of Ocean
Upon a dolphin's back his form upreared, Floating through waves of air with graceful motion;
Naked, all sea-weed, and with mud besmeared; For whom his mother Rhea feels emotion,
Reproaching his proud brother, when she meets him, Because so like a fisherman he treats him.
Diana, the sweet virgin, was not there; She had risen early and o'er woodland green
Had gone to wash her clothes in fountain fair Upon the Tuscan shore—romantic scene.
And not returning till the northern star Had rolled through dusky air and lost its sheen,
Her mother made excuses quite provoking, Knitting at the time, a worsted stocking.
Juno-Lucina did not go—and why? She anxious wished to wash her sacred head.
Menippus, Jove's chief taster, standing by For the disastrous Fates excuses made.
They had much tow to spin, and lint to dry, And they were also busy baking bread.
The cellarman, Silenus, kept away, To water the domestics' wine, that day.
On starry benches sit the famous warriors Of the immortal kingdom, in a ring;
Now drums and cymbals, echoing to the barriers, Announce the coming of the gorgeous king;
A hundred pages, valets, napkin-carriers Attend, and their peculiar offerings bring.
And after them, armed with his club so hard, Alcides, captain of the city guard.
With Jove's broad hat and spectacles arrived The light-heeled Mercury; in his hand he bore
A sack, in which, of other means deprived, He damned poor mortals' prayers, some million score;
Those he disposed in vessels, well contrived, Which graced his father's cabinet of yore;
And, wont attention to all claims to pay, He regularly signed them twice a day.
Then Jove himself, in royal habit dressed, With starry diadem upon his head,
And o'er his shoulders an imperial vest Worn upon holidays.—The king displayed
A sceptre, pastoral shape, with hooked crest: In a rich jacket too was he arrayed,
Given by the inhabitants of Sericane, And Ganymede held up his splendid train.
—A. Tassoni
(Pliny, the Younger, writes the following in a letter relative to the death of Minicia Marcella, the daughter of his friend, Fundanus.)
Tristissimus haec tibi scribo, Fundani nostri filia minore defuncta, qua puella nihil umquam festivius, amabilius, nec modo longiore vita sed prope immortalitate dignius vidi. Nondum annos quattuor decem impleverat, et iam illi anilis prudentia, matronalis gravitas erat, et tamen suavitas puellaris cum virginali verecundia. Ut illa patris cervicibus inhaerebat! Ut nos amicos paternos et amanter et modeste complectabatur! ut nutrices, ut paedagogos, ut praeceptores, pro suo quemque officio diligebat! quam studiose, quam intellegenter lectitabat! ut parce custoditeque ludebat! Qua illa temperantia, qua patientia, qua etiam constantia novissimam valetudinem tulit! Medicis obsequebatur, sororem, patrem adhortabatur, ipsamque se destitutam corporis viribus vigore animi sustinebat. Duravit hic illi usque ad extremum nec aut spatio valetudinis aut metu mortis infractus est, quo plures gravioresque nobis causas relinqueret et desiderii et doloris. O triste plane acerbumque funus! O morte ipsa mortis tempus indignius! Iam destinata erat egregio iuveni, iam electus nuptiarum dies, iam nos vocati. Quod gaudium quo maerore mutatum est! Nec possum exprimere verbis quantum anima vulnus acceperim, cum audivi Fundanum ipsum, praecipientem, quod in vestes margarita gemmas fuerat erogaturus, hoc in tus et unguenta et odores impenderetur.
I have the saddest news to tell you. Our friend Fundanus has lost his youngest daughter. I never saw a girl more cheerful, more lovable, more worthy of long life—nay, of immortality. She had not yet completed her fourteenth year, and she had already the prudence of an old woman, the gravity of a matron, and still, with all maidenly modesty, the sweetness of a girl. How she would cling to her father's neck! how affectionately and discreetly she would greet us, her father's friends! how she loved her nurses, her attendants, her teachers,—everyone according to his service. How earnestly, how intelligently, she used to read! How modest was she and restrained in her sports! And with what self-restraint, what patience—nay, what courage—she bore her last illness! She obeyed the physicians, encouraged her father and sister, and, when all strength of body had left her, kept herself alive by the vigor of her mind. This vigor lasted to the very end, and was not broken by the length of her illness or by the fear of death; so leaving, alas! to us yet more and weightier reasons for our grief and our regret. Oh the sadness, the bitterness of that death! Oh the cruelty of the time when we lost her, worse even than the loss itself! She had been betrothed to a noble youth; the marriage day had been fixed, and we had been invited. How great a joy changed into how great a sorrow! I cannot express in words how it went to my heart when I heard Fundanus himself (this is one of the grievous experiences of sorrow) giving orders that what he had meant to lay out on dresses, and pearls, and jewels, should be spent on incense, unguents, and spices.
Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque, Et quantumst hominum venustiorum. Passer mortuus est meae puellae, Passer, deliciae meae puellae, Quem plus illa oculis suis amabat: Nam mellitus erat suamque norat Ipsa tam bene quam puella matrem, Nec sese a gremio illius movebat, Sed circumsiliens modo huc modo illuc Ad solam dominam usque pipiabat. Qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum Illuc unde negant redire quemquam. At vobis male sit, malae tenebrae Orci, quae omnia bella devoratis: Tam bellum mihi passerem abstulistis. O factum male! io miselle passer! Tua nunc opera meae puellae Flendo turgiduli rubent ocelli.
—Catullus
TRANSLATION
Each Love, each Venus, mourn with me! Mourn, every son of gallantry! The sparrow, my own nymph's delight, The joy and apple of her sight; The honey-bird, the darling dies, To Lesbia dearer than her eyes, As the fair one knew her mother, So he knew her from another. With his gentle lady wrestling, In her snowy bosom nestling; With a flutter and a bound, Quiv'ring round her and around; Chirping, twitt'ring, ever near, Notes meant only for her ear. Now he skims the shadowy way, Whence none return to cheerful day. Beshrew the shades! that thus devour All that's pretty in an hour. The pretty sparrow thus is dead; The tiny fugitive is fled. Deed of spite! poor bird!—ah! see, For thy dear sake, alas! for me!— My nymph with brimful eyes appears, Red from the flushing of her tears.
—Elton
The following tribute to Cicero was written by Catullus, the Roman lyric poet (87-54 b.c.)
Disertissime Romuli nepotum, Quot sunt quotque fuere, Marce Tulli, Quot que post aliis erunt in annis, Gratius tibi maximas Catullus
Agit, pessimus omnium poeta, Tanto pessimus omnium poeta Quanto tu optimus omnium patronum.
TRANSLATION
Tully, most eloquent, most sage Of all the Roman race,
That deck the past or present age, Or future days may grace.
Oh! may Catullus thus declare An overflowing heart;
And, though the worst of poets, dare A grateful lay impart!
'Twill teach thee how thou hast surpast All others in thy line;
For, far as he in his is last, Art thou the first in thine.
—Charles Lamb
Patiendo fit homo melior, Auro pulchrior, Vitro clarior, Laude dignior, Gradu altior, A vitiis purgatior, Virtutibus perfectior, Iesu Christo acceptior, Sanctis quoque similior, Hostibus suis fortior, Amicis amabilior.
—Thomas à Kempis
O Domine Deus! Speravi in te; O care mi Iesu! Nunc libera me: In dura catena In misera poena Desidero te; Languendo, gemendo, Et genuflectendo Adoro, imploro, Ut liberes me!
TRANSLATION
My Lord and my God! I have trusted in Thee; O Jesus, my Savior belov'd, set me free: In rigorous chains, in piteous pains, I am longing for Thee! In weakness appealing, in agony kneeling, I pray, I beseech Thee, O Lord, set me free!
American pride has often gloried in Seneca's "Vision of the West" written more than 1800 years ago.
Venient annis
Saecula seris, quibus Oceanus Vincula rerum laxet, et ingens Pateat tellus, Tethysque novos Detegat orbes, nec sit terris Ultima Thule.
—Seneca
TRANSLATION
A time will come in future ages far When Ocean will his circling bounds unbar, And, opening vaster to the Pilot's hand, New worlds shall rise, where mightier kingdoms are, Nor Thule longer be the utmost land.
Oh, the Roman was a rogue, He erat, was, you bettum;
He ran his automobilis And smoked his cigarettum;
He wore a diamond studibus And elegant cravatum,
A maxima cum laude shirt And such a stylish hattum.
He loved the luscious hic-haec-hoc, And bet on games and equi:
At times he won: at others, though, He got it in the nequi.
He winked (quousque tandem?) At puellas on the Forum,
And sometimes even made Those goo-goo oculorum!
He frequently was seen At combats gladiatorial,
And ate enough to feed Ten boarders at Memorial:
He often went on sprees, And said on starting homus,
"Hic labor, opus est, Oh, where's my hic-haec-domus?"
Although he lived in Rome— Of all the arts the middle—
He was (excuse the phrase) A horrid individ'l;
Ah, what a different thing Was the homo (dative homini)
Of far away B. C. From us of Anno Domini!
—Harvard Lampoon
The Journal of Education commends this ingenious poem, written in seven languages— English, French, German, Greek, Latin, Spanish, and Italian— as one of the best specimens of Macaronic verse in existence, and worthy of preservation by all collectors.
In tempus old a hero lived, Qui loved puellas deux;
He no pouvait pas quite to say Which one amabat mieux.
Dit-il lui-meme un beau matin, "Non possum both avoir,
Sed si address Amanda Ann, Then Kate y yo have war.
Amanda habet argent coin, Sed Kate has aureas curls;
Et both sunt very agathæ Et quite formosæ girls."
Enfin the joven anthropos, Philoun the duo maids,
Resolved proponere ad Kate Devant cet evening's shades,
Procedens then to Kate's domo, Il trouve Amanda there,
Kai quite forgot his late resolves, Both sunt so goodly fair,
Sed smiling on the new tapis, Between puellas twain,
Coepit to tell suo love a Kate Dans un poetique strain.
Mais, glancing ever et anon At fair Amanda's eyes,
Illæ non possunt dicere Pro which he meant his sighs.
Each virgo heard the demi-vow, Con cheeks as rouge as wine,
Ed offering, each, a milk-white hand, Both whispered, "Ich bin dein."
Prope ripam fluvii solus A senex silently sat;
Super capitum ecce his wig, Et wig super, ecce his hat.
Blew Zephyrus alte, acerbus, Dum elderly gentleman sat;
Et a capite took up quite torve Et in rivum projecit his hat.
Tunc soft maledixit the old man, Tunc stooped from the bank where he sat,
Et cum scipio poked in the water, Conatus servare his hat.
Blew Zephyrus alte, acerbus, The moment it saw him at that;
Et whisked his novum scratch wig In flumen, along with his hat.
Ab imo pectore damnavit, In coeruleus eye dolor sat;
Tunc despairingly threw in his cane, Nare cum his wig and his hat.
L'Envoi
Contra bonos mores, don't swear It est wicked you know (verbum sat)
Si this tale habet no other moral Mehercle! You're gratus to that.
—James A. Morgan
A cat sedebat on our fence As laeta as could be;
Her vox surgebat to the skies, Canebat merrily.
My clamor was of no avail, Tho' clare did I cry.
Conspexit me with mild reproof, And winked her alter eye.
Quite vainly ieci boots, a lamp, Some bottles and a book;
Ergo, I seized my pistol, et My aim cum cura took.
I had six shots, dixi, "Ye gods, May I that felis kill!"
Quamquam I took six of her lives The other three sang still.
The felis sang with major vim, Though man's aim was true,
Conatus sum, putare quid In tonitru I'd do.
A scheme advenit in my head Scivi, 'twould make her wince—
I sang! Et then the hostis fled Non eam vidi since.
—Tennessee University Magazine
A homo ibat, one dark night Puellas visitare
Et mansit there so very late Ut illi constet cura.
Pueri walking by the house Saw caput in fenestra,
Et sunt morati for a while To see quis erat in there.
Soon caput turned its nasum round In viam puerorum;
Agnoscunt there the pedagogue, Oh! maximum pudorem!
Progressus puer to the door Cum magna quietate,
Et turned the key to lock him in Moratus satis ante.
Tum pedagogue arose to go Est feeling hunky-dore:
Sed non potest to get out Nam key's outside the fore.
Ascendit sweetheart now the stairs Cum festinato pede,
Et roused puellas from their sleep Sed habent non the door key.
Tum excitavit dominum By her tumultuous voce
Insanus currit to the door Et vidit puellam.
"Furenti place," the master roared, "Why spoil you thus my somnum?
Exite from the other door Si rogues have locked the front one."
Puella tristis hung her head And took her lover's manum,
Et cite from the other door His caput est impulsum.
Cum magno gradu redit domum Retrorsum umquam peeping,
Et never ausus est again Vexare people's sleeping.
PUER EX JERSEY
Puer ex Jersey Iens ad school;
Vidit in meadow, Infestum mule.
Ille approaches O magnus sorrow!
Puer it skyward Funus tomorrow.
Moral
Qui vidit a thing Non ei well-known
Est bene for him Id relinqui alone.
—Anonymous
Flevit lepus parvulus clamans altis vocibus:
Chorus
Quid feci hominibus, quod me sequuntur canibus?
Neque in horto fui, neque olus comedi.
Longas aures habeo, brevem caudam teneo.
Leves pedes habeo, magnum saltum facio.
Domus mea silva est, lectus meus durus est.
