Like a felled log he dreams away his life,
For all the world as though he had no wife.
For he, the stupid oaf, sees nought, hears nought,
Whether he lives or not, he scarce doth know,
I want to send him flying, quick as thought,
Into the slimy lake that lies below,
To see if by the shock some sense be brought
Back to his brain, or else, perchance, that so
He may in mud deposit his dull mind,
As mules in claymire leave their shoes behind.
CARMEN XVIII.-THE GARDEN GOD.
I dedicate this grove to thee
Priapus, garden deity,
Who hast at Lampsacus thy seat
Thy woodland's favourite retreat,
For all the Hellespontine coast
Thee as her guardian god doth boast,
'Tis meet, for she in oysters more
Abounds than any other shore.
CARMEN XIX.-THE GARDEN GOD.
I this fair cottage mid the marshy meads
Thatched with rush-stalks, ye youths, and plaited reeds Have nourished, and each year the place more blest Becomes; I here am worshipped first and best,
I from an oak-log hewn with rustic skill
Stand as the guardian of this homestead still,
Father and son, the masters of this place
To me their god do ever pious grace :
The one with careful toil keeps clear my seat
From weeds and brambles rude, while presents meet
Though small the other with unstinting hand
Offers, and on my head bright blossoms stand
Firstlings of early spring, in garlands wrought
With ears of wavy corn, nor is there aught
Of beauty wanting here, the creamy gourd
And saffron violets round my shrine are poured
And poppies red, and apples too are mine,
And grapes which glow beneath the shady vine.
And sometimes too-but tell it not again—
The blood of victims doth my altar stain,
The tender kid, and goat with hornéd hoof:
For all these favours must the god show proof
Of due protection, and with ceaseless ward
Must aye the master's land and vineyard guard.
These are Priapus' duties, so avaunt,
Ye boys, and leave untouched this quiet haunt,
Pilfer elsewhere, my neighbour's garden try
For he is rich, his god stands idle by,
Take what you will from him, this pathway leads
Straight to his grounds, there satisfy your needs.
CARMEN XX. THE GARDEN GOD.
I fashioned from a poplar tree
With rustic art the field you see
That stands here on the left, I guard
In safety with due watch and ward.
I too the poor man's humble cot,
Who owns this tiny garden lot
Protect, and keep all thieves away.
And so it is that when the day
Lengthens in spring, a garland rare
Of flowers bright-tinted decks my hair.
With summer comes the reddening wheat,
And autumn brings me, as is meet,
Sweet grapes and green shoots of the vine,
In winter stands my bust divine
Encircled with the olive green:
Here too the milch-goat may be seen
Which nurtured on the grass hath been
That grows upon my fertile down,
Seeking with swollen dugs the town;
The fat lambs too come from my fold
Which fill their master's hands with gold;
The lowing cow before my fane
Shows that her calf has there been slain,
Wherefore the god you shall revere,
O traveller, and your hands from here
Refrain, you'd better, for if not
I warn you that you'll catch it hot
From this rude phallus. "Gad," say you,
"I'd like to see what that could do."
Egad, you shall, the lusty swain
Comes, and the phallus takes amain,
In his hands wielded as a club
'Twill serve right well your sides to drub.
Suffenus, my friend, who is well known to you
Is chatty, a wit, and a good fellow too,
Besides he's a poet, writes lines by the score
I believe he has written ten thousand or more,
Nor are they on palimpsest scribbled, oh no!
Royal paper he uses to make a fair show.
New covers, new bosses, and strings of bright red.
The whole smoothed with pumice, the sheets ruled with lead.
But on reading on parchment Suffenus's strain
You'd think him a herdsman or ditcher again.
That man who before had shown such wide range
Of humour and polish, so great is the change.
And what is the reason of this? it is strange
That one who just now had appeared in our sight
As a wit, or aught else that's more sparkling and bright,
Should as soon as to verses he gives up his mind
Become stupider far than the stupidest hind.
Yet he's never so happy as when he's inditing
Some lines he thinks good in the poem he's writing.
So much his own powers delight him and ever
He feels boundless surprise to find out he's so clever.
We're all of us dupes, we're all like Suffenus,
We have ne'er seen ourselves as others have seen us;
Others' faults we can scan, but we're perfectly blind
To the wallet that holds our own failings behind.
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