HORACE'S PHILOSOPHY

What the end the G.o.ds have destined unto thee and unto me, Ask not: 'tis forbidden knowledge. Be content, Leuconoe.

Let alone the fortune-tellers. How much better to endure Whatsoever shall betide us--even though we be not sure Whether Jove grants other winters, whether this our last shall be That upon the rocks opposing dashes now the Tuscan sea.

Be thou wise, and strain thy wines, and mindful of life's brevity Stint thy hopes. The envious moments, even while we speak, have flown; Trusting nothing to the future, seize the day that is our own.

ADVENTURE OF A POET

As I was walking down the street A week ago, Near Henderson's I chanced to meet A man I know.

His name is Alexander Bell, His home, Dundee; I do not know him quite so well As he knows me.

He gave my hand a hearty shake, Discussed the weather, And then proposed that we should take A stroll together.

Down College Street we took our way, And there we met The beautiful Miss Mary Gray, That arch coquette, Who stole last spring my heart away And has it yet.

That smile with which my bow she greets, Would it were fonder!

Or else less fond--since she its sweets On all must squander.

Thus, when I meet her in the streets, I sadly ponder, And after her, as she retreats, My thoughts will wander.

And so I listened with an air Of inattention, While Bell described a folding-chair Of his invention.

And when we reached the Swilcan Burn, 'It looks like rain,'

Said I, 'and we had better turn.'

'Twas all in vain,

For Bell was weather-wise, and knew The signs aerial; He bade me note the strip of blue Above the Imperial,

Also another patch of sky, South-west by south, Which meant that we might journey dry To Eden's mouth.

He was a man with information On many topics: He talked about the exploration Of Poles and Tropics,

The scene in Parliament last night, Sir William's letter; 'And do you like the electric light, Or gas-lamps better?'

The strike among the dust-heap pickers He said was over; And had I read about the liquors Just seized at Dover?

Or the unhappy printer lad At Rothesay drowned?

Or the Italian ironclad That ran aground?

He told me stories (lately come) Of good society, Some slightly tinged with truth, and some With impropriety.

He spoke of duelling in France, Then lightly glanced at Mrs. Mackenzie's monster dance, Which he had danced at.

So he ran on, till by-and-by A silence came, For which I greatly fear that I Was most to blame.

Then neither of us spoke a word For quite a minute, When presently a thought occurred With promise in it.

'How did you like the Shakespeare play The students read?'

By this, the Eden like a bay Before us spread.

Near Eden many softer plots Of sand there be; Our feet, like Pharaoh's chariots, Drave heavily.

And ere an answer I could frame, He said that Irving Of his extraordinary fame Was undeserving,

And for his part he thought more highly Of Ellen Terry; Although he knew a girl named Riley At Broughty Ferry,

Who might be, if she only chose, As great a star.

She had a part in the tableaux At the bazaar.

If I had said but little yet, I now said less, And smoked a home-made cigarette In mute distress.

The smoke into his face was blown By the wind's action, And this afforded me, I own, Some satisfaction;

But still his tongue received no check Till, coming home, We stood beside the ancient wreck And watched the foam

Wash in among the timbers, now Sunk deep in sand, Though I can well remember how I used to stand

On windy days and hold my hat, And idly turn To read 'Lovise, Frederikstad'

Upon her stern.

Her stern long since was buried quite, And soon no trace The absorbing sand will leave in sight To mark her place.

This reverie was not permitted To last too long.

Bell's mind had left the stage, and flitted To fields of song.

And now he spoke of _Marmion_ And Lewis Morris; The former he at school had done, Along with Horace.

His maiden aunts, no longer young, But learned ladies, Had lately sent him _Songs Unsung_, _Epic of Hades_,

_Gycia_, and _Gwen_. He thought them fine; Not like that Browning, Of whom he would not read a line, He told me, frowning.

Talking of Horace--very clever, Beyond a doubt, But what the Satires meant, he never Yet could make out.

I said I relished Satire Nine Of the First Book; But he had skipped to the divine Eliza Cook.

He took occasion to declare, In tones devoted, How much he loved her old Arm-chair, Which now he quoted.

And other poets he reviewed, Some two or three, Till, having touched on Thomas Hood, He turned to me.

'Have _you_ been stringing any rhymes Of late?' he said.

I could not lie, but several times I shook my head.