But if the Fates had given me the power, beloved Mæcenas,
To marshal hero-bands, I'd neither sing of Titan wars,
Nor Ossa on Olympus piled, that Terra's brood most heinous,
By aid of Pelion, might scale the everlasting stars;
Nor hoary Thebes, nor Pergamus in Homer's song undying;
Nor sea to sea by stern decree of haughty Xerxes brought;
The warlike Cimbri, nor the soul of Carthage death-defying;
Nor Remus's ancient realm, nor deeds of fame by Marius
wrought;

But I would sing of Cæsar's might and Cæsar's martial glory,
And next to mighty Cæsar would my lyre for thee be strung:
For while of Mutina, or of Philippi fell and gory,

Or of the naval war and rout by Sicily I sung;

Or of Etruria's ancient hearths in ruin laid forever,

Or Ptolemæan Pharos with its subjugated shore,

Or Egypt and the Nile what time the broad seven-mantled river In drear captivity to Rome our conquering armies bore;

Or kings with golden fetters bound, in gorgeous-hued apparel,

And trophied prows of Actium, whirled along the Sacred Way, My Muse would ever twine around thy brow the wreath of laurel

In time of peace, in time of war, a faithful subject aye.

TO THE MUSE

Is time to traverse Helicon in themes of higher strain,

'Tis time to spur my Thracian steed across a wider plain; Now I would sing of mighty hosts and deeds of battle done, And chronicle the Roman fields my general has won; And if my powers of song should fail. Enough that I have had the will; no higher praise I claim.

to dare were surely fame:

be war the theme of age;

Let hot youth sing the laughing loves
Be war my theme - till now the dream of love has filled my page.
With sober mien and graver brow I now must walk along,
Now on another lyre my Muse essays another song.

Rise, O my Muse! from lowly themes; put on your strength, ye

Nine

Who haunt the clear Pierian springs!-outpour the lofty line!

As when we cannot reach the head of statues all too high,

We lay a chaplet at the feet, so now perforce do I;

Unfit to climb the giddy heights of epic song divine,

In humble adoration lay poor incense on thy shrine;

For not as yet my Muse hath known the wells of Ascra's grove: Permessus's gentle wave alone hath laved the limbs of Love.

THE IMMORTALITY OF GENIUS

RPHEUS, 'tis said, the Thracian lyre-strings sweeping,
Stayed the swift stream and soothed the savage brute;
Citharon's rocks, to Thebes spontaneous leaping,

Rose into walls before Amphion's lute.

With dripping steeds did Galatea follow,

'Neath Ætna's crags, lone Polyphemus's song: Is't strange the loved of Bacchus and Apollo

Leads captive with his lay the maiden throng?

Though no Tænarian blocks uphold my dwelling,
Nor ivory panels shine 'tween gilded beams;
No orchards mine Phæacia's woods excelling,

No chiseled grots where Marcian water streams,

Yet Song is mine; my strain the heart engages;

Faint from the dance sinks the lithe Muse with me:
O happy maid whose name adorns my pages!
Each lay a lasting monument to thee!

The pyramids that cleave heaven's jeweled portal;
Eléan Jove's star-spangled dome; the tomb
Where rich Mausolus sleeps,— are not immortal,
Nor shall escape inevitable doom.

Devouring fire and rains will mar their splendor;

The weight of years will drag the marble down:
Genius alone a name can deathless render,

And round the forehead wreathe the unfading crown.

CORNELIA

PAULUS! vex my grave with tears no more:

No prayers unlock the portals of the tomb;
When once the dead have trod the infernal floor,

Barred stand the adamantine doors of doom.

Though the dark hall's dread king would hear thy prayer, 'Twere vain: dead shores will drink thy tears the

while.

Prayers move high heaven; but pay the boatman's fare,
The drear gate closes on the shadowy pile.

I doffed the maiden's dress; -I was a bride;
The matron's coif confined my braided hair:
Too soon, O Paulus! doomed to leave thy side;
I was but thine, my tombstone shall declare.
Years changed me not; a blameless life I spent,
From wedlock to its close our fame secure:
Nature my blood with inborn virtue blent;

No fears could make my guileless heart more pure.

My meeda mother's tears; the city's woe;

Even Cæsar's sorrow consecrates my bier:

Rome saw the mighty god a-weeping go,

And mourn his daughter's worthy sister-peer.

Though young, the matron's honored robe I wore;
Death from no barren dwelling bore his prize:
My boys! my solace when I live no more,

Ye held me in your hands and closed my eyes.

Twice had my brother filled the curule chair,
A consul ere his sister's days were run.
Thy censor-sire in mind, sweet daughter, bear:
Uphold his honor; wed, like me, but one;

With offspring prop our line. The bark's afloat:
I gladly go, so many mourn my doom;

A wife's last triumph, and of fairest note,

Is fame's sweet incense rising o'er her tomb.

Paulus, our pledges I commend to thee;

Burnt in my bones still breathes a mother's care. Discharge a mother's duties, then, for me;

For now thy shoulders all their load must bear.

Kiss them, and kiss them for their mother; dry Their childish tears: thine all the burden now. Ne'er let them see thee weep or hear thee sigh, But with a smile thy sorrow disavow.

Enough that thou the weary nights shouldst moan, And woo my semblance back in visions vain; Yet whisper to my portrait when alone,

As if the lips could answer thee again.

If e'er these halls should own another queen,
And a new mother fill your mother's bed,—
My children, ne'er let frowning look be seen,
But honor her your father chose to wed.
So shall your manners win her tender grace,
And surely she will love for love return;
Nor praise too much your mother to her face,
For fear her breast with jealous feelings burn.
But should my image still his thoughts engage,
And Paulus dower my dust with love so rare,
Oh, learn to watch your father's failing age,

And shield his weary widowed heart from care!
Heaven add to yours the years I hoped in store,
And may your lives my aged Paulus cheer!
'Tis well: I ne'er the robes of mourning wore,
And all my children gathered round my bier.
My cause is plead. Each weeping witness, rise,
Since death's rewards life's losses well repay.
Heaven waits the pure in heart: be mine the prize
To soar triumphant to the realms of day.

PROVENCAL LITERATURE

(THE TROUBADOURS, 1090-1290)

BY HARRIET WATERS PRESTON

CURIOUS natural feature of Dalmatia- that long, narrow country straitened between the mountains and the Adriatic-is the number of rivers which come up suddenly from underground, or burst full-grown from the bases of the hills, and seek the sea with a force and velocity of current all the more impressive from the mystery of their origin. Just so the poetry of the Troubadours leaps abruptly, in full volume, out of the mirk of the unlettered ages, and spreads itself abroad in a laughing flood of which the superficial sparkle may sometimes deceive concerning the strength of the undercurrent passion on which it is upborne.

Gai Saber-the Gay Science - was the name bestowed by these gushing singers themselves upon their newly discovered art of versemaking; and the epithet was perfectly descriptive. To the serious, disciplined, and systematic nineteenth-century mind, there is something incongruous, not to say indecent, in the association of science and joy. Whatever else the science may be, in whose sign we are supposed to conquer, it is not gay. But the Troubadour did not even know the difference between science and art. His era in the life of modern Europe corresponds exactly with the insouciant season when "a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love." The Troubadour was palpitating, moreover, with the two masterful enthusiasms of his time: the religious enthusiasm of the Crusades, and the highflown sentiments and noble chimeras of the lately formulated code of chivalry.

Seizing the instrument nearest to his hand,- a supple and still growing offshoot from the imperishable root of Latin speech,- he shaped his pipe, fashioned his stops, and blew his amorous blast; and was so overcome by amazement at the delightful result, that he was fain loudly to proclaim himself the happy finder (trobaire) of the verbal music he had achieved, rather than its maker or poet.

Lengua Romana, or Romans, was what he called his own language. To Dante, in the beginning of the fourteenth century, it was Provençal as distinguished from the lengua materna, or Italian: and Provençal it is, to this day, loosely called. But it was spoken in