Good-By--God Bless You!

I like the Anglo-Saxon speech With its direct revealings-- It takes a hold and seems to reach Way down into your feelings; That some folk deem it rude, I know, And therefore they abuse it; But I have never found it so-- Before all else I choose it. I don't object that men should air The Gallic they have paid for-- With "au revoir," "adieu, ma chere"-- For that's what French was made for-- But when a crony takes your hand At parting to address you, He drops all foreign lingo and He says: "Good-by--God bless you!"

This seems to me a sacred phrase With reverence impassioned-- A thing come down from righteous days, Quaintly but nobly fashioned; It well becomes an honest face-- A voice that's round and cheerful; It stays the sturdy in his place And soothes the weak and fearful. Into the porches of the ears It steals with subtle unction And in your heart of hearts appears To work its gracious function; And all day long with pleasing song It lingers to caress you-- I'm sure no human heart goes wrong That's told "Good-by--God bless you!"

I love the words--perhaps because, When I was leaving mother, Standing at last in solemn pause We looked at one another, And--I saw in mother's eyes The love she could not tell me-- A love eternal as the skies, Whatever fate befell me; She put her arms about my neck And soothed the pain of leaving, And, though her heart was like to break, She spoke no word of grieving; She let no tear bedim her eye, For fear that might distress me, But, kissing me, she said good-by And asked her God to bless me.

HORACE.

(Epode XIV.)

You ask me, friend, Why I don't send The long since due-and-paid-for numbers-- Why, songless, I As drunken lie Abandoned to Lethæan slumbers.

Long time ago (As well you know) I started in upon that carmen; My work was vain-- But why complain? When gods forbid, how helpless are men!

Some ages back, The sage Anack Courted a frisky Samian body, Singing her praise In metered phrase As flowing as his bowls of toddy.

'Till I was hoarse Might I discourse Upon the cruelties of Venus-- 'Twere waste of time As well of rhyme, For you've been there yourself, Maecenas!

Perfect your bliss, If some fair miss Love you yourself and not your minæ; I, fortune's sport, All vainly court The beauteous, polyandrous Phryne!

HORACE I, 23.

Chloe, you shun me like a hind That, seeking vainly for her mother, Hears danger in each breath of wind And wildly darts this way and t'other.

Whether the breezes sway the wood Or lizards scuttle through the brambles, She starts, and off, as though pursued, The foolish, frightened creature scrambles.

But, Chloe, you're no infant thing That should esteem a man an ogre-- Let go your mother's apron-string And pin your faith upon a toga!

A PARAPHRASE.

How happens it, my cruel miss, You're always giving me the mitten? You seem to have forgotten this: That you no longer are a kitten!

A woman that has reached the years Of that which people call discretion Should put aside all childish fears And see in courtship no transgression.

A mother's solace may be sweet, But Hymen's tenderness is sweeter, And though all virile love be meet, You'll find the poet's love is metre.

A PARAPHRASE BY CHAUCER.

Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken, Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken; Like as a lyttel deere you been y-hiding Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding, Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder For to beare swete company with some oder; Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth, But that ben not farre enow, God knoweth; Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hayde; But all that do with gode men wed full quicklye When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly.

HORACE I, 5.

What perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah, With smiles for diet, Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha, On the quiet? For whom do you bind up your tresses, As spun-gold yellow-- Meshes that go with your caresses, To snare a fellow?

How will he rail at fate capricious, And curse you duly; Yet now he deems your wiles delicious-- You perfect truly! Pyrrha, your love's a treacherous ocean-- He'll soon fall in there! Then shall I gloat on his commotion, For I have been there!

HORACE I, 20.

Than you, O valued friend of mine! A better patron non est-- Come, quaff my home-made Sabine wine-- You'll find it poor but honest.

I put it up that famous day You patronized the ballet And the public cheered you such a way As shook your native valley.

Cæcuban and the Calean brand May elsewhere claim attention, But I have none of these on hand-- For reasons I'll not mention.