Poemata Minora

Written September 1902

                 To The

       Gods, Heros, & Ideals

                 Of The

                ANCIENTS

     This Volume is Affectionately

                DEDICATED

By

                 GREAT

                ADMIRER

     I submit to the publik these idle lines, hoping they will please.

     They form a sort of series, with my Odyssey, Iliad, Aeneid, and the like.

Ode to Selene or Diana

     Immortal Moon, in maiden splendour shine;

         Dispense thy beams, divine Latona's child.

     Thy silver rays all grosser things define,

         And hide harsh Truth in sweet illusion mildl.

     In thy soft light, the city of unrest

         That stands so squalid in thy brother's glare,

     Throws off its habit, and in silence blest,

         Becomes a vision, sparkling bright and fair.

     The modern world,with all its care and pain

         The smokey streets, the loathsome clanging mills,

     Face 'neath thy breams, Selene, and again

         We dream as shepherds on Chaldea's hills.

     Take heed, Diana, of my humble plea;

         Convey me where my happiness can last,

     Draw me against the tide of Time's rought sea,

         And let my sprirt rest amidst the past.

     Olympian gods! how can I let ye go,

         And pin my faith to this new Christian creed?

     Can I resign the deities I know,

         for him who on a cross for man did bleed?

     How in my weakness can my hopes depend

         On one lone god, tho' mighty be his pow'r?

     Why can Jove's host no more assistance lend,

         To Soothe my pain, and cheer my troubled hour?

     Are there no dryads on these wooded mounts

         O'er which I oft in desolation roam?

     Are there no naiads in these crystal founts

         Or nereids upon the ocean foam?

     Fast spreads the new; the older faith declines;

         The name of Christ resounds upon the air;

     But my wrack'd soul in solitude repines

         And gives the gods their last-received pray'r.

     How dost thou lie, O Rome, neath the foot of the Teuton

     Slaves are they men, and bent to the will of thy conqueror;

     Wither hath gone, great city, the race that gave law to all nations,

     Subdu'd the East and the West, and made them bow down to thy consuls,

     Knew not defeat, but gave it to all who attack'd thee?

     Dead! and replac'd by these wretches who cower in confusion.

     Dead! they who gave us this empire to guard and to live in,

     Rome, thou didst fall from thy pow'r with the proud race that made thee,

     and we, base Italians, enjoy'd what we could not have builded.

     Seated in a woodland glen

     By a shallow stream

     Once I fell a-musing, when

     I was lull'd into a dream.

     From the brook a shape arose

     Half a man and half a goat,

     Hoofs it had instead of toes

     And a beard adorn'd its throat.

     On a set of rustic reeds

     Sweetly play'd this hybrid man

     Naught car'd I for earthly needs,

     For I knew that this was Pan.

     Nymphs and Satyrs gather'd round

     To enjoy the lively sound.

     All to soon I woke in pain

     And return'd to haunts of men

     But in rural vales I'd fain

     Live and hear Pan's pipes again

     Apollo, chasing Daphen, claim'd his prize

     But lo! she turn'd to wood before his eyes.

     More modern swains at golden prizes aim,

     And ever strive some worldly thing to claim,

     Yet 'tis the same as in Apollo's case,

     For, once attain'd, the purest gold seems base.

     All that men seek's unworthy of the quest,

     Yet seek they will, and never pause for rest.

     True bliss, methinks, a man can only find

     In virtuous life, and cultivated mind.