As the mad penitent ladies do in France.
My brothers quietly would edge me out
Of use and management of things called mine;
Do I command? “You stretched command before!”
Show anger? “Anger little helped you once!”
Advise? “How managed you affairs of old?”
My very mother, all the while they gird,
Turns eye up, gives confirmatory groan,—
For unsuccess, explain it how you will,
Disqualifies you, makes you doubt yourself, (1840)
—Much more, is found decisive by your friends.
Beside, am I not fifty years of age?
What new leap would a life take, checked like mine
I’ the spring at outset? Where’s my second chance?
Ay, but the babe…I had forgot my son,
My heir! Now for a burst of gratitude!
There’s some appropriate service to intone,
Some gaudeamus and thanksgiving-psalm!
Old, I renew my youth in him, and poor
Possess a treasure,—is not that the phrase? (1850)
Only I must wait patient twenty years—
Nourishing all the while, as father ought,
The excrescence with my daily blood of life.
Does it respond to hope, such sacrifice,—
Grows the wen plump while I myself grow lean?
Why, here’s my son and heir in evidence,
Who stronger, wiser, handsomer than I
By fifty years, relieves me of each load,—
Tames my hot horse, carries my heavy gun,
Courts my coy mistress,—has his apt advice (1860)
On house-economy, expenditure,
And what not? All which good gifts and great growth
Because of my decline, he brings to bear
On Guido, but half apprehensive how
He cumbers earth, crosses the brisk young Count,
Who civilly would thrust him from the scene.
Contrariwise, does the blood-offering fail?
There’s an ineptitude, one blank the more
Added to earth in semblance of my child?
Then, this has been a costly piece of work, (1870)
My life exchanged for his!—why he, not I,
Enjoy the world, if no more grace accrue?
Dwarf me, what giant have you made of him?
I do not dread the disobedient son—
I know how to suppress rebellion there,
Being not quite the fool my father was.
But grant the medium measure of a man,
The usual compromise ’twixt fool and sage,
—You know—the tolerably-obstinate,
The not-so-much-perverse but you may train, (1880)
The true son-servant that, when parent bids
“Go work, son, in my vineyard!” makes reply
“I go, Sir!”—Why, what profit in your son
Beyond the drudges you might subsidise,
Have the same work from at a paul the head?
Look at those four young precious olive-plants
Reared at Vittiano,—not on flesh and blood,
These twenty years, but black bread and sour wine!
I bade them put forth tender branch, and hook
And hurt three enemies I had in Rome: (1890)
They did my hest as unreluctantly,
At promise of a dollar, as a son
Adjured by mumping memories of the past!
No, nothing repays youth expended so—
Youth, I say, who am young still,—give but leave
To live my life out, to the last I’d live
And die conceding age no right of youth!
It is the will runs the renewing nerve
Through flaccid flesh, would faint before the time.
Therefore no sort of use for son have I— (1900)
Sick, not of life’s feast but of steps to climb
To the house where life prepares her feast,—of means
To the end: for make the end attainable
Without the means,—my relish were like yours.
A man may have an appetite enough
For a whole dish of robins ready cooked,
And yet lack courage to face sleet, pad snow,
And snare sufficiency for supper.
The time’s arrived when, ancient Roman-like, (1910)
I am bound to fall on my own sword,—why not
Say—Tuscan-like, more ancient, better still?
Will you hear truth can do no harm nor good?
I think I never was at any time
A Christian, as you nickname all the world,
Me among others: truce to nonsense now!
Name me, a primitive religionist—
As should the aboriginary be
I boast myself, Etruscan, Aretine,
One sprung,—your frigid Virgil’s fieriest word,— (1920)
From fauns and nymphs, trunks and the heart of oak,
With,—for a visible divinity,—
the portent of a Jove Ægiochus
Descried ’mid clouds, lightning and thunder, couched
On topmost crag of your Capitoline—
’Tis in the Seventh Æneid,—what, the Eighth?
Right,—thanks, Abate,—though the Christian’s dumb,
The Latinist’s vivacious in you yet!
I know my grandsire had out tapestry
Marked with the motto, ’neath a certain shield (1930)
His grandson presently will give some gules
To vary azure. First we fight for faiths,
But get to shake hands at the last of all:
Mine’s your faith too,—in Jove Ægiochus!
Nor do Greek gods, that serve as supplement,
Jar with the simpler scheme, if understood.
We want such intermediary race
to make communication possible;
The real thing were too lofty, we too low,
Midway hang these: we feel their use so plain (1940)
In linking height to depth, that we doff hat
And put no question nor pry narrowly
Into the nature hid behind the names.
We grudge no rite the fancy may demand;
But never, more than needs, invent, refine,
Improve upon requirement, idly wise
Beyond the letter, teaching gods their trade,
Which is to teach us: we’ll obey when taught.
Why should we do our duty past the due?
When the sky darkens, Jove is wroth,—say prayer! (1950)
When the sun shines and Jove is glad,—sing psalm!
But where fore pass prescription and devise
Blood-offering for sweat-service, lend the rod
A pungency through pickle of our own?
Learned Abate,—no one teaches you
What Venus means and who’s Apollo here!
I
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