To Leuconöe II

Seek not, Leuconöe, to know how long you're going to live yet,
What boons the gods will yet withhold, or what they're going to give yet;
For Jupiter will have his way, despite how much we worry,--
Some will hang on for many a day, and some die in a hurry.
The wisest thing for you to do is to embark this diem
Upon a merry escapade with some such bard as I am.
And while we sport I'll reel you off such odes as shall surprise ye;
To-morrow, when the headache comes,--well, then I'll satirize ye!

Eugene Field

Eugene Field was an American writer, best known for his children's poetry and humorous essays. Born in St. Louis, Missouri, he was known as the 'Poet of Childhood' due to his well-loved poems for children. After his mother's death in 1856, he was raised by a cousin in Amherst, Massachusetts. Field studied at several universities but never graduated. His most famous poems include 'Wynken, Blynken, and Nod' and 'The Duel.' Field worked as a journalist and editor in various cities, including Chicago, where he spent the last years of his life.

Eugene Field

Béranger's "To My Old Coat."

Eugene Field, Simple Poetry

To Venus

Eugene Field, Simple Poetry

In The Springtime I

Eugene Field, Simple Poetry

English

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To Leuconöe I

What end the gods may have ordained for me,
And what for thee,
Seek not to learn, Leuconöe; we may not know.
Chaldean tables cannot bring us rest.
'T is for the best
To bear in patience what may come, or weal or woe.

If for more winters our poor lot is cast,
Or this the last,
Which on the crumbling rocks has dashed Etruscan seas,
Strain clear the wine; this life is short, at best.
Take hope with zest,
And, trusting not To-morrow, snatch To-day for ease!

Eugene Field

Horatian Lyrics. Odes I, 11.

What end the gods may have ordained for me,
And what for thee,
Seek not to learn, Leuconoe; we may not know;
Chaldean tables cannot bring us rest--
'Tis for the best
To bear in patience what may come, or weal or woe.

If for more winters our poor lot is cast,
Or this the last,
Which on the crumbling rocks has dashed Etruscan seas;
Strain clear the wine--this life is short, at best;
Take hope with zest,
And, trusting not To-Morrow, snatch To-Day for ease!

Eugene Field

To Leuconoë. I-11 (From The Odes Of Horace)

    Seek not to learn - Leuconoë, - a mortal may not know -
    What term of life on you or me our deities bestow.
    The Babylonian soothsayer consult not; better bear
    Whatever comes, whether to you more winters Jove shall spare,
    Or whether this may be the last, grinding the Tuscan sea
    On yonder rocks. Even as we talk, time envious shall flee.
    Filter your wine, be wise, and clip your hopes to life's brief span.
    Then seize today; to-morrow trust as little as you can.

Helen Leah Reed

To Leuconoe. - Translations From Horace.

OD. i. 11.


Seek not, for thou shalt not find it, what my end, what thine shall be;
Ask not of Chaldaea's science what God wills, Leuconoe:
Better far, what comes, to bear it. Haply many a wintry blast
Waits thee still; and this, it may be, Jove ordains to be thy last,
Which flings now the flagging sea-wave on the obstinate sandstone-reef.
Be thou wise: fill up the wine-cup; shortening, since the time is brief,
Hopes that reach into the future. While I speak, hath stol'n away
Jealous Time. Mistrust To-morrow, catch the blossom of To-day.

Charles Stuart Calverley

Horace II, 3.

Be tranquil, Dellius, I pray;
For though you pine your life away
With dull complaining breath,
Or speed with song and wine each day--
Still, still your doom is death.

Where the white poplar and the pine
In glorious arching shade combine
And the brook singing goes,
Bid them bring store of nard and wine
And garlands of the rose.

Let's live while chance and youth obtain--
Soon shall you quit this fair domain
Kissed by the Tiber's gold,
And all your earthly pride and gain
Some heedless heir shall hold.

One ghostly boat shall some time bear
From scenes of mirthfulness or care
Each fated human soul!--
Shall waft and leave his burden where
The waves of Lethe roll.

So come, I pri' thee, Dellius, mine--
Let's sing our...

Eugene Field

To Postumus
O Postumus, my Postumus, the years are gliding past,
And piety will never check the wrinkles coming fast,
The ravages of time old age's swift advance has made,
And death, which unimpeded comes to bear us to the shade.

Old friend, although the tearless Pluto you may strive to please,
And seek each year with thrice one hundred bullocks to appease,
Who keeps the thrice-huge Geryon and Tityus his slaves,
Imprisoned fast forevermore with cold and sombre waves,

Yet must that flood so terrible be sailed by mortals all;
Whether perchance we may be kings and live in royal hall,
Or lowly peasants struggling long with poverty and dearth,
Still must we cross who live upon the favors of the earth.

And all in vain from bloody war and contest we are free,
And from the wav...
Eugene Field