IV
WHEN Florus, who of old was burning
With zeal for literary lore,
Home from the Parthian front returning
Came round on crutches to my door,
I strove his ancient ardour to relume
And oust Bellona from the Muses' room.
Whether 'twas Sappho or Alcaeus
That tuned the authentic Lesbian lyre;
Was ever swineherd like Eumaeus;
Or whether we should more admire
Patient Penelope's heroic fraud,
Or frank Nausicaa's innocence unawed—
In vain I challenged his opinion
On these and other kindred themes;
The master-passion's rude dominion
Banished them ever from his dreams.
Only of War and War's new arts he spoke,
Of liquid fire and masks and poisoned smoke.
The strong unerring missile-flinger
Above all poets he enthroned;
Tyrtaeus was the only singer
Whose spell ungrudgingly he owned,
And deeply seamed with honorable scars
He paid allegiance to no lord but Mars.
Yet can I dare to be censorious?
Nay, when I honestly retrace
My life through years of ease inglorious
Back to Philippi's headlong race,
Needs must I count it far the nobler part
To die for country than to live for art.
C. L. Graves.