If not to you,
to whom might I show
these plum blossoms?
Their color, their scent,
is known only by the knowing.

Darkness is futile
on a spring night;
plum blossoms,
even if the color is invisible,
how can the scent be concealed?

‘How far'd you at the miser's feast?
For there, from yester-noon at least,
You plied the glass, as it was clear
By one I sent to bid you here.’—
—‘So well our time we pass'd away,
I never had a merrier day.’—
‘Say, if 'tis not against the law,
What first appeas'd your rav'nous maw?’—
—‘First a Lucanian boar was brought,
Which (as our host affirm'd) was caught,
When the South gently blew—the dish
Was garnish'd with both herbs and fish,
Anchovies, lettuce, skirret too,
Such as the appetite renew,
With vinegar from Coan lees,

‘There are to whom my lines appear
Far too satiric and severe,
As driving things too great a length—
Others conceive there is no strength
In any thing I sing or say,
And that a thousand lines a day
May be spun out, if such as mine—
Trebatius, what do you opine?’—
‘Be quiet’—‘you advise, I see,
That I shou'd leave off poetry’—
‘Aye’—‘may I make a sorry end,
If you are not my worthiest friend,
But then I cannot rest, but start
A' nights'—‘why, if your sleep depart,
Good oiling is the best advice,

Well, I did say Lucilius penn'd
Lame verses—who's so much his friend,
And fawning dupe, to praise amiss,
As not at least to grant me this?
But that he smartly lash'd the age,
I praise him in the self-same page.
Yet, tho' I this one truth attest,
I cannot grant you all the rest.
For so I might admire each mime,
Laberius wrote, as true sublime.
Wherefore 'tis not enough to win
The hearer's ear, and make him grin,
(Tho' this is merit in degree)
But that the period may run free,
Nor with vain words the ear be tir'd—

Arriv'd from all the pomp and din
Of Rome, Aricia took me in,
A guest but sorrily bestow'd;
But my companion on the road
Was Heliodorus, that fam'd Greek,
Who teaches youth the art to speak.
To Appii-Forum thence we hied,
Where landlords sour and tars reside.
This journey which is but a day
For those that expedite their way,
Finding so many things to do
With idleness we split in two.
For them, that often choose to call,
The Appian way is best of all,
And here the water was so vile
I mortified my gut, the while

Each minstrel, quack, and strolling play'r,
Each mime, and scrub is in despair,
And with their ragged race deplore,
Tigellius now can sing no more.
The truth is, he was very good,
And lib'ral to the brotherhood.
Another, lest he comes to shame,
Dreads such a spendthrift's very name;
So close, he will not give a friend
What cold and hunger may defend.
Another, if you ask him why
His grandsire's, father's fortunes fly,
While cash he borrows but to waste,
And gratify his dainty taste,
He answers, he wou'd not be deem'd

'Twas Mary, the woeful Mother,
Came wandering footsore,
And stood, with her rags around her,
Outside the synagogue door.

‘O, who art thou, thou woeful woman,
And what may thine errand be?’
‘I am Mary, the Mother of thy Lord,
And I come from Galilee.’

‘Stand back, stand back, whoever thou art,
Thou canst not enter here,
Thy Son is doing His Father's work
Among His brethren dear.

‘O woman, thou canst not enter now,’
The grim door-keeper said,
‘Thy Son is pouring the Wine of Life,
And breaking the holy Bread.’

Shepherds, wake, 'tis Christmas tide!
(Over the snow the bleak winds blow!)
Follow, with yonder Star for guide,
On Christmas day in the morning.

‘The way is dark, the way is long,
We cheer the way with a blithsome sang.

‘Thro' the vailey and over the hill,—
Hush, now hush, for the Star stands still!

‘It stands so still and it shines so clear—
This is the place! Our Lord is here!’

Ye who have gifts, your gifts unfold—
Word of Lehanon, gems, and gold.

Kneel, and shrive ye of your sin—
Then lift the latch, and enter in. . . . .

By nature fierce, at length subdued and mild
To each kind office of a duteous child,
Who a dark sire guides through the pressing throng:
See how yon terrier gently leads along
The feeble beggar to his customed stand,
With piteous tale to woo the bounteous hand;
In willing bonds, but master of the way,
Ne'er leads that trusted friend his charge astray,
With slow, soft step, as conscious of his care,
As if his own deep sorrows formed the prayer;
Should yielding charity the scrip supply,
Though hunger pressed, untouched the boon would lie;