THE EPIGRAM AND ITS GREATEST MASTER 1 5 



was so plentiful that a cistern was more valuable than a spreading vine- 

 yard. "A villainous innkeeper at Ravenna cheated me the other day; 

 I asked for wine mixed with water and the rascal sold me pure wine." 



Herewith I have repeated the sin of most readers of Martial, for I 

 have been lured to tarry so long over his more playful song that I must 

 slight his more serious strains. 



There is a Catullus-echoing, Horace-recaUing Martial, who can sing 

 of friendship and a calm, settled, sweet content in verse not unworthy of 

 his Augustan masters; a Martial who has caught a vision of the aurea 

 mediocritas in Hfe's falsehoods of extremes and can picture forth this 

 golden mean for his fellow-men. Where shall we find surpassed his 

 description of the legitimate reward of a well-spent life, famiUar to Eng- 

 lish readers in the adaptation of Pope ? 



At length my friend (while time with still career 

 Wafts on his gentle wing this eightieth year) 

 Sees his past days safe out of Fortune's pow'r, 

 Nor dreads approaching Fate's uncertain hour; 

 Reviews his life, and in the strict survey, 

 Finds not one moment he could wish away, 

 Pleas'd with the series of each happy day. 

 Such, such a man extends his life's short space, 

 And from the goal again renews the race; 

 For he lives twice who can at once employ 

 The present well, and e'en the past enjoy. 



Many poets have warned us against tomorrow, bidding us gather rose- 

 buds while we may, and Martial is of the band; but one of his odes sug- 

 gests by the faintest undertone that today is a rather solemn little flower 

 withal. This undertone, it seems to me, has never been so daintily 

 reproduced as in the rendering by Goldwin Smith : 



Friend of my heart — and none of all the band 



Has to that name older or better right: 

 Julius, thy sixtieth winter is at hand; 



Far spent is now life's day, and near the night. 

 Delay not what thou would' st recall too late; 

 That which is past, that only call thy own: 

 Cares without end and tribulations wait, 



Joy tarrieth not, but scarcely come is flown. 

 Then grasp it quickly, firmly to thy heart — 



Though firmly grasped, too oft it slips away: — 

 To talk of living is not wisdom's part: 

 Tomorrow is too late: live thou today ! 



