Martial, : the twelve books of Epigrams,.

BOOK SEVEN

When the napkin at last no more fragments can hold
He hides his gnawed bones in his toga's warm fold,
And with them a pigeon devoid of its head,
Nor thinks any harm his hand downward to spread
And gather the pieces the dogs would not eat
And fill up with heel-taps a jar at his feet.
At the end when all's finished up two hundred stairs
With his load on his shoulder he gaily repairs,
And when to his garret he safely has got,
The very next morning-he sells all the lot.
* XXI
ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF LUCAN'S BIRTH
THIS is the day which, proud of that great birth,
Gave Lucan to thee, Polla, and to earth.
Ah, cruel Nero! murder 'twas most foul.
This crime at least lies heavy on thy soul.
* XXII
ON THE SAME
SMILE, all ye Muses, on this sacred morn
When Lucan, bard of Phoebus, erst was born;
Since that great day 'tis only just, I deem,
Baetis should mingle with Castalia's stream.
* XXIII
ON THE SAME.4E
COME, Phoebus, come; as when thou didst inspire
The second singer of our Roman quire
To thunderous strains of war. What shall I pray
From heaven that may befit this glorious day?
Only that Polla still her love may show
To his great shade, and he her love may know.
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