SATIRE III - (pages 7-8)
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By sundering distance out of reach.
Yet am I here to beg of thee
To send by messenger to me
What in your valley fairest be:
The forest with its silver glade,
Thy eyes that long, curled lashes shade.
And I in turn will send to you
The proudest thing that here we view:
This mighty host with banner spread,
The forest, branching overhead,
My helmet with its feathery crest,
My eyes that 'neath their lashes rest.
I have both health and resting-place,
Thanks be to Christ and to God's grace,
And now, dear love, I thee embrace".


By such an age as this were chroniclers inspired;
But our good age of mountebanks what poet's heart has fired...
In annals of past ages heroes are often found,
But poet with your lute or lyre of dreaming sound
Have you a single patriot to sing about today?
Apollo at the sight of these had hid himself away!
O modern heroes squatting beneath far glory's wing,
Since you are all the fashion I would your prowess sing;
While draped in perfect nullity your praise is writ by those
Who knead the golden ages within the mud of prose.
Musat and Basarabs rest in your sacred shade,
Givers of law and justice, men who our nation made,
Who with the mace and ploughshare spread out our boundaries wide
From seashore to the mountains, and to the Danube side.


The present is not noble? Calling for heroes we?
Is not our street quite famous for dealers in jewellery?
Have not in far Sybaris our manners gained first prize?
From tavern door and alley does glory not arise?
And have we then no heroes, who wield rhetoric slings


Amidst the noisy plaudit of hordes of gutterings?
These pickpockets of honour who on a tightrope dance,
And wear their fancy costumes with perfect elegance.
Of Virtue and The Nation our liberal prates, till sure
His daily life you'd fancy must be as crystal pure?
You'd never dream him being a cafe haunting knave,
Who mocks at his own sermon, so solemn, and so grave.
O could you see the brigand that no conscience has nor soul
With his hang-dog expression and heavy, sullen jaw,
A hunchback, evil-visaged, a spring of cunning greed,
Who spouts out for his comrades some poisoned, nonsense creed.
Upon each lip is Virtue, and in each heart deceit;
A set of wicked monsters and wrong from head to feet
Who round their patrons standing, as those who Gods admire,
Will roll protruding frog eyes, bright with their hearts' aspire.
Such men become our leaders, its laws our country give,
Men who at best from kindness should in a madhouse live
Clothed each in madmen's jackets, a fool's cap on each head.
But no...they teach us wisdom and make our laws instead.
Patriotism! Justice!... Such guardians of our State
Despise the laws as nonsense that they themselves create.
As sly as artful foxes they will the benches throng
Frenetically applauding our country game and song;
Then meeting in the Senate each others praises speak
This heavy-throated Bulgar, that long and hook-nosed Greek.
Each claims to be Romanian, whatever mask he wears,
These Bulgarian-Greeks pretending that they are Trojan's heirs;

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