I am a "coach" in Roman law by fate,
But Nature must have meant me for a poet,
And while I struggle with a rule or date,
Poetic thoughts intrude before I know it.
The changing sunshine on the summer sea
Drives forth the law of _cessio bonorum_,
_Peculium castrense_ speaks to me
Of Horace and his _Dulce et decorum_.
I see the matine bee among the flowers
Instead of _testamentum militare_,
And wander far away from agent's powers
To picture me again some Maud or Mary.
In truth there is no sequence in the thought,
Why should the title _De Societate_
Suggest, not trading partners, as it ought,
But visions of my last night's valse with Katie?
But worse than this, when I have done my task,
Stern law again asserts her domination,
'Tis cruel 'mid the new-mown hay to bask,
And find one's mind is running on novation;
Or in the dusk, when glow-worms light the moss,
To hear the distant voice of Philomela
Expound the three varieties of _dos_
And wax right eloquent about _tutela_.
I had a little respite yesterday,
Dining with one who well knew how to dine us,
But when I slept, the charm soon fled away,
I dreamed I was a _praetor peregrinus_.
Dismasted in the deep of law I lie,
A poor reward it is to stand confessed as
The Virgil of the interdict _de vi_,
The Petrarch of the _patria potestas_.