the critic
Used by the sight of my corals and potter’s ore to be dazzled. 
So in my parlor, too, they would always admire the painting,
Where in a garden are gaily dressed ladies and gentlemen walking,
And with their taper fingers are plucking and holding the flowers. 
But who would look at it now!  In sooth, so great my vexation
Scarcely I venture abroad.  All now must be other and tasteful,
So they call it; and white are the laths and benches of wood-work;
Everything simple and smooth; no carving longer or gilding
Can be endured, and the woods from abroad are of all the most costly. 
Well, I too should be glad could I get for myself something novel;
Glad to keep up with the times, and be changing my furniture often;
Yet must we all be afraid of touching the veriest trifle. 
For who among us has means for paying the work-people’s wages
Lately I had an idea of giving the Archangel Michael,
Making the sign of my shop, another fresh coating of gilding,
And to the terrible dragon about his feet that is winding;
But I e’en let him stay browned as he is:  I dreaded the charges.”

EUTERPE

MOTHER AND SON

Thus entertaining themselves, the men sat talking.  The mother
Went meanwhile to look for her son in front of the dwelling,
First on the settle of stone, whereon ’twas his wont to be seated. 
When she perceived him not there, she went farther to look in the stable,
If he were caring perhaps for his noble horses, the stallions,
Which he as colts had bought, and whose care he intrusted to no one. 
And by the servant she there was told:  He is gone to the garden. 
Then with a nimble step she traversed the long, double courtyards,
Leaving the stables behind, and the well-builded barns, too, behind her;
Entered the garden, that far as the walls of the city extended;
Walked through its length, rejoiced as she went in every thing growing;
Set upright the supports on which were resting the branches
Heavily laden with apples, and burdening boughs of the pear-tree. 
Next some caterpillars removed from a stout, swelling cabbage;
For an industrious woman allows no step to be wasted. 
Thus was she come at last to the end of the far-reaching garden,
Where stood the arbor embowered in woodbine; nor there did she find him,
More than she had hitherto in all her search through the garden. 
But the wicket was standing ajar, which out of the arbor,
Once by particular favor, had been through the walls of the city
Cut by a grandsire of hers, the worshipful burgomaster. 
So the now dried-up moat she next crossed over with comfort,
Where, by the side of the road, direct the well-fenced vineyard,
Rose with a steep ascent, its slope exposed to the sunshine. 
Up this also she went, and with pleasure as she was ascending
Marked the wealth of the clusters, that scarce by