The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir Edited by Thomas Aird: With A Memoir of the Author |
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HIPPOCRATES TO THE AMBASSADORS OF ARTAXERXES. |
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HIPPOCRATES TO THE AMBASSADORS OF ARTAXERXES.
[_]
It is recorded that Hippocrates refused an invitation from Artaxerxes, King of Persia, with a promise of every reward and honour he might desire, provided he would repair to his dominions during a season of pestilence. Many doubts have been thrown out regarding the authenticity of the letters said to have passed on the occasion, and which are still extant. In one of these, Hippocrates replies, that “he has food, clothing, and a habitation in his own country; and that it would be unworthy of him to aspire to the wealth and grandeur of the Persians, or to cure barbarians—the enemies of Greece.” The consequence is said to have been the threatened vengeance of the enraged king against the inhabitants of Cos, unless they delivered him up; but the islanders, instead of complying, declared their resolution to defend his life and liberty at all hazards, and the affair was dropped.
I.
Return, and tell your Sire, the Persian King,That dazzling proffers here you vainly bring:
What is the pomp of wealth, the pride of state,
Pages around, and slaves within the gate,
With all the vain magnificent parade
Which floats in Grandeur's showy cavalcade,
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Before the shrine of meek Philosophy,
And strives to fill up Life's contracted span
With kindliest offices to fellow-man?
Sabæan perfumes, robes of Tyrian dye,
And fountain jets that cool the glowing sky—
While music, mirth, and dancing, from the breast
Drive every dream of sorrow and unrest—
May to submission lull luxurious Ease,
And fashion thraldom to what mould you please;
But to the soul determined, yet serene,
Which treasures wisdom from each passing scene,
And scruples never from itself to steal
Soft slumber's hours, to serve the common-weal,
Shorn of their rainbow hues, State's honours fade,
And sink to insignificance and shade!
II.
Tell Artaxerxes that, from day to day,Even to the rudest hut I bend my way,
Where, save my own, no friendly feet intrude—
Where Poverty keeps watch with Solitude,
And, stretched on pallet low, the sick man lies,
With fever-stricken frame and hollow eyes;
That, while wild phantoms whirl his throbbing brain,
I watch his slumbers, and allay his pain,
A balm to stanch the gushing wound apply,
And wipe Affection's tear from Sorrow's eye.
Up with the sun, to meadows I repair,
And cull each virtuous herb that blossoms there;
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Long days of toil, and slumbers brief are mine.
III.
Go—bid your monarch pause, from all apart,And ask this question of his conscious heart,
At midnight lonely, when are swept aside
The court's bedazzling pageantry and pride—
At midnight when the clouds are dark and deep,
And all the stars sealed up, the world asleep—
If e'er, when mounted on his molten throne,
Beauty, and power, and wealth beneath him shone,
Gems, gold, and garments from a thousand coasts,
All that the earth presents, or ocean boasts—
If e'er when Flattery raised her voice aloud,
And echoing murmurs circled round the crowd,
Far from his spirit fled the fiend Distress,
To leave his heart unmingled happiness—
Ask him if these, the pageants of a king,
Can ever to his thoughts such rapture bring,
As that I feel, when, as I journey on,
The pale youth rises from the wayside stone,
With health-rekindling cheek, and palms outspread,
To call down bliss on my unworthy head,—
As that I feel, when some fond mother shows
Her cradled infant, lovely in repose,
And tells me, that the scion of her heart
Preserved to bless her by my timeous art,
Taught by parental precept, will repair
To lisp my name amid his earliest prayer—
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Apart, and Heaven his worship deigns to own—
Grateful, through all life's after years to be,
To one, from lurking death who set him free!
IV.
If such my joys—with praise from every tongue,Smiles from the old, and greetings from the young,
The warrior's reverence as he courses by,
And gratitude's warm beam from woman's eye—
What else is wanting? That which I enjoy—
The mental calm, which nothing can destroy,
The self-applause, whose strength sustains the soul,
When o'er the Sun of Life the clouds of Sorrow roll.
V.
What wish I more? A cheerful home is mine,Around whose threshold hangs the clustering vine;
There Contemplation finds a welcome cell,
And dove-eyed Peace, and meek Contentment dwell;
Raiment my country offers, food, and fire,
What more doth Nature crave—should man desire?
And could I leave my country, fair and free,
Green Cos, the glory of the Ægean sea,
Desert the realm of Wisdom and of Worth,
Land of my sires, and region of my birth,
By such unworthy baubles lured to roam,
And make 'mid barbarous hordes my gilded home?
No! tell your sovereign that a freeman I
Was born, and 'mid the free resolve to die!
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To salve the wound, and medicate disease,
Were madly used, if, from the free and brave
I turned, and stooped to heal the despot and his slave!
VI.
Thy monarch's rage I nor despise nor dread;Fall if it must on my devoted head,
Better an honoured, though untimely fate,
Than glory sold for unavailing state:
With sneering lip, O ne'er may scoffer say—
“Hippocrates to Persia slunk away,
For princely gauds his reputation sold,
Shamed his old age, and bartered fame for gold!”
No! rather be it said—“He scorn'd to roam
The world for wealth, and died beloved at home;
His goal of rest was honourably won,
And Greece regards him as a worthy son!”
| The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir | |