The Satires of Decimus Junius Juvenalis and of Aulus Persius Flaccus, Translated into English Verse. By William Gifford ... with Notes and Illustrations. In Two Volumes |
 | 1. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. | SATIRE VIII. |
| IX. |
| II. |
|
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | The Satires of Decimus Junius Juvenalis |  |
323
SATIRE VIII.
325
TO PONTICUS.
“Your ancient house!” No more.—I cannot see
The wondrous merits of a pedigree:
No, Ponticus;—nor of a proud display
Of smoaky ancestors, in wax or clay;
Æmilius, mounted on his car sublime,
Curius, half wasted by the teeth of time,
Corvinus, dwindled to a shapeless bust,
And high-born Galba, crumbling into dust.
The wondrous merits of a pedigree:
No, Ponticus;—nor of a proud display
Of smoaky ancestors, in wax or clay;
Æmilius, mounted on his car sublime,
Curius, half wasted by the teeth of time,
Corvinus, dwindled to a shapeless bust,
And high-born Galba, crumbling into dust.
What boots it, on the lineal tree to trace,
Through many a branch, the founders of our race,
Time-honour'd chiefs; if, in their sight, we give
A loose to vice, and like low villains live?
Say, what avails it, that, on either hand,
The stern Numantii, an illustrious band,
Frown from the walls, if their degenerate race
Waste the long night at dice, before their face?
If, staggering, to a drowsy bed they creep,
At that prime hour when, starting from their sleep,
Their sires the signal of the fight unfurl'd,
And drew their legions forth, and won the world?
Through many a branch, the founders of our race,
326
A loose to vice, and like low villains live?
Say, what avails it, that, on either hand,
The stern Numantii, an illustrious band,
Frown from the walls, if their degenerate race
Waste the long night at dice, before their face?
If, staggering, to a drowsy bed they creep,
At that prime hour when, starting from their sleep,
Their sires the signal of the fight unfurl'd,
And drew their legions forth, and won the world?
Say, why should Fabius, of the Herculean name,
To the great altar, vaunt his lineal claim,
If, softer than Euganean lambs, the youth,
His wanton limbs, with Ætna's pumice, smooth,
And shame his rough-hewn sires? if greedy, vain,
If, a vile trafficker in secret bane,
He blast his wretched kindred with a bust,
For publick vengeance to—reduce to dust!
To the great altar, vaunt his lineal claim,
327
His wanton limbs, with Ætna's pumice, smooth,
And shame his rough-hewn sires? if greedy, vain,
If, a vile trafficker in secret bane,
He blast his wretched kindred with a bust,
For publick vengeance to—reduce to dust!
328
Fond man! though all the heroes of your line
Bedeck your halls, and round your galleries shine,
In proud display; yet, take this truth from me,
Virtue alone is true nobility.
Set Cossus, Drusus, Paulus, then, in view,
The bright example of their lives pursue;
Let these precede the statues of your race,
And these, when Consul, of your rods take place.
Bedeck your halls, and round your galleries shine,
In proud display; yet, take this truth from me,
Virtue alone is true nobility.
Set Cossus, Drusus, Paulus, then, in view,
The bright example of their lives pursue;
Let these precede the statues of your race,
And these, when Consul, of your rods take place.
O give me inborn worth! Dare to be just,
Firm to your word, and faithful to your trust:
These praises hear, at least deserve to hear,
I grant your claim, and recognise the peer.
Hail! from whatever stock you draw your birth,
The son of Cossus, or the son of Earth,
All hail! in you, exulting Rome espies
Her guardian Power, her great Palladium rise;
And shouts like Ægypt, when her priests have found,
A new Osiris, for the old one drown'd!
Firm to your word, and faithful to your trust:
These praises hear, at least deserve to hear,
I grant your claim, and recognise the peer.
Hail! from whatever stock you draw your birth,
The son of Cossus, or the son of Earth,
All hail! in you, exulting Rome espies
Her guardian Power, her great Palladium rise;
329
A new Osiris, for the old one drown'd!
But shall we call those noble, who disgrace
Their lineage, proud of an illustrious race?
Vain thought!—but thus, with many a taunting smile,
The dwarf an Atlas, Moor a swan, we style;
The crookback'd wench, Europa; and the hound,
With age enfeebled, toothless, and unsound,
That listless lies, and licks the lamps for food,
Lord of the chase, and tyrant of the wood!
You, too, beware, lest Satire's piercing eye
The slave of guilt through grandeur's blaze espy,
And, drawing from your crime some sounding name,
Declare at once your greatness, and your shame.
Their lineage, proud of an illustrious race?
330
The dwarf an Atlas, Moor a swan, we style;
The crookback'd wench, Europa; and the hound,
With age enfeebled, toothless, and unsound,
That listless lies, and licks the lamps for food,
Lord of the chase, and tyrant of the wood!
You, too, beware, lest Satire's piercing eye
The slave of guilt through grandeur's blaze espy,
And, drawing from your crime some sounding name,
Declare at once your greatness, and your shame.
Ask you for whom this picture I design?
Plautus, thy birth and folly make it thine.
Thou vaunt'st thy pedigree, on every side
To noble, and imperial blood, allied;
As if thy honours by thyself were won,
And thou hadst some illustrious action done,
To make the world believe thee Julia's heir,
And not the offspring of some easy fair,
Who, shivering in the wind, near yon dead wall,
Plies her vile labour, and is all to all.
Plautus, thy birth and folly make it thine.
331
To noble, and imperial blood, allied;
As if thy honours by thyself were won,
And thou hadst some illustrious action done,
To make the world believe thee Julia's heir,
And not the offspring of some easy fair,
Who, shivering in the wind, near yon dead wall,
Plies her vile labour, and is all to all.
“Away, away! ye slaves of humblest birth,
“Ye dregs of Rome, ye nothings of the earth,
“Whose fathers who shall tell! my ancient line
“Descends from Cecrops.” Man of blood divine!
Live, and enjoy the secret sweets which spring
In breasts, affined to so remote a king!—
Yet know, amid these “dregs,” low grandeur's scorn,
Will those be found whom arts and arms adorn:
Some, skill'd to plead a noble blockhead's cause,
And solve the dark enigmas of the laws;
Some, who the Tigris' hostile banks explore,
And plant our eagles on Batavia's shore:
While thou, in mean, inglorious pleasure lost,
With “Cecrops! Cecrops!” all thou hast to boast,
Art a full brother to the crossway stone,
Which clowns have chipp'd the head of Hermes on:
For 'tis no bar to kindred, that thy block,
Is form'd of flesh and blood, and their's of rock.
“Ye dregs of Rome, ye nothings of the earth,
“Whose fathers who shall tell! my ancient line
“Descends from Cecrops.” Man of blood divine!
Live, and enjoy the secret sweets which spring
In breasts, affined to so remote a king!—
Yet know, amid these “dregs,” low grandeur's scorn,
Will those be found whom arts and arms adorn:
Some, skill'd to plead a noble blockhead's cause,
And solve the dark enigmas of the laws;
Some, who the Tigris' hostile banks explore,
And plant our eagles on Batavia's shore:
While thou, in mean, inglorious pleasure lost,
With “Cecrops! Cecrops!” all thou hast to boast,
332
Which clowns have chipp'd the head of Hermes on:
For 'tis no bar to kindred, that thy block,
Is form'd of flesh and blood, and their's of rock.
Of beasts, great son of Troy, who vaunts the breed,
Unless renown'd for courage, strength, or speed?
'Tis thus we praise the horse,, who mocks our eyes,
While, to the goal, with lightning's speed, he flies!
Whom many a well-earn'd palm and trophy grace,
And the Cirque hails, unrivall'd in the race!
—Yes, he is noble, spring from whom he will,
Whose footsteps, in the dust, are foremost still;
While Hirpine's stock are to the market led,
If Victory perch but rarely on their head:
For no respect to pedigree is paid,
No honour to a sire's illustrious shade.
Flung cheaply off, they drag the cumbrous wain,
With shoulders bare and bleeding from the chain;
Or take, with some blind ass in concert found,
At Nepo's mill, their everlasting round.
Unless renown'd for courage, strength, or speed?
'Tis thus we praise the horse,, who mocks our eyes,
While, to the goal, with lightning's speed, he flies!
333
And the Cirque hails, unrivall'd in the race!
—Yes, he is noble, spring from whom he will,
Whose footsteps, in the dust, are foremost still;
While Hirpine's stock are to the market led,
If Victory perch but rarely on their head:
For no respect to pedigree is paid,
No honour to a sire's illustrious shade.
Flung cheaply off, they drag the cumbrous wain,
With shoulders bare and bleeding from the chain;
Or take, with some blind ass in concert found,
At Nepo's mill, their everlasting round.
That Rome may, therefore, you, not yours, admire,
By virtuous actions, first, to praise aspire;
Seek not to shine by borrow'd light alone,
But, with your father's glories, blend your own.
By virtuous actions, first, to praise aspire;
334
But, with your father's glories, blend your own.
This to the youth, whom Rumour brands as vain,
And swelling—full of his Neronian strain;
Perhaps, with truth:—for rarely shall we find,
A sense of modesty, in that proud kind.
But were my Ponticus content to raise
His honours thus, on a forefather's praise,
Worthless the while,—'twould tinge my cheeks with shame—
'Tis dangerous building on another's fame,
Lest the substructure fail, and, on the ground,
Your baseless pile be hurl'd, in fragments, round.—
Stretch'd on the plain, the vine's weak tendrils try,
To clasp the elm they drop from; fail—and die!
And swelling—full of his Neronian strain;
Perhaps, with truth:—for rarely shall we find,
A sense of modesty, in that proud kind.
335
His honours thus, on a forefather's praise,
Worthless the while,—'twould tinge my cheeks with shame—
'Tis dangerous building on another's fame,
Lest the substructure fail, and, on the ground,
Your baseless pile be hurl'd, in fragments, round.—
336
To clasp the elm they drop from; fail—and die!
Be brave, be just; and, when your country's laws
Call you to witness in a dubious cause,
Though Phalaris plant his bull before your eye,
And, frowning, dictate to your lips the lie,
Think it a crime no tears can e'er efface,
To purchase safety, with compliance base,
At honour's cost, a feverish, span extend,
And sacrifice for life, life's only end!
Life! 'tis not life—who merits death is dead;
Though Gauran oysters for his feasts be spread,
Though his limbs drip with exquisite perfume,
And the late rose around his temples bloom!
Call you to witness in a dubious cause,
Though Phalaris plant his bull before your eye,
And, frowning, dictate to your lips the lie,
Think it a crime no tears can e'er efface,
To purchase safety, with compliance base,
At honour's cost, a feverish, span extend,
And sacrifice for life, life's only end!
Life! 'tis not life—who merits death is dead;
Though Gauran oysters for his feasts be spread,
Though his limbs drip with exquisite perfume,
And the late rose around his temples bloom!
O, when the Province, long desired, you gain,
Your boiling rage, your lust of wealth restrain,
And pity our allies: all Asia grieves—
Her blood, her marrow, drain'd by legal thieves.
Revere the laws, obey the parent state;
Observe what rich rewards the good await,
What punishments, the bad: how Tutor sped,
While Rome's whole thunder rattled round his head!
And yet what boots it, that one spoiler bleed,
If still a worse, and still a worse succeed;
If neither fear nor shame control their theft,
And Pansa seize the little Natta left?
Haste then, Chærippus, ere thy rags be known,
And sell the few thou yet canst call thine own,
And O, conceal the price! 'tis honest craft;
Thou couldst not keep the hatchet:—save the haft.
Your boiling rage, your lust of wealth restrain,
And pity our allies: all Asia grieves—
Her blood, her marrow, drain'd by legal thieves.
Revere the laws, obey the parent state;
Observe what rich rewards the good await,
What punishments, the bad: how Tutor sped,
While Rome's whole thunder rattled round his head!
And yet what boots it, that one spoiler bleed,
If still a worse, and still a worse succeed;
If neither fear nor shame control their theft,
And Pansa seize the little Natta left?
337
And sell the few thou yet canst call thine own,
And O, conceal the price! 'tis honest craft;
Thou couldst not keep the hatchet:—save the haft.
Not such the cries of old, nor such the stroke,
When first the nations bow'd beneath our yoke.
Wealth, then, was theirs, wealth without fear possest.
Full every house, and bursting every chest—
Crimson, in looms of Sparta taught to glow,
And purple, deeply dyed in grain of Co;
Busts, to which Myro's touch did motion give,
And ivory, taught by Phidias' skill to live:
On every side a Polyclete you view'd,
And scarce a board without a Mentor stood.
These, these, the lust of rapine first inspired,
These, Antony and Dolabella fired,
And sacrilegious Verres:—so, for Rome
They shipp'd their secret plunder; and brought home,
More treasures from our friends, in peace obtain'd,
Than from our foes, in war, were ever gain'd!
When first the nations bow'd beneath our yoke.
Wealth, then, was theirs, wealth without fear possest.
Full every house, and bursting every chest—
Crimson, in looms of Sparta taught to glow,
And purple, deeply dyed in grain of Co;
Busts, to which Myro's touch did motion give,
And ivory, taught by Phidias' skill to live:
338
And scarce a board without a Mentor stood.
These, these, the lust of rapine first inspired,
These, Antony and Dolabella fired,
And sacrilegious Verres:—so, for Rome
They shipp'd their secret plunder; and brought home,
More treasures from our friends, in peace obtain'd,
Than from our foes, in war, were ever gain'd!
Now all is gone! the stallion made a prey,
The few brood-mares and oxen swept away,
The Lares,—if the sacred hearth possest
One little god, that pleased above the rest—
Mean spoils, indeed! but such were now their best.
The few brood-mares and oxen swept away,
The Lares,—if the sacred hearth possest
One little god, that pleased above the rest—
Mean spoils, indeed! but such were now their best.
Perhaps, you scorn (and may securely scorn)
The essenced Greek, whom arts, not arms, adorn:
Soft limbs, and spirits by refinement broke,
Would feebly struggle with the oppressive yoke.
But spare the Gaul, the fierce Illyrian spare,
And the rough Spaniard, terrible in war;
Spare too the Africk hind, whose ceaseless pain
Fills our wide granaries with autumnal grain,
And pampers Rome, while weightier cares engage
Her precious hours—the Circus and the Stage!
For, should you rifle them, O think in time,
What spoil would pay the execrable crime,
When greedy Marius fleeced them all so late,
And bare and bleeding left the hapless state!
But chief the brave, and wretched—tremble there;
Nor tempt too far the madness of despair:
For, should you all their little treasures drain,
Helmets, and spears, and swords, would still remain;
The plunder'd ne'er want arms. What I foretel,
Is no trite apophthegm, but—mark me well—
True as a Sibyl's leaf! fix'd as an oracle!
The essenced Greek, whom arts, not arms, adorn:
Soft limbs, and spirits by refinement broke,
Would feebly struggle with the oppressive yoke.
339
And the rough Spaniard, terrible in war;
Spare too the Africk hind, whose ceaseless pain
Fills our wide granaries with autumnal grain,
And pampers Rome, while weightier cares engage
Her precious hours—the Circus and the Stage!
For, should you rifle them, O think in time,
What spoil would pay the execrable crime,
When greedy Marius fleeced them all so late,
And bare and bleeding left the hapless state!
340
Nor tempt too far the madness of despair:
For, should you all their little treasures drain,
Helmets, and spears, and swords, would still remain;
The plunder'd ne'er want arms. What I foretel,
Is no trite apophthegm, but—mark me well—
True as a Sibyl's leaf! fix'd as an oracle!
If men of worth the posts beneath you hold,
And no spruce favourite barter law for gold;
If no inherent stain your wife disgrace,
Nor, happy-like, she flit from place to place,
A fell Celæno, ever on the watch,
And ever furious, all she sees to snatch;
Then choose what race you will: derive your birth
From Picus, or those elder sons of earth,
Who shook the throne of heaven; call him your sire,
Who first inform'd our clay with living fire;
Or single from the songs of ancient days,
What tale may suit you, and what parent raise.
And no spruce favourite barter law for gold;
If no inherent stain your wife disgrace,
Nor, happy-like, she flit from place to place,
341
And ever furious, all she sees to snatch;
Then choose what race you will: derive your birth
From Picus, or those elder sons of earth,
Who shook the throne of heaven; call him your sire,
Who first inform'd our clay with living fire;
Or single from the songs of ancient days,
What tale may suit you, and what parent raise.
But—if rash pride, and lust, your bosom sway,
If, with stern joy, you ply, from day to day,
The ensanguined rods, and head on head demand,
Till the tired axe drop from the lictor's hand;
Then, every honour, by your father won,
Indignant to be borne by such a son,
Will, to his blood, oppose your daring claim,
And fire a torch, to blaze upon your shame!—
Vice glares more strongly in the publick eye,
As he who sins, in power or place is high.
If, with stern joy, you ply, from day to day,
The ensanguined rods, and head on head demand,
Till the tired axe drop from the lictor's hand;
Then, every honour, by your father won,
Indignant to be borne by such a son,
Will, to his blood, oppose your daring claim,
And fire a torch, to blaze upon your shame!—
342
As he who sins, in power or place is high.
See! by his great progenitors' remains
Fat Damasippus sweeps, with loosen'd reins.
Good Consul! he no pride of office feels,
But stoops, himself, to clog his headlong wheels.
“But this is all by night,” the hero cries.
Yet the moon sees! yet the stars stretch their eyes,
Full on your shame!—A few short moments wait,
And Damasippus quits the pomp of state:
Then, proud the experienced driver to display,
He mounts his chariot in the face of day,
Whirls, with bold front, his grave associate by,
And jerks his whip, to catch the senior's eye:
Unyokes his weary steeds, and, to requite
Their service, feeds and litters them, at night.
Fat Damasippus sweeps, with loosen'd reins.
Good Consul! he no pride of office feels,
But stoops, himself, to clog his headlong wheels.
343
Yet the moon sees! yet the stars stretch their eyes,
Full on your shame!—A few short moments wait,
And Damasippus quits the pomp of state:
Then, proud the experienced driver to display,
He mounts his chariot in the face of day,
Whirls, with bold front, his grave associate by,
And jerks his whip, to catch the senior's eye:
Unyokes his weary steeds, and, to requite
Their service, feeds and litters them, at night.
Meanwhile, 'tis all he can, what time he stands
At Jove's high altar, as the law commands,
And offers sheep and oxen, he forswears
The Eternal King, and gives his silent prayers
To thee, Hippona, goddess of the stalls,
And gods more vile, dawb'd on the reeking walls!
At night, to his old haunts he scours, elate,
(The tavern by the Idumean gate)
Where, while the host, bedrench'd with liquid sweets,
With many a courteous phrase, his entrance greets,
And many a smile; the hostess nimbly moves,
And gets the flaggon ready, which he loves.
At Jove's high altar, as the law commands,
And offers sheep and oxen, he forswears
The Eternal King, and gives his silent prayers
To thee, Hippona, goddess of the stalls,
And gods more vile, dawb'd on the reeking walls!
344
(The tavern by the Idumean gate)
Where, while the host, bedrench'd with liquid sweets,
With many a courteous phrase, his entrance greets,
And many a smile; the hostess nimbly moves,
And gets the flaggon ready, which he loves.
Here some, perhaps, my growing warmth may blame:
“In youth's wild hours,” they urge, “we did the same.”
'Tis granted, friends; but then we stopp'd in time,
Nor hugg'd our darling faults, beyond our prime.
Brief let our follies be! and youthful sin
Fall, with the firstlings of the manly chin!—
Boys we may pity, nay, perhaps, excuse:
But Damasippus still frequents the stews,
Though, now mature in vigour, ripe in age,
Of Cæsar's foes to check the headlong rage,
On Tigris' banks, in burnish'd arms, to shine,
And sternly guard the Danube, or the Rhine.
“In youth's wild hours,” they urge, “we did the same.”
'Tis granted, friends; but then we stopp'd in time,
Nor hugg'd our darling faults, beyond our prime.
Brief let our follies be! and youthful sin
Fall, with the firstlings of the manly chin!—
345
But Damasippus still frequents the stews,
Though, now mature in vigour, ripe in age,
Of Cæsar's foes to check the headlong rage,
On Tigris' banks, in burnish'd arms, to shine,
And sternly guard the Danube, or the Rhine.
“The East revolts.” Ho! let the troops repair
To Ostium, quick! “But where's the General?” Where!
Go, search the taverns; there the chief you'll find,
With cut-throats, plund'rers, rogues of every kind,
Bier-jobbers, bargemen, drench'd in fumes of wine,
And Cybele's priests, mid their loose drums, supine!
There none are less, none greater than the rest,
There my lord gives, and takes the scurvy jest;
There all who can, round the same table sprawl,
And there one greasy tankard serves for all.
Blessings of birth!—but, Ponticus, a word:
Own'd you a slave like this degenerate lord,
What were his fate? your Lucan farm to till,
Or aid the mules, to turn your Tuscan mill.
But Troy's great sons dispense with being good,
And boldly sin, by courtesy of blood;
Wink at each other's crimes, and look for fame,
In what would tinge a cobbler's cheek with shame.
To Ostium, quick! “But where's the General?” Where!
Go, search the taverns; there the chief you'll find,
With cut-throats, plund'rers, rogues of every kind,
Bier-jobbers, bargemen, drench'd in fumes of wine,
And Cybele's priests, mid their loose drums, supine!
There none are less, none greater than the rest,
There my lord gives, and takes the scurvy jest;
There all who can, round the same table sprawl,
And there one greasy tankard serves for all.
Blessings of birth!—but, Ponticus, a word:
Own'd you a slave like this degenerate lord,
What were his fate? your Lucan farm to till,
Or aid the mules, to turn your Tuscan mill.
346
And boldly sin, by courtesy of blood;
Wink at each other's crimes, and look for fame,
In what would tinge a cobbler's cheek with shame.
And have I wreak'd on such foul deeds my rage,
That worse should yet remain to blot my page!—
See Damasippus, all his fortune lost,
Compell'd, for hire, to play a squealing ghost!
While Lentulus, his brother in renown,
Performs, with so much art, the perjured clown,
And suffers with such grace, that, for his pains,
I hold him worthy of—the cross he feigns.
That worse should yet remain to blot my page!—
See Damasippus, all his fortune lost,
Compell'd, for hire, to play a squealing ghost!
While Lentulus, his brother in renown,
Performs, with so much art, the perjured clown,
And suffers with such grace, that, for his pains,
I hold him worthy of—the cross he feigns.
347
Nor deem the heedless rabble void of blame:—
Strangers alike to decency and shame,
They sit with brazen front, and calmly see
The hired patrician's low buffoonery;
Laugh at the Fabii's tricks, and grin to hear
The cuffs resound from the Mamerci's ear!
Who cares how low their blood is sold, how high?—
No Nero drives them, now, their fate to try:
Freely they come, and freely they expose,
Their lives for hire, to grace the publick shows!
Strangers alike to decency and shame,
They sit with brazen front, and calmly see
The hired patrician's low buffoonery;
Laugh at the Fabii's tricks, and grin to hear
The cuffs resound from the Mamerci's ear!
Who cares how low their blood is sold, how high?—
No Nero drives them, now, their fate to try:
348
Their lives for hire, to grace the publick shows!
But grant the worst: suppose the arena here,
And there the stage; on which would you appear?
The first: for who of death so much in dread,
As not to tremble more, the stage to tread,
Squat on his hams, in some blind nook to sit,
And watch his mistress, in a jealous fit!—
But 'tis not strange, that, when the Emperour tunes
A scurvy harp, the lords should turn buffoons;
The wonder is, they turn not fencers too,
Secutors, Retiarians.—and they do!
Gracchus steps forth: No sword his thigh invests—
No helmet, shield—such armour he detests,
Detests and spurns; and impudently stands,
With the poised net and trident in his hands.
The foe advances—lo! a cast he tries,
But misses, and, in frantick terrour, flies.
Round the throng'd Cirque; and, anxious to be known,
Lifts his bare face, with many a piteous moan.
“'Tis he! 'tis he!—I know the Salian vest,
“With golden fringes, pendent from the breast;
“The Salian bonnet, from whose pointed crown,
“The glittering ribands float redundant down.
“O spare him, spare!”—The brave Secutor heard,
And, blushing, stopp'd the chase; for he preferr'd,
Wounds, death itself, to the contemptuous smile,
Of conquering one so noble, and—so vile!
And there the stage; on which would you appear?
The first: for who of death so much in dread,
As not to tremble more, the stage to tread,
Squat on his hams, in some blind nook to sit,
And watch his mistress, in a jealous fit!—
But 'tis not strange, that, when the Emperour tunes
A scurvy harp, the lords should turn buffoons;
349
Secutors, Retiarians.—and they do!
Gracchus steps forth: No sword his thigh invests—
No helmet, shield—such armour he detests,
350
With the poised net and trident in his hands.
351
But misses, and, in frantick terrour, flies.
352
Lifts his bare face, with many a piteous moan.
353
“With golden fringes, pendent from the breast;
“The Salian bonnet, from whose pointed crown,
“The glittering ribands float redundant down.
“O spare him, spare!”—The brave Secutor heard,
And, blushing, stopp'd the chase; for he preferr'd,
Wounds, death itself, to the contemptuous smile,
Of conquering one so noble, and—so vile!
Who, Nero, so depraved, if choice were free,
To hesitate 'twixt Seneca and thee?
Whose crimes, so much have they all crimes outgone,
Deserve more serpents, apes, and sacks, than one.
Not so, thou say'st; there are, whom I could name,
As deep in guilt, and as accurs'd in fame;
Orestes slew his mother. True; but know,
The same effects from different causes flow:
A father murder'd at the social board,
And heaven's command, unsheath'd his righteous sword.
Besides, Orestes, in his wildest mood,
Poison'd no cousin, shed no consort's blood,
Buried no poniard in a sister's throat,
Sung on no publick stage, no Troicks wrote.—
This topp'd his frantick crimes! this roused mankind!
For what could Galba, what Virginius, find,
In the dire annals of that bloody reign,
Which call'd for vengeance in a louder strain?
To hesitate 'twixt Seneca and thee?
354
Deserve more serpents, apes, and sacks, than one.
355
As deep in guilt, and as accurs'd in fame;
356
The same effects from different causes flow:
A father murder'd at the social board,
And heaven's command, unsheath'd his righteous sword.
357
Poison'd no cousin, shed no consort's blood,
358
Sung on no publick stage, no Troicks wrote.—
This topp'd his frantick crimes! this roused mankind!
For what could Galba, what Virginius, find,
In the dire annals of that bloody reign,
Which call'd for vengeance in a louder strain?
Lo here, the arts, the studies that engage
The world's great master! on a foreign stage,
To prostitute his voice for base renown,
And ravish, from the Greeks, a parsley crown!
The world's great master! on a foreign stage,
To prostitute his voice for base renown,
And ravish, from the Greeks, a parsley crown!
Come then, great prince, great poet! while we throng
To greet thee, recent from triumphant song,
Come, place the unfading wreath, with reverence meet,
On the Domitii's brows! before their feet,
The mask and pall of old Thyestes lay,
And Menalippé; while, in proud display,
From the colossal marble of thy sire,
Depends, the boast of Rome, thy conquering lyre!
To greet thee, recent from triumphant song,
Come, place the unfading wreath, with reverence meet,
On the Domitii's brows! before their feet,
359
And Menalippé; while, in proud display,
360
Depends, the boast of Rome, thy conquering lyre!
Cethegus! Catiline! whose ancestors,
Were nobler born, were higher rank'd, than yours?
Yet ye conspired, with more than Gallick hate,
To wrap in midnight flames this hapless state;
On men and gods your barbarous rage to pour,
And deluge Rome with her own children's gore:
Horrours, which call'd, indeed, for vengeance dire,
For the pitch'd coat and stake, and smouldering fire!
But Tully watch'd—your league in silence broke,
And crush'd your impious arms, without a stroke.
Yes he, poor Arpine, of no name at home,
And scarcely rank'd among the knights, at Rome,
Secured the trembling town, placed a firm guard
In every street, and toil'd in every ward:—
And thus, within the walls, the gown obtain'd,
More fame, for Tully, than Octavius gain'd,
At Actium and Philippi, from a sword,
Drench'd in the eternal stream by patriots pour'd!
For Rome, free Rome, hail'd him, with loud acclaim,
The Father of his Country—glorious name!
Were nobler born, were higher rank'd, than yours?
Yet ye conspired, with more than Gallick hate,
To wrap in midnight flames this hapless state;
On men and gods your barbarous rage to pour,
And deluge Rome with her own children's gore:
Horrours, which call'd, indeed, for vengeance dire,
For the pitch'd coat and stake, and smouldering fire!
361
And crush'd your impious arms, without a stroke.
Yes he, poor Arpine, of no name at home,
And scarcely rank'd among the knights, at Rome,
Secured the trembling town, placed a firm guard
In every street, and toil'd in every ward:—
And thus, within the walls, the gown obtain'd,
More fame, for Tully, than Octavius gain'd,
At Actium and Philippi, from a sword,
Drench'd in the eternal stream by patriots pour'd!
For Rome, free Rome, hail'd him, with loud acclaim,
The Father of his Country—glorious name!
362
Another Arpine, train'd the ground to till,
Tired of the plough, forsook his native hill,
And join'd the camp; where, if his adze was slow,
The vine-twig whelk'd his back with many a blow:
And yet, when the fierce Cimbri threaten'd Rome
With swift, and scarcely evitable doom,
This man, in the dread hour, to save her rose,
And turn'd the impending ruin on her foes!
For which, while ravening birds devour'd the slain,
And their huge bones lay whitening on the plain,
His high-born colleague to his worth gave way,
And took, well pleased, the secondary bay.
Tired of the plough, forsook his native hill,
And join'd the camp; where, if his adze was slow,
The vine-twig whelk'd his back with many a blow:
And yet, when the fierce Cimbri threaten'd Rome
With swift, and scarcely evitable doom,
This man, in the dread hour, to save her rose,
And turn'd the impending ruin on her foes!
363
And their huge bones lay whitening on the plain,
His high-born colleague to his worth gave way,
And took, well pleased, the secondary bay.
The Decii were plebeians! mean their name,
And mean the parent stock from which they came:
Yet they devoted, in the trying hour,
Their heads to Earth, and each infernal Power;
And by that solemn act, redeem'd from fate,
Auxiliars, legions, all the Latian state;
More prized than those they saved, in heaven's just estimate!
And mean the parent stock from which they came:
Yet they devoted, in the trying hour,
Their heads to Earth, and each infernal Power;
And by that solemn act, redeem'd from fate,
Auxiliars, legions, all the Latian state;
More prized than those they saved, in heaven's just estimate!
364
And him, who graced the purple which he wore,
(The last good king of Rome,) a bondmaid bore.
(The last good king of Rome,) a bondmaid bore.
The Consul's sons, (while storms yet shook the state,
And Tarquin thunder'd vengeance at the gate,)
Who should, to crown the labours of their sire,
Have dared what Cocles, Mutius, might admire,
And she, who mock'd the javelins whistling round,
And swam the Tiber, then the empire's bound;
Had, to the tyrant's rage, the town exposed,
But that a slave their dark designs disclosed.—
For Him, when stretch'd upon his honour'd bier,
The grateful matrons shed the pious tear,
While, with stern eye, the patriot and the sire,
Saw, by the axe, the high-born pair expire:
They fell—just victims to the offended laws,
And the first sacrifice to freedom's cause!
And Tarquin thunder'd vengeance at the gate,)
Who should, to crown the labours of their sire,
Have dared what Cocles, Mutius, might admire,
And she, who mock'd the javelins whistling round,
And swam the Tiber, then the empire's bound;
Had, to the tyrant's rage, the town exposed,
But that a slave their dark designs disclosed.—
365
The grateful matrons shed the pious tear,
While, with stern eye, the patriot and the sire,
Saw, by the axe, the high-born pair expire:
They fell—just victims to the offended laws,
And the first sacrifice to freedom's cause!
For me, who nought but innate worth admire,
I'd rather vile Thersites were thy sire,
So thou wert like Achilles, and couldst wield
Vulcanian arms, the terrour of the field,
Than that Achilles should thy father be,
And, in his offspring, vile Thersites see.
I'd rather vile Thersites were thy sire,
So thou wert like Achilles, and couldst wield
Vulcanian arms, the terrour of the field,
Than that Achilles should thy father be,
And, in his offspring, vile Thersites see.
And yet, how high soe'er thy pride may trace
The long-forgotten founders of thy race,
Still must the search with that Asylum end,
From whose polluted source we all descend.
Haste then, the inquiry haste; secure to find
Thy sire some vagrant slave, some bankrupt hind,
Some—but I mark the kindling glow of shame,
And will not shock thee with a baser name.
The long-forgotten founders of thy race,
Still must the search with that Asylum end,
From whose polluted source we all descend.
Haste then, the inquiry haste; secure to find
Thy sire some vagrant slave, some bankrupt hind,
Some—but I mark the kindling glow of shame,
And will not shock thee with a baser name.
| The Satires of Decimus Junius Juvenalis | |