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 |
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| XIII. | SATIRE XIII. |
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 | The Satires of Decimus Junius Juvenalis |  |
111
SATIRE XIII.
113
TO CALVINUS.
Man, wretched man, whene'er he stoops to sin,
Feels, with the act, a strong remorse within;
'Tis the first vengeance: Conscience tries the cause,
And vindicates the violated laws;
Though the bribed Prætor at their sentence spurn,
And falsify the verdict of the Urn.
Feels, with the act, a strong remorse within;
'Tis the first vengeance: Conscience tries the cause,
And vindicates the violated laws;
Though the bribed Prætor at their sentence spurn,
And falsify the verdict of the Urn.
114
What says the world, not always, friend, unjust,
Of this late injury, this breach of trust?
That thy estate so small a loss can bear,
And that the evil, now no longer rare,
Is one of that inevitable set,
Which man is born to suffer, and forget.
Then moderate thy grief; 'tis mean to show,
An anguish disproportion'd to the blow.
Of this late injury, this breach of trust?
That thy estate so small a loss can bear,
And that the evil, now no longer rare,
Is one of that inevitable set,
Which man is born to suffer, and forget.
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An anguish disproportion'd to the blow.
But thou, so new to crosses, as to feel
The slightest portion of the slightest ill,
Art fired with rage, because a friend forswears
The sacred pledge, intrusted to his cares.
What, thou, Calvinus, bear so weak a mind!
Thou, who hast left full three-score years behind!
Heavens, have they taught thee nothing! nothing, friend!
And art thou grown gray-headed to no end!—
The slightest portion of the slightest ill,
Art fired with rage, because a friend forswears
The sacred pledge, intrusted to his cares.
What, thou, Calvinus, bear so weak a mind!
Thou, who hast left full three-score years behind!
Heavens, have they taught thee nothing! nothing, friend!
And art thou grown gray-headed to no end!—
Wisdom, I know, contains a sovereign charm,
To vanquish fortune, or at least disarm:
Blest they who walk by her unerring rule!—
Nor those unblest, who, tutor'd in life's school,
Have learn'd of old experience to submit,
And lightly bear the yoke they cannot quit.
To vanquish fortune, or at least disarm:
Blest they who walk by her unerring rule!—
Nor those unblest, who, tutor'd in life's school,
Have learn'd of old experience to submit,
And lightly bear the yoke they cannot quit.
What day so sacred, which no guilt profanes,
No secret fraud, no open rapine stains?
What hour, in which no dark assassins prowl,
Nor point the sword for hire, nor drug the bowl?
The good, alas, are few! “The valued file,”
Less than the Gates of Thebes, the Mouths of Nile!
For now an age is come, that teems with crimes,
Beyond all precedent of former times;
An age so bad, that Nature cannot frame,
A metal base enough to give it name!
Yet you, indignant at a paltry cheat,
Call heaven and earth to witness the deceit,
With cries as deafening, as the shout that breaks
From the bribed audience, when Fæsidius speaks.
No secret fraud, no open rapine stains?
What hour, in which no dark assassins prowl,
Nor point the sword for hire, nor drug the bowl?
The good, alas, are few! “The valued file,”
Less than the Gates of Thebes, the Mouths of Nile!
116
Beyond all precedent of former times;
An age so bad, that Nature cannot frame,
A metal base enough to give it name!
Yet you, indignant at a paltry cheat,
Call heaven and earth to witness the deceit,
With cries as deafening, as the shout that breaks
From the bribed audience, when Fæsidius speaks.
117
Dotard in nonage! are you to be told,
What loves, what graces, deck another's gold?
Are you to learn, what peals of mirth resound,
At your simplicity, from all around?
When you step forth, and, with a serious air,
Bid them abstain from perjury, and beware
To tempt the altars,—for a God is there!
What loves, what graces, deck another's gold?
Are you to learn, what peals of mirth resound,
At your simplicity, from all around?
When you step forth, and, with a serious air,
Bid them abstain from perjury, and beware
To tempt the altars,—for a God is there!
Idle old man! there was, indeed, a time,
When the rude natives of this happy clime
Cherish'd such dreams: 'twas ere the king of heaven,
To change his sceptre for a scythe was driven;
Ere Juno yet the sweets of love had tried,
Or Jove advanced beyond the caves of Ide.
'Twas when no gods indulged in sumptuous feasts,
No Ganymede, no Hebe serv'd the guests;
No Vulcan, with his sooty labours foul,
Limp'd round, officious, with the nectar'd bowl;
But each in private dined: 'twas when the throng
Of godlings, now beyond the scope of song,
The courts of heaven, in spacious ease, possest,
And with a lighter load, poor Atlas prest!—
Ere Neptune's lot the watery world obtain'd,
Or Dis and his Sicilian consort reign'd;
Ere Tityus and his ravening bird were known,
Ixion's wheel, or Sisyphus's stone:
While yet the shades confess'd no tyrant's power,
And all below was one Elysian bower!
When the rude natives of this happy clime
Cherish'd such dreams: 'twas ere the king of heaven,
To change his sceptre for a scythe was driven;
Ere Juno yet the sweets of love had tried,
Or Jove advanced beyond the caves of Ide.
'Twas when no gods indulged in sumptuous feasts,
No Ganymede, no Hebe serv'd the guests;
No Vulcan, with his sooty labours foul,
Limp'd round, officious, with the nectar'd bowl;
But each in private dined: 'twas when the throng
Of godlings, now beyond the scope of song,
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And with a lighter load, poor Atlas prest!—
Ere Neptune's lot the watery world obtain'd,
Or Dis and his Sicilian consort reign'd;
Ere Tityus and his ravening bird were known,
Ixion's wheel, or Sisyphus's stone:
While yet the shades confess'd no tyrant's power,
And all below was one Elysian bower!
Vice was a phœnix in that blissful time,
Believed, but never seen: and 'twas a crime,
Worthy of death, such awe did years engage,
If manhood rose not up to reverend age,
And youth to manhood, though a larger hoard
Of hips and acorns, graced the stripling's board.
Then, then, was age so venerable thought,
That every day increase of honour brought;
And children, in the springing down, revered
The sacred promise of a hoary beard!
Believed, but never seen: and 'twas a crime,
Worthy of death, such awe did years engage,
If manhood rose not up to reverend age,
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Of hips and acorns, graced the stripling's board.
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That every day increase of honour brought;
And children, in the springing down, revered
The sacred promise of a hoary beard!
Now, if a friend, miraculously just,
Restore the pledge, with all its gather'd rust,
'Tis deem'd a portent, worthy to appear,
Among the wonders of the Tuscan year;
A prodigy of faith, which threats the state,
And a ewe lamb can scarcely expiate!—
Struck at the view, if now I chance to see,
A man of ancient worth and probity,
To pregnant mules the monster I compare,
Or fish upturn'd beneath the wondering share:
Anxious and trembling for the woe to come,
As if a shower of stones had fall'n on Rome;
As if a swarm of bees, together clung,
Down from the Capitol, thick-clustering, hung;
Or Tiber, swoll'n to madness, burst away,
And roll'd, a milky deluge, to the sea.
Restore the pledge, with all its gather'd rust,
'Tis deem'd a portent, worthy to appear,
Among the wonders of the Tuscan year;
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And a ewe lamb can scarcely expiate!—
Struck at the view, if now I chance to see,
A man of ancient worth and probity,
To pregnant mules the monster I compare,
Or fish upturn'd beneath the wondering share:
Anxious and trembling for the woe to come,
As if a shower of stones had fall'n on Rome;
As if a swarm of bees, together clung,
Down from the Capitol, thick-clustering, hung;
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And roll'd, a milky deluge, to the sea.
And dost thou at a trivial loss repine!
What, if another, by a friend like thine,
Is stript of ten times more! a third, again,
Of what his bursting chest would scarce contain!
For 'tis so common, in this age of ours,
So easy, to contemn the Immortal Powers,
That, can we but elude man's searching eyes,
We laugh to scorn the witness of the skies.
Mark, with how bold a voice, and fix'd a brow,
The villain dares his treachery disavow!
“By the all-hallow'd orb that flames above,
“I had it not! By the red bolts of Jove,
“By the wing'd shaft that laid the Centaur low,
“By Dian's arrows, by Apollo's bow,
“By the strong lance that Mars delights to wield,
“By Neptune's trident, by Minerva's shield,
“And every weapon that, to vengeance given,
“Stores the tremendous magazine of heaven!—
“Nay, if I had, I'll slay this son of mine,
“And eat his head, soused in Egyptian brine.”
What, if another, by a friend like thine,
Is stript of ten times more! a third, again,
Of what his bursting chest would scarce contain!
For 'tis so common, in this age of ours,
So easy, to contemn the Immortal Powers,
That, can we but elude man's searching eyes,
We laugh to scorn the witness of the skies.
Mark, with how bold a voice, and fix'd a brow,
The villain dares his treachery disavow!
“By the all-hallow'd orb that flames above,
“I had it not! By the red bolts of Jove,
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“By Dian's arrows, by Apollo's bow,
“By the strong lance that Mars delights to wield,
“By Neptune's trident, by Minerva's shield,
“And every weapon that, to vengeance given,
“Stores the tremendous magazine of heaven!—
“Nay, if I had, I'll slay this son of mine,
“And eat his head, soused in Egyptian brine.”
There are, who think that chance is all in all,
That no First Cause directs the eternal ball;
But that brute Nature, in her blind career,
Varies the seasons, and brings round the year:
These rush to every shrine, with equal ease,
And, owning none, swear by what Power you please.
That no First Cause directs the eternal ball;
But that brute Nature, in her blind career,
Varies the seasons, and brings round the year:
These rush to every shrine, with equal ease,
And, owning none, swear by what Power you please.
124
Others believe, and but believe, a god,
And think that punishment may follow fraud;
Yet they forswear, and, reasoning on the deed,
Thus reconcile their actions with their creed:
“Let Isis storm, if to revenge inclined,
“And with her angry sistrum, strike me blind,
“So, with my eyes, she ravish not my ore,
“But let me keep the pledge which I forswore.
“Are putrid sores, catarrhs that seldom kill,
“And crippled limbs, forsooth, so great an ill!
“Ladas, if not stark mad, would change, no doubt,
“His flying feet, for riches and the gout;
“For what do those procure him? mere renown,
“And the starv'd honour of an olive crown.
And think that punishment may follow fraud;
Yet they forswear, and, reasoning on the deed,
Thus reconcile their actions with their creed:
“Let Isis storm, if to revenge inclined,
“And with her angry sistrum, strike me blind,
“So, with my eyes, she ravish not my ore,
“But let me keep the pledge which I forswore.
“Are putrid sores, catarrhs that seldom kill,
“And crippled limbs, forsooth, so great an ill!
“Ladas, if not stark mad, would change, no doubt,
“His flying feet, for riches and the gout;
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“And the starv'd honour of an olive crown.
“But grant the wrath of heaven be great; 'tis slow,
“And days, and months, and years, precede the blow.
“If, then, to punish all, the gods decree,
“When, in their vengeance, will they come to me?
“But I, perhaps, their anger may appease—
“For they are wont to pardon faults like these:
“At worst, there's hope; since every age and clime,
“See different fates attend the self-same crime;
“Some made by villainy, and some undone,
“And This ascend a scaffold, That a throne.”
“And days, and months, and years, precede the blow.
“If, then, to punish all, the gods decree,
“When, in their vengeance, will they come to me?
“But I, perhaps, their anger may appease—
“For they are wont to pardon faults like these:
“At worst, there's hope; since every age and clime,
“See different fates attend the self-same crime;
“Some made by villainy, and some undone,
“And This ascend a scaffold, That a throne.”
These sophistries, to fix awhile suffice,
The mind, yet shuddering at the thought of vice;
And, thus confirm'd, at the first call they come,
Nay, rush before you to the sacred dome:
Chide your slow pace, drag you, amazed, along,
And play the raving Phasma, to the throng.
(For impudence the vulgar suffrage draws,
And seems the assurance of a righteous cause.)
While you, poor wretch, suspected by the crowd,
With Stentor's lungs, or Mars', exclaim aloud:
“Jove! Jove! will nought thy indignation rouse?
“Canst thou, in silence, hear these faithless vows?
“When all thy fury, on the slaves accurst,
“From lips of marble or of brass should burst!—
“Or else, why burn we incense at thy shrine,
“And heap thy altars with the fat of swine,
“When we might crave redress, for aught I see,
“As wisely of Bathyllus, as of thee!”
The mind, yet shuddering at the thought of vice;
And, thus confirm'd, at the first call they come,
Nay, rush before you to the sacred dome:
126
And play the raving Phasma, to the throng.
(For impudence the vulgar suffrage draws,
And seems the assurance of a righteous cause.)
While you, poor wretch, suspected by the crowd,
With Stentor's lungs, or Mars', exclaim aloud:
“Jove! Jove! will nought thy indignation rouse?
“Canst thou, in silence, hear these faithless vows?
“When all thy fury, on the slaves accurst,
“From lips of marble or of brass should burst!—
“Or else, why burn we incense at thy shrine,
“And heap thy altars with the fat of swine,
127
“As wisely of Bathyllus, as of thee!”
Rash man!—but hear, in turn, what I propose,
To mitigate, if not to heal, your woes;
I, who no knowledge of the schools possess,
Cynick, or Stoick, differing but in dress,
Or thine, calm Epicurus, whose pure mind,
To one small garden, every wish confined.
In desperate cases, able doctors fee;
But trust your pulse to Philip's boy—or me.
To mitigate, if not to heal, your woes;
I, who no knowledge of the schools possess,
Cynick, or Stoick, differing but in dress,
Or thine, calm Epicurus, whose pure mind,
To one small garden, every wish confined.
In desperate cases, able doctors fee;
But trust your pulse to Philip's boy—or me.
If no example of so foul a deed,
On earth be found, I urge no more: proceed,
And beat your breast, and rend your hoary hair;
'Tis just:—for thus our losses we declare;
And money is bewail'd with deeper sighs,
Than friends or kindred, and with louder cries.
There none dissemble, none, with scenick art,
Affect a sorrow, foreign from the heart;
Content in squalid garments to appear,
And vex their lids for one hard-gotten tear:
No, genuine drops fall copious from their eyes,
And their breasts labour with unbidden sighs.
But when you see each court of justice throng'd,
With crowds, like you, by faithless friendship wrong'd,
See men abjure their bonds, though duly framed,
And oft revised, by all the parties named,
While their own hand and seal, in every eye,
Flash broad conviction, and evince the lie;
Shall you alone, on Fortune's smiles presume,
And claim exemption from the common doom?
—From a white hen, forsooth, 'twas yours to spring,
Ours, to be hatch'd beneath some luckless wing!
On earth be found, I urge no more: proceed,
And beat your breast, and rend your hoary hair;
'Tis just:—for thus our losses we declare;
And money is bewail'd with deeper sighs,
Than friends or kindred, and with louder cries.
128
Affect a sorrow, foreign from the heart;
Content in squalid garments to appear,
And vex their lids for one hard-gotten tear:
No, genuine drops fall copious from their eyes,
And their breasts labour with unbidden sighs.
But when you see each court of justice throng'd,
With crowds, like you, by faithless friendship wrong'd,
See men abjure their bonds, though duly framed,
And oft revised, by all the parties named,
While their own hand and seal, in every eye,
Flash broad conviction, and evince the lie;
Shall you alone, on Fortune's smiles presume,
And claim exemption from the common doom?
—From a white hen, forsooth, 'twas yours to spring,
Ours, to be hatch'd beneath some luckless wing!
Pause from your grief, and, with impartial eyes,
Survey the daring crimes which round you rise;
Your injuries, then, will scarce deserve a name,
And your false friend be half absolv'd from blame!
What's he, poor knave! to those who stab for hire,
Who kindle, and then spread, the midnight fire?
Say, what to those who, from the hoary shrine,
Tear the huge vessels age hath stamp'd divine,
Offerings of price, by grateful nations given,
And crowns inscribed, by pious kings, to heaven?
What to the minor thieves, who, missing these,
Abrade the gilded thighs of Hercules,
Strip Neptune of his silvery beard, and peel
Castor's leaf-gold, where spread from head to heel?
Or what to those who, with pernicious craft,
Mingle and set to sale the deadly draught;
Or those, who in a raw ox hide are bound,
And, with an ill-starr'd ape, poor sufferer! drown'd?
Yet these—how small a portion of the crimes,
That stain the records of those dreadful times,
And Gallicus, the city præfect, hears,
From light's first dawning, till it disappears!
The state of morals would you learn at Rome?
No further seek than his judicial dome:
Give one short morning to the horrours there,
And then complain, then murmur, if you dare!
Survey the daring crimes which round you rise;
129
And your false friend be half absolv'd from blame!
What's he, poor knave! to those who stab for hire,
Who kindle, and then spread, the midnight fire?
Say, what to those who, from the hoary shrine,
Tear the huge vessels age hath stamp'd divine,
Offerings of price, by grateful nations given,
And crowns inscribed, by pious kings, to heaven?
What to the minor thieves, who, missing these,
Abrade the gilded thighs of Hercules,
Strip Neptune of his silvery beard, and peel
Castor's leaf-gold, where spread from head to heel?
130
Mingle and set to sale the deadly draught;
Or those, who in a raw ox hide are bound,
And, with an ill-starr'd ape, poor sufferer! drown'd?
Yet these—how small a portion of the crimes,
That stain the records of those dreadful times,
And Gallicus, the city præfect, hears,
From light's first dawning, till it disappears!
The state of morals would you learn at Rome?
No further seek than his judicial dome:
131
And then complain, then murmur, if you dare!
Say, whom do goitres on the Alps surprise?
In Meroë, whom the breast's enormous size?
Whom locks, in Germany, of golden hue,
And spiral curls, and eyes of sapphire blue?
None; for the prodigy, among them shared,
Becomes mere nature, and escapes regard.
When clouds of Thracian birds obscure the sky,
To arms! to arms! the desperate Pigmies cry:
But soon, defeated in the unequal fray,
Disorder'd flee; while, pouncing on their prey,
The victor cranes descend, and, clamouring, bear
The wriggling mannikins aloft in air.
Here, could our climes to such a scene give birth,
We all should burst with agonies of mirth;
There, unsurprised, they view the frequent fight,
Nor smile at heroes scarce a foot in height.
In Meroë, whom the breast's enormous size?
Whom locks, in Germany, of golden hue,
And spiral curls, and eyes of sapphire blue?
None; for the prodigy, among them shared,
Becomes mere nature, and escapes regard.
132
To arms! to arms! the desperate Pigmies cry:
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Disorder'd flee; while, pouncing on their prey,
The victor cranes descend, and, clamouring, bear
The wriggling mannikins aloft in air.
Here, could our climes to such a scene give birth,
We all should burst with agonies of mirth;
134
Nor smile at heroes scarce a foot in height.
“Shall then no ill the perjured head attend,
“No punishment o'ertake this faithless friend?”
Suppose him seiz'd, abandon'd to your will,
What more would rage? to torture or to kill;
Yet still your loss, your injury would remain,
And draw no retribution from his pain.
“True; but methinks the smallest drop of blood,
“Squeezed from his mangled limbs, would do me good:
“Revenge, they say, and I believe their words,
“A pleasure sweeter far than life affords.”
Who say? the fools, whose passions, prone to ire,
At slightest causes, or at none take fire;
Whose boiling breasts, at every turn, o'erflow
With rancorous gall: Chrysippus said not so;
Nor Thales, to our frailties clement still;
Nor that old man, by sweet Hymettus' hill,
Who drank the poison with unruffled soul,
And dying, from his foes withheld the bowl.
Divine philosophy! by whose pure light
We first distinguish, then pursue the right,
Thy power the breast from every errour frees,
And weeds out all its vices by degrees:—
Illumined by thy beam, revenge we find,
The abject pleasure of an abject mind,
And hence so dear to poor, weak, woman-kind.
“No punishment o'ertake this faithless friend?”
Suppose him seiz'd, abandon'd to your will,
What more would rage? to torture or to kill;
Yet still your loss, your injury would remain,
And draw no retribution from his pain.
“True; but methinks the smallest drop of blood,
“Squeezed from his mangled limbs, would do me good:
“Revenge, they say, and I believe their words,
“A pleasure sweeter far than life affords.”
Who say? the fools, whose passions, prone to ire,
At slightest causes, or at none take fire;
Whose boiling breasts, at every turn, o'erflow
With rancorous gall: Chrysippus said not so;
Nor Thales, to our frailties clement still;
Nor that old man, by sweet Hymettus' hill,
Who drank the poison with unruffled soul,
And dying, from his foes withheld the bowl.
135
We first distinguish, then pursue the right,
Thy power the breast from every errour frees,
And weeds out all its vices by degrees:—
Illumined by thy beam, revenge we find,
The abject pleasure of an abject mind,
And hence so dear to poor, weak, woman-kind.
But why are those, Calvinus, thought to scape,
Unpunish'd, whom, in every fearful shape,
Guilt still alarms, and conscience ne'er asleep,
Wounds with incessant strokes, “not loud but deep,”
While the vex'd mind, her own tormentor, plies
A scorpion scourge, unmark'd by human eyes!
Trust me, no tortures which the poets feign,
Can match the fierce, the unutterable pain
He feels, who night and day, devoid of rest,
Carries his own accuser in his breast.
Unpunish'd, whom, in every fearful shape,
Guilt still alarms, and conscience ne'er asleep,
Wounds with incessant strokes, “not loud but deep,”
While the vex'd mind, her own tormentor, plies
A scorpion scourge, unmark'd by human eyes!
Trust me, no tortures which the poets feign,
Can match the fierce, the unutterable pain
136
Carries his own accuser in his breast.
A Spartan once the Oracle besought,
To solve a scruple which perplex'd his thought,
And plainly tell him, if he might forswear
A purse, of old, confided to his care.
Incens'd, the priestess answer'd—“Waverer, no!
“Nor shalt thou, for the doubt, unpunish'd go.”
With that, he hasten'd to restore the trust;
But fear alone, not virtue, made him just:
Hence, he soon proved the Oracle divine,
And all the answer worthy of the shrine;
For plagues pursued his race without delay,
And swept them from the earth, like dust, away.
By such dire sufferings did the wretch atone,
The crime of meditated fraud alone!
For, in the eye of heaven, a wicked deed
Devised, is done: What, then, if we proceed?—
Perpetual fears the offender's peace destroy,
And rob the social hour of all its joy:
Feverish, and parch'd, he chews, with many a pause,
The tasteless food, that swells beneath his jaws:
Spits out the produce of the Albanian hill,
Mellow'd by age;—you bring him mellower still,
And lo, such wrinkles on his brow appear,
As if you brought Falernian vinegar!
To solve a scruple which perplex'd his thought,
And plainly tell him, if he might forswear
A purse, of old, confided to his care.
Incens'd, the priestess answer'd—“Waverer, no!
“Nor shalt thou, for the doubt, unpunish'd go.”
With that, he hasten'd to restore the trust;
But fear alone, not virtue, made him just:
Hence, he soon proved the Oracle divine,
And all the answer worthy of the shrine;
137
And swept them from the earth, like dust, away.
By such dire sufferings did the wretch atone,
The crime of meditated fraud alone!
For, in the eye of heaven, a wicked deed
Devised, is done: What, then, if we proceed?—
Perpetual fears the offender's peace destroy,
And rob the social hour of all its joy:
138
The tasteless food, that swells beneath his jaws:
Spits out the produce of the Albanian hill,
Mellow'd by age;—you bring him mellower still,
And lo, such wrinkles on his brow appear,
As if you brought Falernian vinegar!
At night, should sleep his harass'd limbs compose,
And steal him, one short moment from his woes,
Then dreams invade; sudden, before his eyes,
The violated fane and altar rise;
And (what disturbs him most) your injured shade,
In more than mortal majesty array'd,
Frowns on the wretch, alarms his treacherous rest,
And wrings the dreadful secret from his breast.
And steal him, one short moment from his woes,
Then dreams invade; sudden, before his eyes,
The violated fane and altar rise;
And (what disturbs him most) your injured shade,
In more than mortal majesty array'd,
Frowns on the wretch, alarms his treacherous rest,
And wrings the dreadful secret from his breast.
139
These, these are they, who tremble and turn pale,
At the first mutterings of the hollow gale!
Who sink with terrour at the transient glare
Of meteors, glancing through the turbid air!
Oh, 'tis not chance, they cry; this hideous crash,
Is not the war of winds; nor this dread flash,
The encounter of dark clouds; but blasting fire,
Charged with the wrath of heaven's insulted sire!
That dreaded peal, innoxious, dies away;
Shuddering, they wait the next with more dismay,
As if the short reprieve were only sent,
To add new horrours to their punishment.
Yet more; when the first symptoms of disease,
When feverish heats, their restless members seize,
They think the plague by wrath divine bestow'd,
And feel, in every pang, the avenging God.
Rack'd at the thought, in hopeless grief they lie,
And dare not tempt the mercy of the sky:
For what can such expect! what victim slay,
That is not worthier far to live, than they!
At the first mutterings of the hollow gale!
Who sink with terrour at the transient glare
Of meteors, glancing through the turbid air!
Oh, 'tis not chance, they cry; this hideous crash,
Is not the war of winds; nor this dread flash,
The encounter of dark clouds; but blasting fire,
Charged with the wrath of heaven's insulted sire!
That dreaded peal, innoxious, dies away;
Shuddering, they wait the next with more dismay,
As if the short reprieve were only sent,
To add new horrours to their punishment.
140
When feverish heats, their restless members seize,
They think the plague by wrath divine bestow'd,
And feel, in every pang, the avenging God.
Rack'd at the thought, in hopeless grief they lie,
And dare not tempt the mercy of the sky:
For what can such expect! what victim slay,
That is not worthier far to live, than they!
With what a rapid change of fancy roll
The varying passions of the guilty soul!—
Bold to offend, they scarce commit the offence,
Ere the mind labours with an innate sense
Of right and wrong;—not long, for nature still,
Incapable of change, and fix'd in ill,
Recurs to her old habits:—never yet
Could sinner to his sin a period set.
When did the flush of modest blood inflame
The cheek, once hardened to the sense of shame?
Or when the offender, since the birth of time,
Retire, contented with a single crime?
The varying passions of the guilty soul!—
Bold to offend, they scarce commit the offence,
Ere the mind labours with an innate sense
Of right and wrong;—not long, for nature still,
Incapable of change, and fix'd in ill,
Recurs to her old habits:—never yet
Could sinner to his sin a period set.
141
The cheek, once hardened to the sense of shame?
Or when the offender, since the birth of time,
Retire, contented with a single crime?
And this false friend of ours shall still pursue
His dangerous course, till vengeance, doubly due,
O'ertake his guilt; then shalt thou see him cast
In chains, 'mid tortures to expire his last;
Or hurried off, to join the wretched train
Of exiled great ones, in the Ægean main.
This, thou shalt see; and, while thy voice applauds
The dreadful justice of the offended gods,
Reform thy creed, and, with an humble mind,
Confess that Heaven is neither deaf nor blind!
His dangerous course, till vengeance, doubly due,
O'ertake his guilt; then shalt thou see him cast
In chains, 'mid tortures to expire his last;
Or hurried off, to join the wretched train
Of exiled great ones, in the Ægean main.
This, thou shalt see; and, while thy voice applauds
The dreadful justice of the offended gods,
Reform thy creed, and, with an humble mind,
Confess that Heaven is neither deaf nor blind!
| The Satires of Decimus Junius Juvenalis | |