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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| THE SATIRES OF AULUS PERSIUS FLACCUS,
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 | The Satires of Decimus Junius Juvenalis |  |
THE SATIRES OF AULUS PERSIUS FLACCUS,
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH VERSE.
------ MIHI TRAMA FIGURÆ
EST RELIQUA.
EST RELIQUA.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE ROBERT EARL GROSVENOR,
VISCOUNT BELGRAVE, BARON GROSVENOR, THIS TRANSLATION OF PERSIUS IS INSCRIBED,
AS A GRATEFUL AND AFFECTIONATE TESTIMONY OF RESPECT FOR THE
LONG AND UNINTERRUPTED KINDNESS WITH WHICH HE HAS HONOURED THE TRANSLATOR,
AND OF THE SINCEREST ADMIRATION OF HIS TALENTS AND VIRTUES.
Oct. 1st, 1817.
1
PROLOGUE.
['Twas never yet my luck, I ween]
'Twas never yet my luck, I ween,
To drench my lips in Hippocrene;
Nor, if I recollect aright,
On the fork'd Hill to sleep a night,
That I, like others of the trade,
Might wake—a poet ready made!
To drench my lips in Hippocrene;
2
On the fork'd Hill to sleep a night,
That I, like others of the trade,
Might wake—a poet ready made!
Thee, Helicon, with all the Nine,
And pale Pyrene, I resign,
Unenvied, to the tuneful race,
Whose busts (of many a fane the grace)
Sequacious ivy climbs, and spreads
Unfading verdure round their heads.
And pale Pyrene, I resign,
Unenvied, to the tuneful race,
Whose busts (of many a fane the grace)
3
Unfading verdure round their heads.
Enough for me, too mean for praise,
To bear my rude, uncultured lays
To Phœbus and the Muses' shrine,
And place them near their gifts divine,
To bear my rude, uncultured lays
To Phœbus and the Muses' shrine,
And place them near their gifts divine,
4
Who bade the parrot χαιρε cry;
And forced our language on the pie?
The Belly: Master, He, of Arts,
Bestower of ingenious parts;
Powerful the creatures to endue
With sounds their natures never knew!
And forced our language on the pie?
The Belly: Master, He, of Arts,
Bestower of ingenious parts;
5
With sounds their natures never knew!
For, let the wily hand unfold
The glittering bait of tempting gold,
And straight the choir of daws and pies,
To such poetick heights shall rise,
That, lost in wonder, you will swear
Apollo and the Nine are there!
The glittering bait of tempting gold,
And straight the choir of daws and pies,
To such poetick heights shall rise,
That, lost in wonder, you will swear
Apollo and the Nine are there!
7
SATIRE I.
9
Alas, for man! How vain are all his cares!
And oh! what bubbles, his most grave affairs!
And oh! what bubbles, his most grave affairs!
10
Tush! who will read such trite—Heavens! this to me?
Not one, by Jove. Not one? Well, two, or three;
Or rather—none: a piteous case, in truth!
Why piteous? lest Polydamas, forsooth,
And Troy's proud dames, pronounce my merits fall,
Beneath their Labeo's! I can bear it all.
Nor should my friend, though still, as fashion sways,
The purblind town conspire to sink or raise,
Determine, as her wavering beam prevails,
And trust his judgment to her coarser scales.
O not abroad for vague opinion roam;
The wise man's bosom is his proper home:
And Rome is—What? Ah, might the truth be told!—
And, sure it may, it must.—When I behold
What fond pursuits have form'd our prime employ,
Since first we dropt the play-things of the boy,
To gray maturity, to this late hour,
When every brow frowns with censorial power,
Then, then—O yet suppress this carping mood.
Impossible: I could not if I wou'd;
For nature framed me of satyrick mould,
And spleen, too petulant to be controll'd.
Not one, by Jove. Not one? Well, two, or three;
Or rather—none: a piteous case, in truth!
Why piteous? lest Polydamas, forsooth,
11
Beneath their Labeo's! I can bear it all.
Nor should my friend, though still, as fashion sways,
The purblind town conspire to sink or raise,
Determine, as her wavering beam prevails,
And trust his judgment to her coarser scales.
12
The wise man's bosom is his proper home:
And Rome is—What? Ah, might the truth be told!—
And, sure it may, it must.—When I behold
What fond pursuits have form'd our prime employ,
Since first we dropt the play-things of the boy,
To gray maturity, to this late hour,
When every brow frowns with censorial power,
Then, then—O yet suppress this carping mood.
Impossible: I could not if I wou'd;
For nature framed me of satyrick mould,
And spleen, too petulant to be controll'd.
13
Immured within our studies, we compose;
Some, shackled metre; some, free-footed prose;
But all, bombast: stuff, which the breast may strain,
And the huge lungs puff forth with awkward pain.
Some, shackled metre; some, free-footed prose;
But all, bombast: stuff, which the breast may strain,
And the huge lungs puff forth with awkward pain.
'Tis done! and now the bard, elate and proud,
Prepares a grand rehearsal for the crowd.
Lo! he steps forth in birth-day splendour bright,
Comb'd and perfumed, and robed in dazzling white;
And mounts the desk; his pliant throat he clears,
And deals, insidious, round his wanton leers:
While Rome's first nobles, by the prelude wrought,
Watch, with indecent glee, each prurient thought,
And squeal with rapture, as the luscious line
Thrills through the marrow, and inflames the chine.
Prepares a grand rehearsal for the crowd.
Lo! he steps forth in birth-day splendour bright,
Comb'd and perfumed, and robed in dazzling white;
14
And deals, insidious, round his wanton leers:
While Rome's first nobles, by the prelude wrought,
Watch, with indecent glee, each prurient thought,
And squeal with rapture, as the luscious line
Thrills through the marrow, and inflames the chine.
Vile dotard! Canst thou thus consent to please!
To pandar for such itching fools as these!
Fools,—whose applause must shoot beyond thy aim,
And tinge thy cheek, bronzed as it is, with shame!
To pandar for such itching fools as these!
Fools,—whose applause must shoot beyond thy aim,
And tinge thy cheek, bronzed as it is, with shame!
15
But wherefore have I learn'd, if, thus represt,
The leaven still must swell within my breast?
If the wild fig-tree, deeply rooted there,
Must never burst its bounds, and shoot in air?
The leaven still must swell within my breast?
If the wild fig-tree, deeply rooted there,
Must never burst its bounds, and shoot in air?
Are these the fruits of study! these, of age!
O times, O manners!—Thou misjudging sage,
Is science only useful as 'tis shown,
And is thy knowledge nothing, if not known?
O times, O manners!—Thou misjudging sage,
Is science only useful as 'tis shown,
And is thy knowledge nothing, if not known?
“But, sure, 'tis pleasant, as we walk, to see
The pointed finger, hear the loud That's He,
On every side:—and seems it, in your sight,
So poor a trifle, that whate'er we write,
Is introduced to every school of note,
And taught the youth of quality, by rote?
—Nay, more! Our nobles, gorged, and swill'd with wine,
Call, o'er the banquet, for a lay divine.
Here one, on whom the princely purple glows,
Snuffles some musty legend through his nose;
Slowly distils Hypsipyle's sad fate,
And love-lorn Phillis, dying for her mate,
With what of woeful else, is said, or sung;
And trips up every word, with lisping tongue.
The pointed finger, hear the loud That's He,
On every side:—and seems it, in your sight,
So poor a trifle, that whate'er we write,
Is introduced to every school of note,
And taught the youth of quality, by rote?
—Nay, more! Our nobles, gorged, and swill'd with wine,
Call, o'er the banquet, for a lay divine.
16
Snuffles some musty legend through his nose;
Slowly distils Hypsipyle's sad fate,
And love-lorn Phillis, dying for her mate,
With what of woeful else, is said, or sung;
And trips up every word, with lisping tongue.
The maudlin audience, from the couches round,
Hum their assent, responsive to the sound.—
And are not now, the poet's ashes blest!
Now lies the turf not lightly on his breast!
They pause a moment—and again, the room
Rings with his praise: now will not roses bloom,
Now, from his reliques, will not violets spring,
And o'er his hallow'd urn their fragrance fling!
Hum their assent, responsive to the sound.—
And are not now, the poet's ashes blest!
Now lies the turf not lightly on his breast!
They pause a moment—and again, the room
Rings with his praise: now will not roses bloom,
Now, from his reliques, will not violets spring,
And o'er his hallow'd urn their fragrance fling!
17
“You laugh ('tis answer'd,) and too freely here,
Indulge that vile propensity to sneer.
Lives there, who would not at applause rejoice,
And merit, if he could, the publick voice?
Who would not leave posterity such rhymes,
As cedar oil might keep to latest times;
Rhymes, which should fear no desperate grocer's hand,
Nor fly with fish and spices through the land!
Indulge that vile propensity to sneer.
Lives there, who would not at applause rejoice,
And merit, if he could, the publick voice?
Who would not leave posterity such rhymes,
As cedar oil might keep to latest times;
Rhymes, which should fear no desperate grocer's hand,
Nor fly with fish and spices through the land!
Thou, my kind monitor, whoe'er thou art,
Whom I suppose to play the opponent's part,
Know—when I write, if chance some happier strain,
(And chance it needs must be,) rewards my pain,
Know, I can relish praise with genuine zest;
Not mine the torpid, mine th' unfeeling breast:
But that I merely toil for this acclaim,
And make these eulogies my end and aim:
I must not, cannot grant: for—sift them all,
Mark well their value, and on what they fall:
Are they not shower'd (to pass these trifles o'er)
On Labeo's Iliad, drunk with hellebore?
On princely love-lays drivell'd without thought,
And the crude trash on citron couches wrought?
Whom I suppose to play the opponent's part,
Know—when I write, if chance some happier strain,
(And chance it needs must be,) rewards my pain,
Know, I can relish praise with genuine zest;
Not mine the torpid, mine th' unfeeling breast:
18
And make these eulogies my end and aim:
I must not, cannot grant: for—sift them all,
Mark well their value, and on what they fall:
Are they not shower'd (to pass these trifles o'er)
On Labeo's Iliad, drunk with hellebore?
On princely love-lays drivell'd without thought,
And the crude trash on citron couches wrought?
19
You spread the table—'tis a master-stroke,
And give the shivering guest a thread-bare cloke,
Then, while his heart with gratitude dilates,
At the glad vest, and the delicious cates,
Tell me, you cry,—for truth is my delight,
What says the Town of me, and what I write?
He cannot:—he has neither ears nor eyes.
But shall I tell you, who your bribes despise?
—Bald trifler! cease at once your thriftless trade;
That mountain paunch for verse was never made.
And give the shivering guest a thread-bare cloke,
Then, while his heart with gratitude dilates,
At the glad vest, and the delicious cates,
Tell me, you cry,—for truth is my delight,
What says the Town of me, and what I write?
20
But shall I tell you, who your bribes despise?
—Bald trifler! cease at once your thriftless trade;
That mountain paunch for verse was never made.
O Janus, happiest of thy happy kind!—
No waggish stork can peck at thee behind;
No tongue thrust forth, expose to passing jeers;
No twinkling fingers, perk'd like ass's ears,
Point to the vulgar mirth:—but you, ye Great,
To a blind occiput condemn'd by fate,
Prevent, while yet you may, the rabble's glee,
And tremble at the scoff you cannot see!—
No waggish stork can peck at thee behind;
21
No twinkling fingers, perk'd like ass's ears,
Point to the vulgar mirth:—but you, ye Great,
To a blind occiput condemn'd by fate,
Prevent, while yet you may, the rabble's glee,
And tremble at the scoff you cannot see!—
“What says the Town”—precisely what it ought:
All you produce, sir, with such skill is wrought,
That o'er the polish'd surface, far and wide,
The critick nail without a jar, must glide;
Since every verse is drawn as straight and fine,
As if one eye had fix'd the ruddled line.
—Whate'er the subject of his varied rhymes,
The humours, passions, vices of the times;
The pomp of nobles, barbarous pride of kings,
All, all is great, and all inspired he sings!
All you produce, sir, with such skill is wrought,
That o'er the polish'd surface, far and wide,
The critick nail without a jar, must glide;
Since every verse is drawn as straight and fine,
As if one eye had fix'd the ruddled line.
—Whate'er the subject of his varied rhymes,
The humours, passions, vices of the times;
22
All, all is great, and all inspired he sings!
Lo! stripplings, scarcely from the ferule freed,
And smarting yet from Greek, with headlong speed,
Rush on heroicks; though devoid of skill
To paint the rustling grove, or purling rill;
Or praise the country, robed in cheerful green,
Where hogs, and hearths, and ozier frails are seen,
And happy hinds, who leap o'er smouldering hay,
In honour, Pales, of thy sacred day.
—Scenes of delight!—there Remus lived, and there,
In grassy furrows, Quinctius tired his share;
Quinctius, on whom his wife, with trembling haste,
The dictatorial robes, exulting placed,
Before his team; while homeward, with his plough,
The lictors hurried—Good! a Homer, thou!
And smarting yet from Greek, with headlong speed,
23
To paint the rustling grove, or purling rill;
Or praise the country, robed in cheerful green,
Where hogs, and hearths, and ozier frails are seen,
And happy hinds, who leap o'er smouldering hay,
In honour, Pales, of thy sacred day.
—Scenes of delight!—there Remus lived, and there,
In grassy furrows, Quinctius tired his share;
Quinctius, on whom his wife, with trembling haste,
The dictatorial robes, exulting placed,
Before his team; while homeward, with his plough,
The lictors hurried—Good! a Homer, thou!
There are, who hunt out antiquated lore;
And never, but on musty authors, pore;
These, Accius' jagg'd, and knotty lines engage,
And those, Pacuvius' hard and horny page;
Where, in quaint tropes, Antiopa is seen
To—prop her dolorifick heart with teen!
And never, but on musty authors, pore;
24
And those, Pacuvius' hard and horny page;
25
To—prop her dolorifick heart with teen!
O, when you mark the sire, to judgment blind,
Commend such models to the infant mind,
Forbear to wonder whence this olio sprung,
This sputtering jargon which infests our tongue;
This scandal of the times, which shocks my ear,
And which our knights bound from their seats to hear!
Commend such models to the infant mind,
Forbear to wonder whence this olio sprung,
This sputtering jargon which infests our tongue;
This scandal of the times, which shocks my ear,
And which our knights bound from their seats to hear!
26
How monstrous seems it, that we cannot plead,
When call'd to answer for some felon deed,
Nor danger from the trembling head repel,
Without a wish for—Bravo! Vastly well!
This Pedius is a thief, the accusers cry.
You hear them, Pedius: now, for your reply?
In terse antitheses he weighs the crime,
Equals the pause, and balances the chime;
And with such skill his flowery tropes employs,
That the rapt audience scarce contain their joys.
O charming! charming! he must sure prevail.
This, charming! Can a Roman wag the tail?
When call'd to answer for some felon deed,
Nor danger from the trembling head repel,
Without a wish for—Bravo! Vastly well!
This Pedius is a thief, the accusers cry.
You hear them, Pedius: now, for your reply?
In terse antitheses he weighs the crime,
Equals the pause, and balances the chime;
And with such skill his flowery tropes employs,
That the rapt audience scarce contain their joys.
O charming! charming! he must sure prevail.
This, charming! Can a Roman wag the tail?
Were the wreck'd mariner to chaunt his woe,
Should I, or sympathy, or alms bestow?
Sing you, when, in that tablet on your breast,
I see your story to the life exprest;
A shatter'd bark, dash'd madly on the shore,
And you, scarce floating, on a broken oar?—
No, he must feel that would my pity share,
And drop a natural, not a studied tear.
Should I, or sympathy, or alms bestow?
Sing you, when, in that tablet on your breast,
I see your story to the life exprest;
A shatter'd bark, dash'd madly on the shore,
And you, scarce floating, on a broken oar?—
No, he must feel that would my pity share,
And drop a natural, not a studied tear.
27
But yet, our numbers boast a grace unknown
To our rough sires, a smoothness all our own.
To our rough sires, a smoothness all our own.
True: the spruce metre in sweet cadence flows,
And answering sounds a tuneful chime compose:
Blue Nereus here, the Dolphin swift divides;
And Idè there, sees Attin climb her sides:
Nor this alone—for, in some happier line,
We win the chine of the long Apennine!
And answering sounds a tuneful chime compose:
Blue Nereus here, the Dolphin swift divides;
And Idè there, sees Attin climb her sides:
28
We win the chine of the long Apennine!
Arms and the man—Here, too, perhaps, you find,
A pithless branch beneath a fungous rind?
A pithless branch beneath a fungous rind?
Not so;—a season'd trunk of many a day,
Whose gross and watery parts are drawn away.
Whose gross and watery parts are drawn away.
29
But what, in fine, (for still you jeer me,) call
For the moist eye, bow'd head, and lengthen'd drawl,
What strains of genuine pathos?
For the moist eye, bow'd head, and lengthen'd drawl,
What strains of genuine pathos?
—O'er the hill
The dismal slug-horn sounded, loud and shrill
A Mimallonian blast: fired at the sound,
In maddening groupes the Bacchants pour around,
Mangle the haughty calf with gory hands,
And scourge the indocile lynx with ivy wands;
While Echo lengthens out the barbarous yell,
And propagates the din from cell to cell!
The dismal slug-horn sounded, loud and shrill
30
In maddening groupes the Bacchants pour around,
Mangle the haughty calf with gory hands,
And scourge the indocile lynx with ivy wands;
While Echo lengthens out the barbarous yell,
And propagates the din from cell to cell!
O were not every spark of manly sense,
Of pristine vigour quench'd, or banish'd hence,
Could this be borne! this cuckoo-spit of Rome,
Which gathers round the lips in froth and foam!
—The haughty calf, and Attin's jangling strain,
Dropt, without effort, from the rheumy brain;
No savour they of bleeding nails afford,
Or desk, oft smitten for the happy word.
Of pristine vigour quench'd, or banish'd hence,
Could this be borne! this cuckoo-spit of Rome,
Which gathers round the lips in froth and foam!
—The haughty calf, and Attin's jangling strain,
Dropt, without effort, from the rheumy brain;
No savour they of bleeding nails afford,
Or desk, oft smitten for the happy word.
But why must you, alone, displeased appear,
And with harsh truths thus grate the tender ear?
O yet beware! think of the closing gate!
And dread the cold reception of the great:
This currish humour you extend too far,
While every word growls with that hateful gnar!
And with harsh truths thus grate the tender ear?
31
And dread the cold reception of the great:
This currish humour you extend too far,
While every word growls with that hateful gnar!
Right! From this hour, (for now my fault I see,)
All shall be charming—charming all, for me:
What late seem'd base, already looks divine,
And wonders start to view, in every line!
'Tis well, you cry: this spot let none defile,
Or turn to purposes obscene and vile.
Paint, then, two snakes entwined; and write around,
Urine not, children, here; 'tis holy ground.
All shall be charming—charming all, for me:
32
And wonders start to view, in every line!
'Tis well, you cry: this spot let none defile,
Or turn to purposes obscene and vile.
Paint, then, two snakes entwined; and write around,
Urine not, children, here; 'tis holy ground.
33
Aw'd, I retire: and yet—when vice appear'd,
Lucilius, o'er the town, his falchion rear'd;
On Lupus, Mutius, pour'd his rage by name,
And broke his grinders on their bleeding fame.
And yet—arch Horace, while he strove to mend,
Probed all the foibles of his smiling friend;
Play'd lightly round and round the peccant part,
And won, unfelt, an entrance to his heart:
Well skill'd the follies of the crowd to trace,
And sneer, with gay good humour in his face.
Lucilius, o'er the town, his falchion rear'd;
On Lupus, Mutius, pour'd his rage by name,
And broke his grinders on their bleeding fame.
And yet—arch Horace, while he strove to mend,
Probed all the foibles of his smiling friend;
Play'd lightly round and round the peccant part,
And won, unfelt, an entrance to his heart:
Well skill'd the follies of the crowd to trace,
And sneer, with gay good humour in his face.
34
And I!—I must not mutter? No; nor dare—
Not to myself? No. To a ditch? Nowhere.
Yes, here I'll dig—here, to sure trust confide
The secret which I would, but cannot, hide.
My darling book, a word;—“King Midas wears
(These eyes beheld them, these!) such ass's ears!”—
Not to myself? No. To a ditch? Nowhere.
Yes, here I'll dig—here, to sure trust confide
The secret which I would, but cannot, hide.
My darling book, a word;—“King Midas wears
(These eyes beheld them, these!) such ass's ears!”—
This quip of mine, which none must hear, or know,
This fond conceit, which takes my fancy so,
This nothing, if you will; you should not buy,
With all those Iliads that you prize so high.
This fond conceit, which takes my fancy so,
This nothing, if you will; you should not buy,
With all those Iliads that you prize so high.
But thou, whom Eupolis' impassion'd page,
Hostile to vice, inflames with kindred rage,
Whom bold Cratinus, and that awful sire,
Force, as thou read'st, to tremble and admire;
O, view my humbler labours:—there, if aught,
More highly finish'd, more maturely wrought,
Detain thy ear, and give thy breast to glow
With warmth, responsive to the inspiring flow—
I seek no further:—Far from me the rest,
Yes, far the wretch, who, with a low-born jest,
Can mock the blind for blindness, and pursue
With vulgar ribaldry, the Grecian shoe:
Bursting with self-conceit, with pride elate,
Because, forsooth, in magisterial state,
His worship (ædile of some paltry town,)
Broke scanty weights, and put false measures down.
Hostile to vice, inflames with kindred rage,
35
Force, as thou read'st, to tremble and admire;
36
More highly finish'd, more maturely wrought,
Detain thy ear, and give thy breast to glow
With warmth, responsive to the inspiring flow—
I seek no further:—Far from me the rest,
Yes, far the wretch, who, with a low-born jest,
Can mock the blind for blindness, and pursue
With vulgar ribaldry, the Grecian shoe:
37
Because, forsooth, in magisterial state,
His worship (ædile of some paltry town,)
Broke scanty weights, and put false measures down.
Far too, be he—the monstrous witty fool,
Who turns the numeral scale to ridicule;
Derides the problems traced in dust or sand,
And treads out all Geometry has plann'd—
Who roars outright to see Nonaria seize,
And tug the cynick's beard—To such as these,
I recommend, at morn, the Prætor's bill,
At eve, Calirrhoë, or—what they will.
Who turns the numeral scale to ridicule;
38
And treads out all Geometry has plann'd—
Who roars outright to see Nonaria seize,
And tug the cynick's beard—To such as these,
I recommend, at morn, the Prætor's bill,
At eve, Calirrhoë, or—what they will.
41
SATIRE II.
43
TO PLOTIUS MACRINUS; (ON HIS BIRTH-DAY.)
Health to my friend! and while my vows I pay,
O mark, Macrinus, this auspicious day,
Which, to your sum of years already flown,
Adds yet another—with a whiter stone.
O mark, Macrinus, this auspicious day,
Which, to your sum of years already flown,
Adds yet another—with a whiter stone.
44
Indulge your Genius, drench in wine your cares:—
It is not yours, with mercenary prayers,
To ask of Heaven what, you would die with shame,
Unless you drew the gods aside, to name;
While other great ones stand, with down-cast eyes,
And, with a silent censer, tempt the skies!—
It is not yours, with mercenary prayers,
45
Unless you drew the gods aside, to name;
46
And, with a silent censer, tempt the skies!—
Hard, hard the task, from the low, mutter'd prayer,
To free the fanes; or find one suppliant there,
Who dares to ask but what his state requires,
And live to heaven and earth with known desires!
To free the fanes; or find one suppliant there,
Who dares to ask but what his state requires,
And live to heaven and earth with known desires!
Sound sense, integrity, a conscience clear,
Are begg'd aloud, that all at hand may hear:
But prayers like these (half-whisper'd, half supprest)
The tongue scarce hazards from the conscious breast:
O that I could my rich old uncle see,
In funeral pomp!—O, that some deity,
To pots of buried gold would guide my share!
O, that my ward, whom I succeed as heir,
Were once at rest! poor child, he lives in pain,
And death to him must be accounted gain.—
By wedlock, thrice has Nerius swell'd his store,
And now—is he a widower once more!
Are begg'd aloud, that all at hand may hear:
47
The tongue scarce hazards from the conscious breast:
O that I could my rich old uncle see,
In funeral pomp!—O, that some deity,
To pots of buried gold would guide my share!
O, that my ward, whom I succeed as heir,
Were once at rest! poor child, he lives in pain,
And death to him must be accounted gain.—
By wedlock, thrice has Nerius swell'd his store,
And now—is he a widower once more!
48
These blessings, with due sanctity, to crave,
Once, twice and thrice in Tiber's eddying wave
He dips each morn, and bids the stream convey
The gather'd evils of the night, away!
Once, twice and thrice in Tiber's eddying wave
49
The gather'd evils of the night, away!
One question, friend:—an easy one, in fine—
What are thy thoughts of Jove? My thoughts! Yes; thine.
Wouldst thou prefer him to the herd of Rome?
To any individual?—But, to whom?
To Staius, for example. Heavens! a pause?
Which of the two would best dispense the laws?
Best shield th' unfriended orphan? Good! Now move
The suit to Staius, late preferr'd to Jove:—
“O Jove! good Jove!” he cries, o'erwhelm'd with shame,
And must not Jove himself, O Jove! exclaim?
What are thy thoughts of Jove? My thoughts! Yes; thine.
Wouldst thou prefer him to the herd of Rome?
To any individual?—But, to whom?
To Staius, for example. Heavens! a pause?
Which of the two would best dispense the laws?
Best shield th' unfriended orphan? Good! Now move
The suit to Staius, late preferr'd to Jove:—
“O Jove! good Jove!” he cries, o'erwhelm'd with shame,
And must not Jove himself, O Jove! exclaim?
50
Or dost thou think the impious wish forgiven,
Because, when thunder shakes the vault of heaven,
The bolt innoxious flies o'er thee and thine,
To rend the forest oak, and mountain pine?
—Because, yet livid from the lightning's scath,
Thy smouldering corpse (a monument of wrath)
Lies in no blasted grove, for publick care
To expiate, with sacrifice and prayer;
Must, therefore, Jove, unscepter'd and unfear'd,
Give, to thy ruder mirth, his foolish beard?
What bribe hast thou to win the Powers divine,
Thus, to thy nod? The lungs and lights of swine
Because, when thunder shakes the vault of heaven,
The bolt innoxious flies o'er thee and thine,
To rend the forest oak, and mountain pine?
—Because, yet livid from the lightning's scath,
Thy smouldering corpse (a monument of wrath)
51
To expiate, with sacrifice and prayer;
Must, therefore, Jove, unscepter'd and unfear'd,
Give, to thy ruder mirth, his foolish beard?
What bribe hast thou to win the Powers divine,
Thus, to thy nod? The lungs and lights of swine
Lo! from his little crib, the grandam hoar,
Or aunt, well vers'd in superstitious lore,
Snatches the babe; in lustral spittle dips
Her middle finger, and anoints his lips,
And forehead:—“Charms of potency,” she cries,
“To break the influence of evil eyes!”
The spell complete, she dandles high in air
Her starveling Hope; and breathes a humble prayer,
That heaven would only tender to his hands,
All Crassus' houses, all Licinius' lands!—
“Let every gazer by his charms be won,
“And kings and queens aspire to call him son:
“Contending virgins fly his smiles to meet,
“And roses spring where'er he sets his feet!”
Or aunt, well vers'd in superstitious lore,
Snatches the babe; in lustral spittle dips
Her middle finger, and anoints his lips,
52
“To break the influence of evil eyes!”
The spell complete, she dandles high in air
Her starveling Hope; and breathes a humble prayer,
53
All Crassus' houses, all Licinius' lands!—
“Let every gazer by his charms be won,
“And kings and queens aspire to call him son:
“Contending virgins fly his smiles to meet,
“And roses spring where'er he sets his feet!”
Insane of soul—But I, O Jove, am free.
Thou know'st, I trust no nurse with prayers for me:
In mercy, then, reject each fond demand,
Though, robed in white, she at thy altar stand.
Thou know'st, I trust no nurse with prayers for me:
In mercy, then, reject each fond demand,
Though, robed in white, she at thy altar stand.
This begs for nerves to pain and sickness steel'd,
A frame of body, that shall slowly yield
To late old age:—'Tis well, enjoy thy wish.—
But the huge platter, and high-season'd dish,
Day after day, the willing gods withstand,
And dash the blessing from their opening hand.
A frame of body, that shall slowly yield
To late old age:—'Tis well, enjoy thy wish.—
But the huge platter, and high-season'd dish,
54
And dash the blessing from their opening hand.
That sues for wealth: the labouring ox is slain,
And frequent victims woo the “god of gain.”
“O crown my hearth with plenty and with peace,
And give my flocks and herds a large increase!”—
Madman! how can he, when, from day to day,
Steer after steer, in offerings, melts away?—
Still he persists; and still new hopes arise,
With harslet and with tripe, to storm the skies.
“Now swell my harvests! now my fields! now, now,
“It comes—it comes—auspicious to my vow!”
While thus, poor wretch, he hangs 'twixt hope and fear,
He starts, in dreadful certainty, to hear
His chest reverberate the hollow groan
Of his last piece, to find itself alone!
And frequent victims woo the “god of gain.”
“O crown my hearth with plenty and with peace,
And give my flocks and herds a large increase!”—
Madman! how can he, when, from day to day,
Steer after steer, in offerings, melts away?—
Still he persists; and still new hopes arise,
With harslet and with tripe, to storm the skies.
“Now swell my harvests! now my fields! now, now,
“It comes—it comes—auspicious to my vow!”
While thus, poor wretch, he hangs 'twixt hope and fear,
He starts, in dreadful certainty, to hear
His chest reverberate the hollow groan
Of his last piece, to find itself alone!
If from my side-board, I should bid you take
Goblets of gold or silver, you would shake
With eager rapture; drops of joy would start,
And your left breast scarce hold your fluttering heart:
Hence, you presume the gods are bought and sold;
And overlay their busts with captured gold.
For, of the brazen brotherhood, the Power
Who sends you dreams, at morning's truer hour,
Most purg'd from phlegm, enjoys your best regards,
And a gold beard his prescient skill rewards!
Goblets of gold or silver, you would shake
With eager rapture; drops of joy would start,
And your left breast scarce hold your fluttering heart:
55
And overlay their busts with captured gold.
For, of the brazen brotherhood, the Power
Who sends you dreams, at morning's truer hour,
56
And a gold beard his prescient skill rewards!
Now, from the temples, Gold has chased the plain,
And frugal ware of Numa's pious reign;
The ritual pots of brass are seen no more,
And Vesta's pitchers blaze in burnish'd ore.
And frugal ware of Numa's pious reign;
The ritual pots of brass are seen no more,
And Vesta's pitchers blaze in burnish'd ore.
O grovelling souls! and void of things divine!
Why bring our passions to the Immortals' shrine,
And judge, from what this carnal sense delights!
Of what is pleasing in their purer sights?—
This, the Calabrian fleece with purple soils,
And mingles cassia with our native oils;
Tears from the rocky conch its pearly store,
And strains the metal from the glowing ore.
This, this, indeed, is vicious; yet it tends
To gladden life, perhaps; and boasts its ends;
But you, ye priests, (for, sure, ye can,) unfold—
In heavenly things, what boots this pomp of gold?
No more, in truth, than dolls to Venus paid,
(The toys of childhood,) by the riper maid!
Why bring our passions to the Immortals' shrine,
57
Of what is pleasing in their purer sights?—
This, the Calabrian fleece with purple soils,
And mingles cassia with our native oils;
Tears from the rocky conch its pearly store,
And strains the metal from the glowing ore.
This, this, indeed, is vicious; yet it tends
To gladden life, perhaps; and boasts its ends;
But you, ye priests, (for, sure, ye can,) unfold—
In heavenly things, what boots this pomp of gold?
No more, in truth, than dolls to Venus paid,
(The toys of childhood,) by the riper maid!
58
No; let me bring the Immortals, what the race
Of great Messala, now depraved and base,
On their huge charger, cannot;—bring a mind,
Where legal and where moral sense are join'd,
With the pure essence; holy thoughts, that dwell
In the soul's most retired, and sacred cell;
A bosom dyed in honour's noblest grain,
Deep-dyed:—with these, let me approach the fane,
And Heaven will hear the humble prayer I make,
Though all my offering be a barley cake.
Of great Messala, now depraved and base,
On their huge charger, cannot;—bring a mind,
Where legal and where moral sense are join'd,
59
In the soul's most retired, and sacred cell;
A bosom dyed in honour's noblest grain,
Deep-dyed:—with these, let me approach the fane,
And Heaven will hear the humble prayer I make,
Though all my offering be a barley cake.
61
SATIRE III.
63
What! ever thus? See! while the beams of day,
In broad effulgence, o'er the shutters play,
Stream through the crevice, widen on the walls,
On the fifth line the gnomon's shadow falls!
Yet still you sleep, like one that, stretch'd supine,
Snores off the fumes of strong Falernian wine.
Up! up! mad Sirius parches every blade,
And flocks and herds lie panting in the shade.
In broad effulgence, o'er the shutters play,
Stream through the crevice, widen on the walls,
On the fifth line the gnomon's shadow falls!
64
Snores off the fumes of strong Falernian wine.
Up! up! mad Sirius parches every blade,
And flocks and herds lie panting in the shade.
65
Here my youth rouses, rubs his heavy eyes,
“Is it so late? so very late?” he cries;
“Shame, shame! Who waits? Who waits there? quick, my page!
Why, when!” His bile o'erflows; he foams with rage,
And brays so loudly, that you start in fear,
And fancy all Arcadia at your ear.
“Is it so late? so very late?” he cries;
“Shame, shame! Who waits? Who waits there? quick, my page!
Why, when!” His bile o'erflows; he foams with rage,
And brays so loudly, that you start in fear,
And fancy all Arcadia at your ear.
Behold him, with his bedgown and his books,
His pens and paper, and his studious looks,
Intent and earnest! What arrests his speed,
Alas! the viscous liquid clogs the reed.
Dilute it. Pish! now every word I write
Sinks through the paper, and eludes the sight:
Now the pen leaves no mark, the point's too fine;
Now 'tis too blunt, and doubles every line!
His pens and paper, and his studious looks,
66
Alas! the viscous liquid clogs the reed.
Dilute it. Pish! now every word I write
Sinks through the paper, and eludes the sight:
Now the pen leaves no mark, the point's too fine;
Now 'tis too blunt, and doubles every line!
O wretch! whom every day more wretched sees—
Are these the fruits of all your studies? these!
Give o'er at once: and like some callow dove,
Some prince's heir, some lady's infant love,
Call for chew'd pap; and, pouting at the breast,
Scream at the lullaby that woos to rest!
Are these the fruits of all your studies? these!
Give o'er at once: and like some callow dove,
Some prince's heir, some lady's infant love,
Call for chew'd pap; and, pouting at the breast,
Scream at the lullaby that woos to rest!
“But why such warmth? See what a pen! nay, see!”—
And is this subterfuge employed on me?
Fond boy! your time, with your pretext, is lost;
And all your arts are at your proper cost.
While with occasion thus you madly play,
Your best of life unheeded leaks away,
And scorn flows in apace: the ill-baked ware,
Rung by the potter, will its fault declare;
Thus—But you yet are moist and yielding clay:
Call for some plastic hand without delay,
Nor cease the labour, till the wheel produce
A vessel nicely form'd, and fit for use.
And is this subterfuge employed on me?
Fond boy! your time, with your pretext, is lost;
And all your arts are at your proper cost.
67
Your best of life unheeded leaks away,
And scorn flows in apace: the ill-baked ware,
Rung by the potter, will its fault declare;
Thus—But you yet are moist and yielding clay:
Call for some plastic hand without delay,
Nor cease the labour, till the wheel produce
A vessel nicely form'd, and fit for use.
“But wherefore this? My father, thanks to fate,
Left me a fair, if not a large, estate:—
A salt unsullied on my table shines,
And due oblations, in their little shrines,
My household gods receive; my hearth is pure,
And all my means of life confirm'd, and sure:
What need I more”? Nay, nothing; it is well.
—And it becomes you, too, with pride to swell,
Because, the thousandth in descent, you trace
Your blood, unmix'd, from some high Tuscan race;
Or, when the knights march by the censor's chair,
In annual pomp, can greet a kinsman there!
Left me a fair, if not a large, estate:—
68
And due oblations, in their little shrines,
69
And all my means of life confirm'd, and sure:
What need I more”? Nay, nothing; it is well.
—And it becomes you, too, with pride to swell,
Because, the thousandth in descent, you trace
Your blood, unmix'd, from some high Tuscan race;
Or, when the knights march by the censor's chair,
In annual pomp, can greet a kinsman there!
70
Away! these trappings to the rabble show:
Me, they deceive not; for your soul I know,
Within, without.—And blush you not to see,
Loose Natta's life and yours so well agree?
—But Natta's is not life: the sleep of sin
Has seiz'd his powers, and palsied all within;
Huge cawls of fat envelope every part,
And torpor weighs on his insensate heart:
Absolv'd from blame by ignorance so gross,
He neither sees, nor comprehends his loss;
Content in guilt's profound abyss to drop,
Nor, struggling, send one bubble to the top!
Me, they deceive not; for your soul I know,
Within, without.—And blush you not to see,
Loose Natta's life and yours so well agree?
71
Has seiz'd his powers, and palsied all within;
Huge cawls of fat envelope every part,
And torpor weighs on his insensate heart:
Absolv'd from blame by ignorance so gross,
He neither sees, nor comprehends his loss;
Content in guilt's profound abyss to drop,
Nor, struggling, send one bubble to the top!
Dread sire of Gods! when lust's envenom'd stings
Stir the fierce natures of tyrannick kings;
When storms of rage within their bosoms roll,
And call, in thunder, for thy just control,
O, then relax the bolt, suspend the blow,
And thus and thus alone, thy vengeance show,
In all her charms, set Virtue in their eye,
And let them see their loss, despair, and—die!
Stir the fierce natures of tyrannick kings;
72
And call, in thunder, for thy just control,
O, then relax the bolt, suspend the blow,
And thus and thus alone, thy vengeance show,
In all her charms, set Virtue in their eye,
And let them see their loss, despair, and—die!
Say, could the wretch severer tortures feel,
Closed in the brazen bull?—Could the bright steel,
That, while the board with regal pomp was spread,
Gleam'd o'er the guest, suspended by a thread,
Worse pangs inflict, than he endures, who cries,
(As, on the rack of conscious guilt, he lies,
In mental agony,) “Alas! I fall,
Down, down the unfathom'd steep, without recal!”
And withers at the heart, and dares not show
His bosom wife the secret of his woe!
Closed in the brazen bull?—Could the bright steel,
73
Gleam'd o'er the guest, suspended by a thread,
Worse pangs inflict, than he endures, who cries,
(As, on the rack of conscious guilt, he lies,
In mental agony,) “Alas! I fall,
Down, down the unfathom'd steep, without recal!”
And withers at the heart, and dares not show
His bosom wife the secret of his woe!
Oft (I remember yet,) my sight to spoil,
Oft, when a boy, I blear'd my eyes with oil,
What time I wish'd my studies to decline,
Nor make great Cato's dying speeches mine;
Speeches, my master to the skies had raised,
Poor pedagogue! unknowing what he praised;
And which my sire, suspense 'twixt hope and fear,
With venial pride, had brought his friends to hear.
Oft, when a boy, I blear'd my eyes with oil,
74
Nor make great Cato's dying speeches mine;
Speeches, my master to the skies had raised,
Poor pedagogue! unknowing what he praised;
And which my sire, suspense 'twixt hope and fear,
With venial pride, had brought his friends to hear.
For then alas! 'twas my supreme delight
To study chances, and compute aright,
What sum the lucky sice would yield in play,
And what the fatal aces sweep away:
Anxious, no rival candidate for fame
Should hit the long-neck'd jar with nicer aim;
Nor, while the whirling top beguiled the eye,
With happier skill the sounding scourge apply.
To study chances, and compute aright,
75
And what the fatal aces sweep away:
Anxious, no rival candidate for fame
Should hit the long-neck'd jar with nicer aim;
76
With happier skill the sounding scourge apply.
But you have pass'd the schools; have studied long,
And learn'd the eternal bounds of Right and Wrong,
And what the Porch, (by Mycon limn'd, of yore,
With trowser'd Medes,) unfolds of ethick lore,
Where the shorn youth, on herbs and pottage fed,
Bend, o'er the midnight page, the sleepless head:
And, sure, the letter where, divergent wide,
The Samian branches shoot, on either side,
Has to your view, with no obscure display,
Mark'd, on the right, the strait but better way.
And learn'd the eternal bounds of Right and Wrong,
And what the Porch, (by Mycon limn'd, of yore,
With trowser'd Medes,) unfolds of ethick lore,
77
Bend, o'er the midnight page, the sleepless head:
And, sure, the letter where, divergent wide,
The Samian branches shoot, on either side,
78
Mark'd, on the right, the strait but better way.
And yet you slumber still! and still opprest,
With last night's revels, knock your head and breast!
And, stretching o'er your drowsy couch, produce
Yawn after yawn, as if your jaws were loose!
Is there no certain mark, at which to aim?—
Still must your bow be bent at casual game?
With clods, and potsherds, must you still pursue,
Each wandering crow that chance presents to view;
And, careless of your life's contracted span,
Live from the moment, and without a plan?
With last night's revels, knock your head and breast!
And, stretching o'er your drowsy couch, produce
Yawn after yawn, as if your jaws were loose!
Is there no certain mark, at which to aim?—
Still must your bow be bent at casual game?
With clods, and potsherds, must you still pursue,
Each wandering crow that chance presents to view;
And, careless of your life's contracted span,
Live from the moment, and without a plan?
When bloated dropsies every limb invade,
In vain to hellebore you fly for aid:
Meet, with preventive skill, the young disease,
And Craterus will boast no golden fees.
In vain to hellebore you fly for aid:
Meet, with preventive skill, the young disease,
And Craterus will boast no golden fees.
79
Mount, hapless youths, on Contemplation's wings,
And mark the Causes and the End of things:—
Learn what we are, and for what purpose born,
What station here 'tis given us to adorn;
How best to blend security with ease,
And win our way through life's tempestuous seas;
What bounds the love of property requires,
And what to wish, with unreprov'd desires:
How far the genuine use of wealth extends;
And the just claims of country, kindred, friends;
What Heaven would have us be, and where our stand,
In this Great Whole, is fix'd by high command.
And mark the Causes and the End of things:—
Learn what we are, and for what purpose born,
What station here 'tis given us to adorn;
How best to blend security with ease,
And win our way through life's tempestuous seas;
What bounds the love of property requires,
And what to wish, with unreprov'd desires:
80
And the just claims of country, kindred, friends;
What Heaven would have us be, and where our stand,
In this Great Whole, is fix'd by high command.
Learn these—and envy not the sordid gains,
Which recompense the well-tongued lawyer's pains;
Though Umbrian rusticks, for his sage advice,
Pour in their jars of fish, and oil, and spice,
So thick and fast, that, ere the first be o'er,
A second, and a third, are at the door.
Which recompense the well-tongued lawyer's pains;
Though Umbrian rusticks, for his sage advice,
Pour in their jars of fish, and oil, and spice,
81
A second, and a third, are at the door.
But here, some brother of the blade, some coarse
And shag-hair'd captain, bellows loud and hoarse;
And shag-hair'd captain, bellows loud and hoarse;
“Away with this cramp, philosophick stuff!
My learning serves my turn, and that's enough.
I laugh at all your dismal Solons, I;
Who stalk with downcast looks, and heads awry,
Muttering within themselves, where'er they roam,
And churning their mad silence, till it foam!
Who mope o'er sick men's dreams, howe'er absurd,
And on protruded lips poise every word;
Nothing can come from nothing. Apt and plain!
Nothing return to nothing. Good, again!
And this it is, for which they peak and pine
This precious stuff, for which they never dine!”
My learning serves my turn, and that's enough.
I laugh at all your dismal Solons, I;
Who stalk with downcast looks, and heads awry,
82
And churning their mad silence, till it foam!
Who mope o'er sick men's dreams, howe'er absurd,
And on protruded lips poise every word;
Nothing can come from nothing. Apt and plain!
Nothing return to nothing. Good, again!
And this it is, for which they peak and pine
This precious stuff, for which they never dine!”
Jove, how he laughs! the brawny youths around,
Catch the contagion, and return the sound;
Convulsive mirth on every cheek appears,
And every nose is wrinkled into sneers!
Catch the contagion, and return the sound;
Convulsive mirth on every cheek appears,
And every nose is wrinkled into sneers!
“Doctor, a patient said, employ your art,
I feel a strange wild fluttering at the heart;
My breast seems tighten'd, and a fetid smell
Affects my breath,—feel here; all is not well.”
I feel a strange wild fluttering at the heart;
My breast seems tighten'd, and a fetid smell
Affects my breath,—feel here; all is not well.”
Med'cine and rest the fever's rage compose,
And the third day, his blood more calmly flows.
The fourth, unable to contain, he sends
A hasty message to his wealthier friends,
And just about to bathe—requests, in fine,
A moderate flask of old Surrentin wine.
And the third day, his blood more calmly flows.
83
A hasty message to his wealthier friends,
And just about to bathe—requests, in fine,
A moderate flask of old Surrentin wine.
“Good heavens! my friend, what sallow looks are here?”
Pshaw, nonsense! nothing! “Yet 'tis worth your fear,
Whate'er it be: the waters rise within,
And, though unfelt, distend your sickly skin.”
—And yours still more! Whence springs this freedom, tro'?
Are you, forsooth, my guardian? Long ago
I buried him; and thought my nonage o'er:
But you remain to school me! “Sir, no more.”—
Pshaw, nonsense! nothing! “Yet 'tis worth your fear,
84
And, though unfelt, distend your sickly skin.”
—And yours still more! Whence springs this freedom, tro'?
Are you, forsooth, my guardian? Long ago
I buried him; and thought my nonage o'er:
But you remain to school me! “Sir, no more.”—
Now to the bath, full gorged with luscious fare,
See the pale wretch his bloated carcase bear;
While from his lungs, that faintly play by fits,
His gasping throat sulphureous steam emits!—
Cold shiverings seize him, as for wine he calls,
His grasp betrays him, and the goblet falls!
From his loose teeth, the lip, convuls'd, withdraws,
And the rich cates drop through his listless jaws.
Then trumpets, torches come, in solemn state;
And my fine youth, so confident of late,
Stretch'd on a splendid bier, and essenced o'er,
Lies, a stiff corpse, heels foremost at the door.
Romans of yesterday, with cover'd head,
Shoulder him to the pyre, and—all is said!
See the pale wretch his bloated carcase bear;
While from his lungs, that faintly play by fits,
His gasping throat sulphureous steam emits!—
Cold shiverings seize him, as for wine he calls,
His grasp betrays him, and the goblet falls!
85
And the rich cates drop through his listless jaws.
Then trumpets, torches come, in solemn state;
And my fine youth, so confident of late,
86
Lies, a stiff corpse, heels foremost at the door.
Romans of yesterday, with cover'd head,
Shoulder him to the pyre, and—all is said!
“But why to me? Examine every part;
My pulse:—and lay your finger on my heart;
You'll find no fever: touch my hands and feet,
A natural warmth, and nothing more, you'll meet.”
My pulse:—and lay your finger on my heart;
87
A natural warmth, and nothing more, you'll meet.”
'Tis well! But if you light on gold by chance,
If a fair neighbour cast a sidelong glance,
Still will that pulse with equal calmness flow,
And still that heart no fiercer throbbings know?
If a fair neighbour cast a sidelong glance,
Still will that pulse with equal calmness flow,
And still that heart no fiercer throbbings know?
Try yet again. In a brown dish behold,
Coarse gritty bread, and coleworts stale and old:
Now, prove your taste. Why those averted eyes?
Hah! I perceive:—a secret ulcer lies
Within that pamper'd mouth, too sore to bear
Th' untender grating of plebeian fare!
Coarse gritty bread, and coleworts stale and old:
Now, prove your taste. Why those averted eyes?
Hah! I perceive:—a secret ulcer lies
Within that pamper'd mouth, too sore to bear
Th' untender grating of plebeian fare!
Where dwells this natural warmth, when danger's near,
And “each particular hair” starts up with fear?
Or where resides it, when vindictive ire
Inflames the bosom; when the veins run fire,
The reddening eye-balls glare; and all you say,
And all you do, a mind so warp'd betray,
That mad Orestes, if the freaks he saw,
Would give you up at once, to chains and straw!
And “each particular hair” starts up with fear?
88
Inflames the bosom; when the veins run fire,
The reddening eye-balls glare; and all you say,
And all you do, a mind so warp'd betray,
That mad Orestes, if the freaks he saw,
Would give you up at once, to chains and straw!
89
SATIRE IV.
91
What! you, my Alcibiades, aspire
To sway the state!—(Suppose that bearded sire,
Whom hemlock from a guilty world remov'd,
Thus to address the stripling that he lov'd.)—
On what apt talents for a charge so high,
Ward of great Pericles, do you rely?
Forecast on others by gray hairs conferr'd,
Haply, with you, anticipates the beard!
And prompts you, prescient of the public weal,
Now to disclose your thoughts, and now conceal!
Hence, when the rabble form some daring plan,
And factious murmurs spread from man to man,
Mute and attentive you can bid them stand,
By the majestick wafture of your hand!
To sway the state!—(Suppose that bearded sire,
Whom hemlock from a guilty world remov'd,
Thus to address the stripling that he lov'd.)—
On what apt talents for a charge so high,
Ward of great Pericles, do you rely?
Forecast on others by gray hairs conferr'd,
Haply, with you, anticipates the beard!
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Now to disclose your thoughts, and now conceal!
Hence, when the rabble form some daring plan,
And factious murmurs spread from man to man,
Mute and attentive you can bid them stand,
By the majestick wafture of your hand!
Lo! all is hush'd: what now, what will he speak,
What floods of sense from his charg'd bosom break!
“Romans! I think—I fear—I think, I say,
This is not well:—perhaps, the better way.”—
What floods of sense from his charg'd bosom break!
“Romans! I think—I fear—I think, I say,
This is not well:—perhaps, the better way.”—
93
O power of eloquence! But you, forsooth,
In the nice, trembling scale can poise the truth,
With even hand; can with intentive view,
Amidst deflecting curves, the right pursue;
Or, where the rule deceives the vulgar eye
With its warp'd foot, th' unerring line apply:
And, while your sentence strikes with doom precise,
Stamp the black Theta on the front of vice!
In the nice, trembling scale can poise the truth,
With even hand; can with intentive view,
Amidst deflecting curves, the right pursue;
94
With its warp'd foot, th' unerring line apply:
And, while your sentence strikes with doom precise,
Stamp the black Theta on the front of vice!
Rash youth! relying on a specious skin,
While all is dark deformity within,
Check the fond thought; nor, like the peacock proud,
Spread your gay plumage to the applauding crowd,
Before your hour arrive:—Ah, rather drain
Whole isles of hellebore, to cool your brain!
For, what is your chief good? “To heap my board
With every dainty earth and sea afford;
To bathe, and bask me in the sunny ray,
And doze the careless hours of life away.”—
While all is dark deformity within,
Check the fond thought; nor, like the peacock proud,
Spread your gay plumage to the applauding crowd,
Before your hour arrive:—Ah, rather drain
Whole isles of hellebore, to cool your brain!
For, what is your chief good? “To heap my board
With every dainty earth and sea afford;
95
And doze the careless hours of life away.”—
Hold, hold! yon tatter'd beldame, hobbling by,
If haply ask'd, would make the same reply.
“But I am nobly born.” Agreed. “And fair.”
'Tis granted too: yet goody Baucis there,
Who, to the looser slaves, her pot-herbs cries,
Is just as philosophick, just as wise.—
If haply ask'd, would make the same reply.
“But I am nobly born.” Agreed. “And fair.”
'Tis granted too: yet goody Baucis there,
Who, to the looser slaves, her pot-herbs cries,
Is just as philosophick, just as wise.—
96
How few, alas! their proper faults explore!
While, on his loaded back, who walks before,
Each eye is fix'd,—You touch a stranger's arm,
And ask him, if he knows Vectidius' farm?
“Whose,” he replies? That rich old chuff's, whose ground
Would tire a hawk to wheel it fairly round.
While, on his loaded back, who walks before,
97
And ask him, if he knows Vectidius' farm?
“Whose,” he replies? That rich old chuff's, whose ground
Would tire a hawk to wheel it fairly round.
“O, ho! that wretch, on whose devoted head,
Ill stars and angry gods their rage have shed!
Who, on high festivals, when all is glee,
And the loose yoke hangs on the cross-way tree,
As, from the jar, he scrapes the incrusted clay,
Groans o'er the revels of so dear a day;
Champs on a coated onion dipt in brine;
And, while his hungry hinds, exulting dine
On barley-broth, sucks up, with thrifty care,
The mothery dregs of his pall'd vinegar!”
Ill stars and angry gods their rage have shed!
98
And the loose yoke hangs on the cross-way tree,
As, from the jar, he scrapes the incrusted clay,
Groans o'er the revels of so dear a day;
Champs on a coated onion dipt in brine;
And, while his hungry hinds, exulting dine
On barley-broth, sucks up, with thrifty care,
The mothery dregs of his pall'd vinegar!”
But, if “you bask you in the sunny ray,
And doze the careless hours of youth away,”
There are, who at such gross delights will spurn,
And spit their venom on your life, in turn;
Expose, with eager hate, your low desires,
Your secret passions, and unhallow'd fires.—
“Why, while the beard is nurst with every art,
Those anxious pains to bare the shameful part?
In vain:—should five athletick knaves essay,
To pluck, with ceaseless care, the weeds away,
Still the rank fern, congenial to the soil,
Would spread luxuriant, and defeat their toil!”
And doze the careless hours of youth away,”
There are, who at such gross delights will spurn,
And spit their venom on your life, in turn;
Expose, with eager hate, your low desires,
Your secret passions, and unhallow'd fires.—
“Why, while the beard is nurst with every art,
Those anxious pains to bare the shameful part?
99
To pluck, with ceaseless care, the weeds away,
Still the rank fern, congenial to the soil,
Would spread luxuriant, and defeat their toil!”
Misled by rage, our bodies we expose,
And while we give, forget to ward, the blows;
This, this is life! and thus our faults are shown,
By mutual spleen: we know—and we are known!
But your defects elude inquiring eyes!—
Beneath the groin the ulcerous evil lies,
Impervious to the view; and o'er the wound,
The broad effulgence of the zone is bound!
But can you, thus, the inward pang restrain,
Thus, cheat the sense of languor and of pain?
And while we give, forget to ward, the blows;
This, this is life! and thus our faults are shown,
By mutual spleen: we know—and we are known!
But your defects elude inquiring eyes!—
Beneath the groin the ulcerous evil lies,
Impervious to the view; and o'er the wound,
The broad effulgence of the zone is bound!
But can you, thus, the inward pang restrain,
Thus, cheat the sense of languor and of pain?
100
“But if the people call me wise and just,
Sure, I may take the general voice on trust!”—
Sure, I may take the general voice on trust!”—
No:—If you tremble at the sight of gold;
Indulge lust's wildest sallies uncontroll'd;
Or, bent on outrage, at the midnight hour,
Girt with a ruffian band, the Forum scour;
Then, wretch! in vain the voice of praise you hear,
And drink the vulgar shout with greedy ear.
Indulge lust's wildest sallies uncontroll'd;
Or, bent on outrage, at the midnight hour,
Girt with a ruffian band, the Forum scour;
101
And drink the vulgar shout with greedy ear.
102
Hence, with your spurious claims! Rejudge your cause,
And fling the rabble back their vile applause:
To your own breast, in quest of worth, repair,
And blush to find how poor a stock is there!
And fling the rabble back their vile applause:
To your own breast, in quest of worth, repair,
And blush to find how poor a stock is there!
103
SATIRE V.
105
TO ANNÆUS CORNUTUS.
PERSIUS.Poets are wont a hundred mouths to ask,
A hundred tongues,—whate'er the purposed task;
Whether a Tragick tale of Pelops' line
For the sad actor, with deep-mouth, to whine;
Or Epick lay;—the Parthian wing'd with fear,
And wrenching from his groin the Roman spear.
106
Heavens! to what purpose, (sure, I heard thee wrong,)
Tend those huge gobbets of robustious song,
Which, struggling into day, distend thy lungs,
And need a hundred mouths, a hundred tongues?
Tend those huge gobbets of robustious song,
Which, struggling into day, distend thy lungs,
And need a hundred mouths, a hundred tongues?
Let fustian bards to Helicon repair,
And suck the spungy fogs that hover there,
Bards, in whose fervid brains, while sense recoils,
The pot of Progne, or Thyestes boils,
Dull Glyco's feast!—But what canst thou propose?
Puff'd by thy heaving lungs no metal glows;
Nor dost thou, mumbling o'er some close-pent strain,
Croak the grave nothings of an idle brain;
Nor swell, until thy cheeks, with thundering sound
Displode, and spirt their airy froth around.
And suck the spungy fogs that hover there,
Bards, in whose fervid brains, while sense recoils,
The pot of Progne, or Thyestes boils,
Dull Glyco's feast!—But what canst thou propose?
Puff'd by thy heaving lungs no metal glows;
107
Croak the grave nothings of an idle brain;
Nor swell, until thy cheeks, with thundering sound
Displode, and spirt their airy froth around.
Confined to common life, thy numbers flow,
And neither soar too high, nor sink too low:
There strength and ease in graceful union meet,
Though polish'd, subtle, and though poignant, sweet;
Yet powerful to abash the front of crime,
And crimson errour's cheek, with sportive rhyme.
O still be this thy study, this thy care:
Leave to Mycenæ's prince his horrid fare,
His head and feet; and seek, with Roman taste,
For Roman food—a plain but pure repast.
And neither soar too high, nor sink too low:
108
Though polish'd, subtle, and though poignant, sweet;
Yet powerful to abash the front of crime,
And crimson errour's cheek, with sportive rhyme.
O still be this thy study, this thy care:
Leave to Mycenæ's prince his horrid fare,
His head and feet; and seek, with Roman taste,
For Roman food—a plain but pure repast.
Persius.
Mistake me not. Far other thoughts engage
My mind, Cornutus, than to swell my page
With air-blown trifles, impotent and vain,
And grace, with noisy pomp, an empty strain.
Oh, no: the world shut out, 'tis my design,
To open (prompted by the inspiring Nine)
The close recesses of my breast, and bare
To your keen eye, each thought, each feeling, there;
Yes, best of friends! 'tis now my wish to prove,
How much you fill my heart, engross my love.
Ring then—for, to your practised ear, the sound
Will shew the solid, and where guile is found
Beneath the varnish'd tongue: for this, in fine,
I dared to wish an hundred voices mine;
Proud to declare, in language void of art,
How deep your form is rooted in my heart,
And paint, in words,—ah, could they paint the whole,—
The ineffable sensations of my soul.
My mind, Cornutus, than to swell my page
With air-blown trifles, impotent and vain,
And grace, with noisy pomp, an empty strain.
Oh, no: the world shut out, 'tis my design,
To open (prompted by the inspiring Nine)
The close recesses of my breast, and bare
To your keen eye, each thought, each feeling, there;
109
How much you fill my heart, engross my love.
Ring then—for, to your practised ear, the sound
Will shew the solid, and where guile is found
Beneath the varnish'd tongue: for this, in fine,
I dared to wish an hundred voices mine;
Proud to declare, in language void of art,
How deep your form is rooted in my heart,
And paint, in words,—ah, could they paint the whole,—
The ineffable sensations of my soul.
When first I laid the purple by, and free,
Yet trembling at my new-felt liberty,
Approach'd the hearth, and on the Lares hung
The bulla, from my willing neck unstrung;
When gay associates, sporting at my side,
And the white boss, display'd with conscious pride,
Gave me, uncheck'd, the haunts of vice to trace,
And throw my wandering eyes on every face,
When life's perplexing maze before me lay,
And error, heedless of the better way,
To straggling paths, far from the route of truth,
Woo'd, with blind confidence, my timorous youth,
I fled to you, Cornutus, pleased to rest
My hopes and fears on your Socratick breast,
Nor did you, gentle Sage, the charge decline:
Then, dextrous to beguile, your steady line
Reclaim'd, I know not by what winning force,
My morals, warp'd from virtue's straighter course;
While reason press'd incumbent on my soul,
That struggled to receive the strong control,
And took like wax, temper'd by plastick skill,
The form your hand imposed; and bears it still!
Yet trembling at my new-felt liberty,
Approach'd the hearth, and on the Lares hung
The bulla, from my willing neck unstrung;
110
And the white boss, display'd with conscious pride,
111
And throw my wandering eyes on every face,
112
And error, heedless of the better way,
To straggling paths, far from the route of truth,
Woo'd, with blind confidence, my timorous youth,
I fled to you, Cornutus, pleased to rest
My hopes and fears on your Socratick breast,
Nor did you, gentle Sage, the charge decline:
Then, dextrous to beguile, your steady line
Reclaim'd, I know not by what winning force,
My morals, warp'd from virtue's straighter course;
While reason press'd incumbent on my soul,
That struggled to receive the strong control,
And took like wax, temper'd by plastick skill,
The form your hand imposed; and bears it still!
Can I forget, how many a summer's day,
Spent in your converse, stole, unmark'd, away?
Or how, while listening with increas'd delight,
I snatch'd from feasts, the earlier hours of night?
—One time (for to your bosom still I grew)
One time of study, and of rest, we knew;
One frugal board where, every care resign'd,
An hour of blameless mirth relax'd the mind.
Spent in your converse, stole, unmark'd, away?
Or how, while listening with increas'd delight,
I snatch'd from feasts, the earlier hours of night?
—One time (for to your bosom still I grew)
One time of study, and of rest, we knew;
113
An hour of blameless mirth relax'd the mind.
And sure our lives, which thus accordant move,
(Indulge me here, Cornutus,) clearly prove,
That both are subject to the self-same law,
And from one horoscope their fortunes draw;
And whether Destiny's unerring doom,
In equal Libra, poised our days to come;
Or friendship's holy hour our fates combined,
And to the Twins, a sacred charge assign'd;
Or Jove, benignant, broke the gloomy spell
By angry Saturn wove;—I know not well—
But sure some star there is, whose bland controul,
Subdues, to yours, the temper of my soul!
(Indulge me here, Cornutus,) clearly prove,
That both are subject to the self-same law,
And from one horoscope their fortunes draw;
And whether Destiny's unerring doom,
In equal Libra, poised our days to come;
Or friendship's holy hour our fates combined,
And to the Twins, a sacred charge assign'd;
Or Jove, benignant, broke the gloomy spell
By angry Saturn wove;—I know not well—
But sure some star there is, whose bland controul,
Subdues, to yours, the temper of my soul!
Countless the various species of mankind,
Countless the shades which separate mind from mind;
No general object of desire is known;
Each has his will, and each pursues his own:
With Latian wares, one roams the Eastern main,
To purchase spice, and cummin's blanching grain;
Another, gorged with dainties, swill'd with wine,
Fattens in sloth, and snores out life, supine;
This loves the Campus; that, destructive play;
And those, in wanton dalliance, melt away:—
But when the knotty gout their strength has broke,
And their dry joints crack like some wither'd oak,
Then they look back, confounded and aghast,
On the gross days in fogs and vapours past;
With late regret the waste of life deplore,
No purpose gain'd, and time, alas! no more.
Countless the shades which separate mind from mind;
114
Each has his will, and each pursues his own:
With Latian wares, one roams the Eastern main,
To purchase spice, and cummin's blanching grain;
Another, gorged with dainties, swill'd with wine,
Fattens in sloth, and snores out life, supine;
This loves the Campus; that, destructive play;
And those, in wanton dalliance, melt away:—
But when the knotty gout their strength has broke,
And their dry joints crack like some wither'd oak,
115
On the gross days in fogs and vapours past;
With late regret the waste of life deplore,
No purpose gain'd, and time, alas! no more.
But you, my friend, whom nobler views delight,
To pallid vigils give the studious night;
Cleanse youthful breasts from every noxious weed,
And sow the tilth with Cleanthean seed.
There seek, ye young, ye old, secure to find
That certain end, which stays the wavering mind;
Stores, which endure, when other means decay,
Through life's last stage, a sad and cheerless way.
To pallid vigils give the studious night;
116
And sow the tilth with Cleanthean seed.
There seek, ye young, ye old, secure to find
That certain end, which stays the wavering mind;
Stores, which endure, when other means decay,
Through life's last stage, a sad and cheerless way.
“Right; and to-morrow this shall be our care.”
Alas! to-morrow, like to-day, will fare.
Alas! to-morrow, like to-day, will fare.
117
“What! is one day, forsooth, so great a boon?”
But when it comes, (and come it will too soon,)
Reflect, that yesterday's to-morrow's o'er.—
Thus “one to-morrow! one to-morrow! more,”
Have seen long years before them fade away;
And still appear no nearer than to-day!
So while the wheels on different axles roll,
In vain, (though govern'd by the self-same pole,)
The hindmost to o'ertake the foremost tries;
Fast as the one pursues, the other flies!
But when it comes, (and come it will too soon,)
Reflect, that yesterday's to-morrow's o'er.—
Thus “one to-morrow! one to-morrow! more,”
Have seen long years before them fade away;
And still appear no nearer than to-day!
So while the wheels on different axles roll,
In vain, (though govern'd by the self-same pole,)
The hindmost to o'ertake the foremost tries;
Fast as the one pursues, the other flies!
Freedom, in truth, it steads us much to have:
Not that, by which each manumitted slave,
Each Publius, with his tally, may obtain
A casual dole of coarse and damaged grain.
—O souls! involv'd in Error's thickest shade,
Who think a Roman with one turn is made!
Look on this paltry groom, this Dama here,
Who, at three farthings, would be prized too dear;
This blear-eyed scoundrel, who your husks would steal,
And outface truth to hide the starving meal;
Yet—let his master twirl this knave about,
And Marcus Dama, in a trice, steps out!
Amazing! Marcus surety?—yet distrust!
Marcus your judge?—yet fear a doom unjust!
Marcus avouch it?—then the fact is clear.
The writings!—set your hand, good Marcus, here.”
Not that, by which each manumitted slave,
Each Publius, with his tally, may obtain
A casual dole of coarse and damaged grain.
118
Who think a Roman with one turn is made!
Look on this paltry groom, this Dama here,
Who, at three farthings, would be prized too dear;
119
And outface truth to hide the starving meal;
Yet—let his master twirl this knave about,
And Marcus Dama, in a trice, steps out!
Amazing! Marcus surety?—yet distrust!
Marcus your judge?—yet fear a doom unjust!
Marcus avouch it?—then the fact is clear.
The writings!—set your hand, good Marcus, here.”
This is mere liberty,—a name, alone:
Yet this is all the cap can make our own.
Yet this is all the cap can make our own.
“Sure, there's no other. All mankind agree,
That those who live without controul, are free:
I live without controul; and therefore hold
Myself more free, than Brutus was, of old.
That those who live without controul, are free:
I live without controul; and therefore hold
Myself more free, than Brutus was, of old.
120
Absurdly put; a Stoick cries, whose ear,
Rins'd with sharp vinegar, is quick to hear:
True;—all who live without controul are free;
But that you live so, I can ne'er agree.
Rins'd with sharp vinegar, is quick to hear:
True;—all who live without controul are free;
But that you live so, I can ne'er agree.
“No? From the Prætor's wand when I withdrew,
Lord of myself, why, might I not pursue
My pleasure unrestrain'd, respect still had,
To what the rubrick of the law forbad?”
Lord of myself, why, might I not pursue
My pleasure unrestrain'd, respect still had,
To what the rubrick of the law forbad?”
121
Listen,—but first your brows from anger clear,
And bid your nose dismiss that rising sneer;
Listen, while I the genuine truth impart,
And root those old-wives' fables from your heart.
And bid your nose dismiss that rising sneer;
Listen, while I the genuine truth impart,
And root those old-wives' fables from your heart.
It was not, is not in the “Prætor's wand,”
To gift a fool with power, to understand
The nicer shades of duty, and educe,
From short and rapid life, its end and use:
The labouring hind shall sooner seize the quill,
And strike the lyre with all a master's skill.
Reason condemns the thought, with mien severe,
And drops this maxim in the secret ear,
“Forbear to venture, with preposterous toil,
On what, in venturing, you are sure to spoil.”
In this plain sense of what is just and right,
The laws of nature and of man unite;
That Inexperience should some caution show,
And spare to reach, at what she does not know.
To gift a fool with power, to understand
The nicer shades of duty, and educe,
From short and rapid life, its end and use:
The labouring hind shall sooner seize the quill,
And strike the lyre with all a master's skill.
Reason condemns the thought, with mien severe,
And drops this maxim in the secret ear,
“Forbear to venture, with preposterous toil,
On what, in venturing, you are sure to spoil.”
In this plain sense of what is just and right,
The laws of nature and of man unite;
That Inexperience should some caution show,
And spare to reach, at what she does not know.
Prescribe you hellebore! without the skill,
To weigh the ingredients, or compound the pill?—
Physick, alarm'd, the rash attempt withstands,
And wrests the dangerous mixture from your hands.
To weigh the ingredients, or compound the pill?—
Physick, alarm'd, the rash attempt withstands,
And wrests the dangerous mixture from your hands.
Should the rude clown, skill'd in no star to guide
His dubious course, rush on the trackless tide,
Would not Palemon at the fact exclaim,
And swear the world had lost all sense of shame!
His dubious course, rush on the trackless tide,
Would not Palemon at the fact exclaim,
And swear the world had lost all sense of shame!
122
Say, is it your's, by wisdom's steady rays,
To walk secure, through life's entangled maze?
Your's, to discern the specious from the true,
And where the gilt conceals the brass from view?
Speak, can you mark, with some appropriate sign,
What to pursue, and what, in turn, decline?
Does moderation all your wishes guide,
And temperance at your cheerful board preside?
Do friends your love experience? are your stores,
Now dealt with closed and now with open doors,
As fit occasion calls? Can you restrain
The eager appetite of sordid gain;
Nor feel, when, in the mire, a doit you note,
Mercurial spittle gurgle in your throat?
To walk secure, through life's entangled maze?
Your's, to discern the specious from the true,
And where the gilt conceals the brass from view?
Speak, can you mark, with some appropriate sign,
What to pursue, and what, in turn, decline?
Does moderation all your wishes guide,
And temperance at your cheerful board preside?
Do friends your love experience? are your stores,
Now dealt with closed and now with open doors,
As fit occasion calls? Can you restrain
The eager appetite of sordid gain;
Nor feel, when, in the mire, a doit you note,
Mercurial spittle gurgle in your throat?
123
If you can say, and truly, “These are mine,
And This I can:”—suffice it. I decline
All further question; you are Wise and Free,
No less by Jove's, than by the Law's decree.
And This I can:”—suffice it. I decline
All further question; you are Wise and Free,
No less by Jove's, than by the Law's decree.
But if, good Marcus, you, who form'd so late,
One of our batch, of our enslaved estate,
Beneath a specious outside, still retain
The foul contagion of your ancient strain;
If the sly fox still burrow in some part,
Some secret corner, of your tainted heart;
I straight retract the freedom which I gave,
And hold you Dama still, and still a slave!
One of our batch, of our enslaved estate,
Beneath a specious outside, still retain
The foul contagion of your ancient strain;
If the sly fox still burrow in some part,
Some secret corner, of your tainted heart;
I straight retract the freedom which I gave,
And hold you Dama still, and still a slave!
124
Reason concedes you nothing. Let us try.
Thrust forth your finger. “See.” O, heavens, awry!
Yet what so trifling?—But, though altars smoke,
Though clouds of incense every god invoke,
In vain you sue, one drachm of right to find,
One scruple, lurking in the foolish mind.
Nature abhors the mixture: the rude clown,
As well may lay his spade and mattock down,
And with light foot, and agile limbs prepare
To dance three steps with soft Bathyllus' air!
Thrust forth your finger. “See.” O, heavens, awry!
125
Though clouds of incense every god invoke,
In vain you sue, one drachm of right to find,
One scruple, lurking in the foolish mind.
Nature abhors the mixture: the rude clown,
As well may lay his spade and mattock down,
And with light foot, and agile limbs prepare
To dance three steps with soft Bathyllus' air!
126
“Still I am free.” You! subject to the sway
Of countless masters, free! What datum, pray,
Supports your claim? Is there no other yoke,
Than that which, from your neck, the Prætor broke!—
“Go, bear these scrapers to the bath with speed;
What! loitering, knave?”—Here's servitude, indeed!
Yet you unmov'd the angry sounds would hear;
You owe no duty, and can know no fear.
But if, within, you feel the strong controul—
If stormy passions lord it o'er your soul,
Are you more free, than he whom threat'nings urge,
To bear the strigils, and escape the scourge?
Of countless masters, free! What datum, pray,
Supports your claim? Is there no other yoke,
Than that which, from your neck, the Prætor broke!—
“Go, bear these scrapers to the bath with speed;
What! loitering, knave?”—Here's servitude, indeed!
Yet you unmov'd the angry sounds would hear;
You owe no duty, and can know no fear.
But if, within, you feel the strong controul—
If stormy passions lord it o'er your soul,
Are you more free, than he whom threat'nings urge,
To bear the strigils, and escape the scourge?
'Tis morn; yet sunk in sloth, you snoring lie.
“Up! up!” cries Avarice, “and to business hie;
Nay, stir.” I will not. Still she presses, “Rise!”
I cannot. “But you must and shall,” she cries.
And to what purpose? “This a question! Go,
Bear fish to Pontus, and bring wines from Co;
Bring ebon, flax, whate'er the East supplies,
Musk for perfumes, and gums for sacrifice:
Prevent the mart, and the first pepper take
From the tired camel, ere his thirst he slake.
Traffick, forswear, if interest intervene”—
But Jove will over-hear me.—“Hold, my spleen!
O dolt! but, mark—that thumb will bore and bore
The empty salt, (scraped to the quick before,)
For one poor grain, a vapid meal to mend,
If you aspire to thrive with Jove your friend!”
“Up! up!” cries Avarice, “and to business hie;
Nay, stir.” I will not. Still she presses, “Rise!”
I cannot. “But you must and shall,” she cries.
And to what purpose? “This a question! Go,
Bear fish to Pontus, and bring wines from Co;
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Musk for perfumes, and gums for sacrifice:
128
From the tired camel, ere his thirst he slake.
Traffick, forswear, if interest intervene”—
But Jove will over-hear me.—“Hold, my spleen!
O dolt! but, mark—that thumb will bore and bore
The empty salt, (scraped to the quick before,)
For one poor grain, a vapid meal to mend,
If you aspire to thrive with Jove your friend!”
You rouse, (for who can truths like these withstand?)
Victual your slaves, and urge them to the strand.
Prepared, in haste, to follow; and, ere now,
Had to the Ægean turn'd your vent'rous prow,
But that sly Luxury the process eyed,
Waylaid your desperate steps, and, taunting, cried,
Victual your slaves, and urge them to the strand.
Prepared, in haste, to follow; and, ere now,
Had to the Ægean turn'd your vent'rous prow,
But that sly Luxury the process eyed,
Waylaid your desperate steps, and, taunting, cried,
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“Ho, madman! whither, in this hasty plight?
What passion drives you forth? what furies fright?
Whole urns of hellebore might hope, in vain,
To cool this high-wrought fever of the brain.
What! quit your peaceful couch, renounce your ease,
To rush on hardships, and to dare the seas!
And, while a broken plank supports your meat,
And a coil'd cable proves your softest seat,
Suck from squab jugs that pitchy scents exhale,
The seaman's beverage, sour at once and stale!
And all, for what? that sums, which now are lent
At modest five, may sweat out twelve per cent.!—
What passion drives you forth? what furies fright?
Whole urns of hellebore might hope, in vain,
To cool this high-wrought fever of the brain.
What! quit your peaceful couch, renounce your ease,
To rush on hardships, and to dare the seas!
And, while a broken plank supports your meat,
And a coil'd cable proves your softest seat,
Suck from squab jugs that pitchy scents exhale,
The seaman's beverage, sour at once and stale!
And all, for what? that sums, which now are lent
At modest five, may sweat out twelve per cent.!—
O rather cultivate the joys of sense,
And crop the sweets which youth and health dispense;
Give the light hours to banquets, love, and wine:
These are the zest of life, and these are mine!
Dust, and a shade are all you soon must be:
Live, then, while yet you may. Time presses.—See!
Even while I speak, the present is become
The past, and lessens still life's little sum.”
And crop the sweets which youth and health dispense;
Give the light hours to banquets, love, and wine:
These are the zest of life, and these are mine!
Dust, and a shade are all you soon must be:
Live, then, while yet you may. Time presses.—See!
Even while I speak, the present is become
The past, and lessens still life's little sum.”
Now, sir, decide; shall this, or that, command?
Alas! the bait, display'd on either hand,
Distracts your choice:—but, ponder as you may,
Of this be sure; both, with alternate sway,
Will lord it o'er you, while, with slavish fears,
From side to side your doubtful duty veers.
Alas! the bait, display'd on either hand,
Distracts your choice:—but, ponder as you may,
Of this be sure; both, with alternate sway,
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From side to side your doubtful duty veers.
Nor must you, though in some auspicious hour,
You spurn their mandate, and resist their power,
At once conclude their future influence vain:—
With struggling hard the dog may snap his chain;
Yet little freedom from the effort find,
If, as he flies, he trails its length behind.
“Yes, I am fix'd; to Love a long adieu!—
Nay, smile not, Davus; you will find it true.”
So, while his nails, gnawn to the quick, yet bled,
The sage Chærestratus, deep-musing, said.—
“Shall I my virtuous ancestry defame,
Consume my fortune, and disgrace my name,
While, at a harlot's wanton threshold laid,
Darkling, I whine my drunken serenade!”
You spurn their mandate, and resist their power,
At once conclude their future influence vain:—
With struggling hard the dog may snap his chain;
Yet little freedom from the effort find,
If, as he flies, he trails its length behind.
“Yes, I am fix'd; to Love a long adieu!—
Nay, smile not, Davus; you will find it true.”
131
The sage Chærestratus, deep-musing, said.—
“Shall I my virtuous ancestry defame,
Consume my fortune, and disgrace my name,
While, at a harlot's wanton threshold laid,
Darkling, I whine my drunken serenade!”
'Tis nobly spoken:—Let a lamb be brought
To the Twin Powers that this deliv'rance wrought.
To the Twin Powers that this deliv'rance wrought.
“But—if I quit her, will she not complain?
Will she not grieve? Good Davus, think again.”
Will she not grieve? Good Davus, think again.”
Fond trifler! you will find her “grief” too late;
When the red slipper rattles round your pate,
Vindictive of the mad attempt to foil
Her potent spell, and all-involving toil.
Dismiss'd you storm and bluster: hark! she calls,
And, at the word, your boasted manhood falls.
“Mark, Davus; of her own accord, she sues!
Mark, she invites me! Can I now refuse?
Yes Now, and Ever. If you left her door,
Whole and intire, you must return no more.
When the red slipper rattles round your pate,
Vindictive of the mad attempt to foil
Her potent spell, and all-involving toil.
Dismiss'd you storm and bluster: hark! she calls,
And, at the word, your boasted manhood falls.
“Mark, Davus; of her own accord, she sues!
Mark, she invites me! Can I now refuse?
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Whole and intire, you must return no more.
Right. This is He, the man whom I demand;
This, Davus; not the creature of a wand
Waved by some foolish lictor.—
This, Davus; not the creature of a wand
Waved by some foolish lictor.—
And is he,
This master of himself, this truly free,
Who marks the dazzling lure Ambition spreads,
And headlong follows where the meteor leads?
“Watch the nice hour, and, on the scrambling tribes,
Pour, without stint, your mercenary bribes,
Vetches and pulse; that, many a year gone by,
Greybeards, as basking in the sun they lie,
May boast how much your Floral Games surpast,
In cost and splendor, those they witness'd last!”
A glorious motive!
This master of himself, this truly free,
Who marks the dazzling lure Ambition spreads,
And headlong follows where the meteor leads?
“Watch the nice hour, and, on the scrambling tribes,
Pour, without stint, your mercenary bribes,
Vetches and pulse; that, many a year gone by,
Greybeards, as basking in the sun they lie,
May boast how much your Floral Games surpast,
In cost and splendor, those they witness'd last!”
133
And on Herod's day,
When every room is deck'd in meet array,
And lamps along the greasy windows spread,
Profuse of flowers, gross, oily vapours shed;
When the vast tunny's tail in pickle swims,
And the crude must foams o'er the pitcher's brims;
You mutter secret prayers, by fear devised,
And dread the sabbaths of the circumcised!
When every room is deck'd in meet array,
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Profuse of flowers, gross, oily vapours shed;
135
And the crude must foams o'er the pitcher's brims;
You mutter secret prayers, by fear devised,
And dread the sabbaths of the circumcised!
Then, a crack'd egg-shell fills you with affright,
And ghosts and goblins haunt your sleepless night.
And ghosts and goblins haunt your sleepless night.
Last, the blind priestess, with her sistrum shrill,
And Galli, huge and high, a dread instill
Of gods, prepared to vex the human frame
With dropsies, palsies, ills of every name,
Unless the trembling victim champ, in bed,
Thrice every morn, on a charm'd garlick-head,
And Galli, huge and high, a dread instill
Of gods, prepared to vex the human frame
With dropsies, palsies, ills of every name,
Unless the trembling victim champ, in bed,
Thrice every morn, on a charm'd garlick-head,
136
Preach to the martial throng these lofty strains,
And lo! some chief more famed for bulk than brains,
Some vast Vulfenius, bless'd with lungs of brass,
Laughs loud and long at the scholastick ass;
And, for a clipt cent-piece, sets, by the tale,
A hundred Greek philosophers to sale!
And lo! some chief more famed for bulk than brains,
Some vast Vulfenius, bless'd with lungs of brass,
Laughs loud and long at the scholastick ass;
And, for a clipt cent-piece, sets, by the tale,
A hundred Greek philosophers to sale!
137
SATIRE VI.
139
TO CÆSIUS BASSUS.
Say, have the wintry storms, which round us beat,
Chased thee, my Bassus, to thy Sabine seat?
Does musick there thy sacred leisure fill,
While the strings quicken to thy manly quill?—
O skill'd, in matchless numbers, to disclose
How first from Night this fair creation rose;
And kindling, as the lofty themes inspire,
To smite, with daring hand, the Latian lyre!
Anon, with youth and youth's delights to toy,
And give the dancing chords to love and joy;
Or wake, with moral touch, to accents sage,
And hymn the heroes of a nobler age!
Chased thee, my Bassus, to thy Sabine seat?
140
While the strings quicken to thy manly quill?—
O skill'd, in matchless numbers, to disclose
How first from Night this fair creation rose;
And kindling, as the lofty themes inspire,
To smite, with daring hand, the Latian lyre!
Anon, with youth and youth's delights to toy,
And give the dancing chords to love and joy;
Or wake, with moral touch, to accents sage,
And hymn the heroes of a nobler age!
141
To me, while tempests howl and billows rise,
Liguria's coast a warm retreat supplies,
Where the huge cliffs an ample front display,
And, deep within, recedes the sheltering bay.
Liguria's coast a warm retreat supplies,
Where the huge cliffs an ample front display,
And, deep within, recedes the sheltering bay.
The Port of Luna, friends, is worth your note—
So, in his sober moments, Ennius wrote,
When, all his dreams of transmigration past,
He found himself plain Quintus, at the last!
So, in his sober moments, Ennius wrote,
142
He found himself plain Quintus, at the last!
Here to repose I give the cheerful day,
Careless of what the vulgar think or say;
Or what the South, from Africk's burning air,
Unfriendly to the fold, may haply bear:
And careless still, though richer herbage crown
My neighbours' fields, or heavier crops embrown.
—Nor, Bassus, though capricious Fortune grace,
Thus, with her smiles, a low-bred, low-born race,
Will e'er thy friend, for that, let Envy plough
One careful furrow on his open brow;
Give crooked age upon his youth to steal,
Defraud his table of one generous meal;
Or, stooping o'er the dregs of mothery wine,
Touch, with suspicious nose, the sacred sign.
Careless of what the vulgar think or say;
143
Unfriendly to the fold, may haply bear:
And careless still, though richer herbage crown
My neighbours' fields, or heavier crops embrown.
—Nor, Bassus, though capricious Fortune grace,
Thus, with her smiles, a low-bred, low-born race,
Will e'er thy friend, for that, let Envy plough
One careful furrow on his open brow;
Give crooked age upon his youth to steal,
Defraud his table of one generous meal;
Or, stooping o'er the dregs of mothery wine,
Touch, with suspicious nose, the sacred sign.
144
But inclinations vary:—and the Power
That beams, ascendant, on the natal hour,
Even Twins produces of discordant souls,
And tempers, wide asunder as the poles.
That beams, ascendant, on the natal hour,
Even Twins produces of discordant souls,
And tempers, wide asunder as the poles.
The One, on birth-days, and on those alone,
Prepares (but with a forecast all his own)
On tunny-pickle, from the shops, to dine,
And dips his wither'd pot-herbs in the brine;
Trembles the pepper from his hands to trust,
And sprinkles, grain by grain, the sacred dust.
The Other, large of soul, exhausts his hoard,
While yet a stripling, at the festive board.
Prepares (but with a forecast all his own)
On tunny-pickle, from the shops, to dine,
And dips his wither'd pot-herbs in the brine;
Trembles the pepper from his hands to trust,
And sprinkles, grain by grain, the sacred dust.
The Other, large of soul, exhausts his hoard,
While yet a stripling, at the festive board.
To use my fortune, Bassus, I intend:
Nor, therefore, deem me so profuse, my friend,
So prodigally vain, as to afford,
The costly turbot, for my freedmen's board;
Or so expert in flavours, as to show
How, by the relish, thrush from thrush I know.
Nor, therefore, deem me so profuse, my friend,
So prodigally vain, as to afford,
The costly turbot, for my freedmen's board;
Or so expert in flavours, as to show
How, by the relish, thrush from thrush I know.
145
“Live to your means”—'tis wisdom's voice you hear—
And freely grind the produce of the year:
What scruples check you? Ply the hoe and spade,
And lo! another crop is in the blade.
And freely grind the produce of the year:
What scruples check you? Ply the hoe and spade,
And lo! another crop is in the blade.
True; but the claims of duty caution crave.
A friend, scarce rescued from the Ionian wave,
Grasps a projecting rock, while, in the deep,
His treasures, with his prayers, unheeded sleep:
I see him stretch'd, desponding, on the ground,
His tutelary gods all wreck'd around,
His bark dispers'd in fragments o'er the tide,
And sea-mews sporting on the ruins wide.
A friend, scarce rescued from the Ionian wave,
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His treasures, with his prayers, unheeded sleep:
I see him stretch'd, desponding, on the ground,
His tutelary gods all wreck'd around,
His bark dispers'd in fragments o'er the tide,
And sea-mews sporting on the ruins wide.
Sell, then, a pittance ('tis my prompt advice,)
Of this your land, and send your friend the price;
Lest, with a pictured storm, forlorn and poor,
He ask cheap charity, from door to door.
Of this your land, and send your friend the price;
147
He ask cheap charity, from door to door.
148
“But then, my angry heir, displeased to find
His prospects lessen'd by an act so kind,
May slight my obsequies; and, in return,
Give my cold ashes to a scentless urn;
Reckless what vapid drugs he flings thereon,
Adulterate cassia, or dead cinnamon!—
Can I (bethink in time) my means impair,
And, with impunity, provoke my heir?
—Here Bestius rails—“A plague on Greece,” he cries,
“And all her pedants!—there the evil lies;
For since their mawkish, their enervate lore,
With dates and pepper, curs'd our luckless shore,
Luxury has tainted all; and ploughmen spoil
Their wholesome barley-broth with luscious oil.”
His prospects lessen'd by an act so kind,
May slight my obsequies; and, in return,
Give my cold ashes to a scentless urn;
Reckless what vapid drugs he flings thereon,
Adulterate cassia, or dead cinnamon!—
Can I (bethink in time) my means impair,
And, with impunity, provoke my heir?
—Here Bestius rails—“A plague on Greece,” he cries,
“And all her pedants!—there the evil lies;
149
With dates and pepper, curs'd our luckless shore,
150
Their wholesome barley-broth with luscious oil.”
Heavens! can you stretch (to fears like these a slave)
Your fond solicitude beyond the grave?
Away!—
Your fond solicitude beyond the grave?
Away!—
But thou, my heir, whoe'er thou art,
Step from the crowd, and let us talk apart.
Hear'st thou the news? Cæsar has won the day,
(So, from the camp, his laurell'd missives say,)
And Germany is ours! The city wakes,
And from her altars the cold ashes shakes.—
Lo! from the imperial spoils, Cæsonia brings
Arms, and the martial robes of conquer'd kings,
To deck the temples; while, on either hand,
Chariots of war, and bulky captives stand,
In long array. I, too, my joy to prove,
Will to the emperor's Genius, and to Jove,
Devote, in gratitude, for deeds so rare,
Two hundred well-match'd fencers, pair by pair.
Who blames—who ventures to forbid me? You?
Woe to your future prospects! if you do.
—And, sir, not this alone; for I have vow'd
A supplemental largess, to the crowd,
Of corn and oil. What! muttering still? draw near,
And speak aloud, for once, that I may hear.
“My means are not so low, that I should care
For that poor pittance, your may leave your heir.”
Step from the crowd, and let us talk apart.
Hear'st thou the news? Cæsar has won the day,
(So, from the camp, his laurell'd missives say,)
151
And from her altars the cold ashes shakes.—
Lo! from the imperial spoils, Cæsonia brings
Arms, and the martial robes of conquer'd kings,
To deck the temples; while, on either hand,
Chariots of war, and bulky captives stand,
152
Will to the emperor's Genius, and to Jove,
Devote, in gratitude, for deeds so rare,
Two hundred well-match'd fencers, pair by pair.
Who blames—who ventures to forbid me? You?
Woe to your future prospects! if you do.
—And, sir, not this alone; for I have vow'd
A supplemental largess, to the crowd,
Of corn and oil. What! muttering still? draw near,
And speak aloud, for once, that I may hear.
“My means are not so low, that I should care
For that poor pittance, your may leave your heir.”
153
Just as you please: but were I, sir, bereft
Of all my kin; no aunt, no uncle left;
No nephew, niece; were all my cousins gone,
And all my cousins' cousins, every one,
Aricia soon some Manius would supply,
Well pleased to take that “pittance,” when I die.
Of all my kin; no aunt, no uncle left;
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And all my cousins' cousins, every one,
Aricia soon some Manius would supply,
Well pleased to take that “pittance,” when I die.
“Manius! a beggar of the first degree,
A son of earth, your heir!” Nay, question me,
Ask who my grandsire's sire? I know not well,
And yet, on recollection, I might tell;
But urge me one step further—I am mute:
A son of earth, like Manius, past dispute.
Thus, his descent and mine are equal prov'd,
And we at last are cousins, though remov'd.
A son of earth, your heir!” Nay, question me,
Ask who my grandsire's sire? I know not well,
And yet, on recollection, I might tell;
But urge me one step further—I am mute:
A son of earth, like Manius, past dispute.
155
And we at last are cousins, though remov'd.
But why should you, who still before me run,
Require my torch, ere yet the race be won?
Require my torch, ere yet the race be won?
156
Think me your Mercury: Lo! here I stand,
As painters represent him, purse in hand:
Will you, or not, the proffer'd boon receive,
And take, with thankfulness, whate'er I leave?
As painters represent him, purse in hand:
157
And take, with thankfulness, whate'er I leave?
Something, you murmur, of the heap is spent.
True: as occasion call'd, it freely went;
In life 'twas mine: but death your chance secures,
And what remains, or more, or less, is yours.
Of Tadius' legacy no questions raise,
Nor turn upon me with a grandsire-phrase,
“Live on the interest of your fortune, boy;
To touch the principal, is to destroy.”
True: as occasion call'd, it freely went;
In life 'twas mine: but death your chance secures,
And what remains, or more, or less, is yours.
Of Tadius' legacy no questions raise,
Nor turn upon me with a grandsire-phrase,
“Live on the interest of your fortune, boy;
To touch the principal, is to destroy.”
“What, after all, may I expect to have?”
Expect!—Pour oil upon my viands, slave,
Pour with unsparing hand! shall my best cheer,
On high and solemn days, be the singed ear
Of some tough, smoke-dried hog, with nettles drest;
That your descendant, while in earth I rest,
May gorge on dainties, and, when lust excites,
Give, to patrician beds, his wasteful nights?
Expect!—Pour oil upon my viands, slave,
Pour with unsparing hand! shall my best cheer,
On high and solemn days, be the singed ear
Of some tough, smoke-dried hog, with nettles drest;
That your descendant, while in earth I rest,
May gorge on dainties, and, when lust excites,
Give, to patrician beds, his wasteful nights?
Shall I, a napless figure, pale and thin,
Glide by, transparent, in a parchment skin,
That he may strut with more than priestly pride,
And swag his portly paunch from side to side?
Glide by, transparent, in a parchment skin,
158
And swag his portly paunch from side to side?
Go, truck your soul for gain! buy, sell, exchange;
From pole to pole, in quest of profit range.
Let none more shrewdly play the factor's part;
None bring his slaves more timely to the mart;
Puff them with happier skill, as caged they stand,
Or clap their well-fed sides with nicer hand.
From pole to pole, in quest of profit range.
Let none more shrewdly play the factor's part;
None bring his slaves more timely to the mart;
159
Or clap their well-fed sides with nicer hand.
Double your fortune—treble it—yet more—
'Tis four, six, ten-fold what it was before:
O bound the heap—You, who could yours confine,
Tell me, Chrysippus, how to limit mine!
'Tis four, six, ten-fold what it was before:
O bound the heap—You, who could yours confine,
Tell me, Chrysippus, how to limit mine!
| The Satires of Decimus Junius Juvenalis | |