The Satires of Decimus Junius Juvenalis and of Aulus Persius Flaccus, Translated into English Verse. By William Gifford ... with Notes and Illustrations. In Two Volumes |
 | 1. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| II. |
|
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
|
| I. |
| II. | SATIRE II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | The Satires of Decimus Junius Juvenalis |  |
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.
| The Satires of Decimus Junius Juvenalis | |