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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| VI. | SATIRE VI. |
 | The Satires of Decimus Junius Juvenalis |  |
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,
146
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;
154
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 | |