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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| III. | SATIRE III. |
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 | The Satires of Decimus Junius Juvenalis |  |
83
SATIRE III.
85
Grieved though I am to see the man depart,
Who long has shared, and still must share my heart,
Yet (when I call my better judgment home)
I praise his purpose; to retire from Rome,
And give, on Cumæ's solitary coast,
The Sibyl—one inhabitant to boast!
Who long has shared, and still must share my heart,
Yet (when I call my better judgment home)
I praise his purpose; to retire from Rome,
And give, on Cumæ's solitary coast,
The Sibyl—one inhabitant to boast!
86
Full on the road to Baiæ, Cumæ lies,
And many a sweet retreat her shore supplies—
Though I prefer even Prochyta's bare strand,
To the Suburra:—for, what desert land,
What wild, uncultured spot, can more affright,
Than fires, wide blazing through the gloom of night,
Houses, with ceaseless ruin, thundering down,
And all the horrours of this hateful town?
Where poets, while the dogstar glows, rehearse,
To gasping multitudes, their barbarous verse!
And many a sweet retreat her shore supplies—
Though I prefer even Prochyta's bare strand,
To the Suburra:—for, what desert land,
What wild, uncultured spot, can more affright,
Than fires, wide blazing through the gloom of night,
Houses, with ceaseless ruin, thundering down,
And all the horrours of this hateful town?
Where poets, while the dogstar glows, rehearse,
To gasping multitudes, their barbarous verse!
87
Now had my friend, impatient to depart,
Consign'd his little all to one poor cart:
For this, without the town, he chose to wait;
But stopp'd a moment at the Conduit-gate.—
Here Numa erst his nightly visits paid,
And held high converse with the Egerian maid:
Now the once-hallow'd fountain, grove, and fane,
Are let to Jews, a wretched, wandering train,
Whose furniture's, a basket fill'd with hay,—
For every tree is forced a tax to pay;
And while the heaven-born Nine in exile rove,
The beggar rents their consecrated grove!
Consign'd his little all to one poor cart:
For this, without the town, he chose to wait;
But stopp'd a moment at the Conduit-gate.—
Here Numa erst his nightly visits paid,
And held high converse with the Egerian maid:
Now the once-hallow'd fountain, grove, and fane,
Are let to Jews, a wretched, wandering train,
88
For every tree is forced a tax to pay;
89
The beggar rents their consecrated grove!
Thence slowly winding down the vale, we view
The Egerian grots—ah, how unlike the true!
Nymph of the Spring! more honour'd hadst thou been,
If, free from art, an edge of living green,
Thy bubbling fount had circumscribed alone,
And marble ne'er profaned the native stone.
The Egerian grots—ah, how unlike the true!
Nymph of the Spring! more honour'd hadst thou been,
If, free from art, an edge of living green,
Thy bubbling fount had circumscribed alone,
And marble ne'er profaned the native stone.
Umbritius here his sullen silence broke,
And turn'd on Rome, indignant, as he spoke.
Since virtue droops, he cried, without regard,
And honest toil scarce hopes a poor reward;
Since every morrow sees my means decay,
And still makes less the little of to-day;
I go, where Dædalus, as poets sing,
First check'd his flight, and closed his weary wing:
While something yet of health and strength remains,
And yet no staff my faultering step sustains;
While few gray hairs upon my head are seen,
And my old age is vigorous still, and green.
Here then, I bid my much loved home farewell—
Ah, mine no more!—there let Arturius dwell,
And Catulus; knaves, who, in truth's despite,
Can white to black transform, and black to white,
Build temples, furnish funerals, auctions hold,
Farm rivers, ports, and scour the drains for gold!
And turn'd on Rome, indignant, as he spoke.
90
And honest toil scarce hopes a poor reward;
Since every morrow sees my means decay,
And still makes less the little of to-day;
I go, where Dædalus, as poets sing,
First check'd his flight, and closed his weary wing:
While something yet of health and strength remains,
And yet no staff my faultering step sustains;
While few gray hairs upon my head are seen,
And my old age is vigorous still, and green.
Here then, I bid my much loved home farewell—
Ah, mine no more!—there let Arturius dwell,
And Catulus; knaves, who, in truth's despite,
Can white to black transform, and black to white,
Build temples, furnish funerals, auctions hold,
Farm rivers, ports, and scour the drains for gold!
91
Once they were trumpeters, and always found,
With strolling fencers, in their annual round,
While their puff'd cheeks, which every village knew,
Call'd to “high feats of arms,” the rustick crew:
Now they give Shows themselves; and, at the will,
Of the base rabble, raise the sign—to kill,
Ambitious of their voice: then turn, once more,
To their vile gains, and farm the common shore!
And why not every thing?—since Fortune throws
Her more peculiar smiles on such as those,
Whene'er, to wanton merriment inclined,
She lifts to thrones, the dregs of human kind!
With strolling fencers, in their annual round,
While their puff'd cheeks, which every village knew,
Call'd to “high feats of arms,” the rustick crew:
Now they give Shows themselves; and, at the will,
Of the base rabble, raise the sign—to kill,
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To their vile gains, and farm the common shore!
93
Her more peculiar smiles on such as those,
94
She lifts to thrones, the dregs of human kind!
But why, my friend, should I at Rome remain?
I cannot teach my stubborn lips to feign;
Nor, when I hear a great man's verses, smile,
And beg a copy, if I think them vile.
A sublunary wight, I have no skill
To read the stars; I neither can, nor will,
Presage a father's death; I never pried,
In toads, for poison, nor—in aught beside.
Others may aid the adulterer's vile design,
And bear the insidious gift, and melting line,
Seduction's agents! I such deeds detest;
And, honest, let no thief partake my breast.
For this, without a friend, the world I quit;
A palsied limb, for every use unfit.
I cannot teach my stubborn lips to feign;
95
And beg a copy, if I think them vile.
A sublunary wight, I have no skill
To read the stars; I neither can, nor will,
96
In toads, for poison, nor—in aught beside.
97
And bear the insidious gift, and melting line,
Seduction's agents! I such deeds detest;
And, honest, let no thief partake my breast.
For this, without a friend, the world I quit;
A palsied limb, for every use unfit.
Who now is loved, but he whose conscious breast,
Swells with dark deeds, still, still to be supprest?
He pays, he owes, thee nothing, (strictly just,)
Who gives an honest secret to thy trust;
But, a dishonest!—there, he feels thy power,
And buys thy friendship high from hour to hour.
But let not all the wealth which Tagus pours
In Ocean's lap, not all his glittering stores,
Be deem'd a bribe, sufficient to requite
The loss of peace by day, of sleep by night:—
O take not, take not, what thy soul rejects,
Nor sell the faith, which he, who buys, suspects!
Swells with dark deeds, still, still to be supprest?
He pays, he owes, thee nothing, (strictly just,)
Who gives an honest secret to thy trust;
But, a dishonest!—there, he feels thy power,
And buys thy friendship high from hour to hour.
But let not all the wealth which Tagus pours
In Ocean's lap, not all his glittering stores,
Be deem'd a bribe, sufficient to requite
The loss of peace by day, of sleep by night:—
O take not, take not, what thy soul rejects,
Nor sell the faith, which he, who buys, suspects!
The nation, by the great, admired, carest,
And hated, shunn'd by Me, above the rest,
No longer, now, restrain'd by wounded pride,
I haste to shew, (nor thou my warmth deride,)
I cannot rule my spleen, and calmly see,
A grecian capital, in italy!
Grecian? O, no! with this vast sewer compared,
The dregs of Greece are scarcely worth regard:
Long since, the stream that wanton Syria laves,
Has disembogued its filth in Tiber's waves,
Its language, arts; o'erwhelm'd us with the scum
Of Antioch's streets, its minstrel, harp, and drum.
Hie to the Circus! ye who pant to prove
A barbarous mistress, an outlandish love;
Hie to the Circus! there, in crowds they stand,
Tires on their head, and timbrels in their hand.
And hated, shunn'd by Me, above the rest,
No longer, now, restrain'd by wounded pride,
I haste to shew, (nor thou my warmth deride,)
98
A grecian capital, in italy!
99
The dregs of Greece are scarcely worth regard:
Long since, the stream that wanton Syria laves,
Has disembogued its filth in Tiber's waves,
Its language, arts; o'erwhelm'd us with the scum
Of Antioch's streets, its minstrel, harp, and drum.
Hie to the Circus! ye who pant to prove
A barbarous mistress, an outlandish love;
Hie to the Circus! there, in crowds they stand,
Tires on their head, and timbrels in their hand.
Thy rustick, Mars, the trechedipna wears,
And on his breast, smear'd with ceroma, bears
A paltry prize, well-pleased; while every land,
Sicyon, and Amydos, and Alaband,
Tralles, and Samos, and a thousand more,
Thrive on his indolence, and daily pour
Their starving myriads forth: hither they come,
And batten on the genial soil of Rome;
Minions, then lords, of every princely dome!
A flattering, cringing, treacherous, artful race,
Of torrent tongue, and never-blushing face;
A Protean tribe, one knows not what to call,
Which shifts to every form, and shines in all:
Grammarian, painter, augur, rhetorician,
Rope-dancer, conjuror, fidler, and physician,
All trades his own, your hungry Greekling counts;
And bid him mount the sky,—the sky he mounts!
You smile—was't a barbarian, then, that flew?
No, 'twas a Greek; 'twas an Athenian, too!
—Bear with their state who will: for I disdain,
To feed their upstart pride, or swell their train:
Slaves, that in Syrian lighters stow'd, so late,
With figs and prunes, (an inauspicious freight,)
Already see their faith preferr'd to mine,
And sit above me! and before me sign!—
That on the Aventine I first drew air,
And, from the womb, was nurs'd on Sabine fare,
Avails me not! our birthright now is lost,
And all our privilege, an empty boast!
And on his breast, smear'd with ceroma, bears
100
Sicyon, and Amydos, and Alaband,
Tralles, and Samos, and a thousand more,
Thrive on his indolence, and daily pour
101
And batten on the genial soil of Rome;
Minions, then lords, of every princely dome!
A flattering, cringing, treacherous, artful race,
Of torrent tongue, and never-blushing face;
A Protean tribe, one knows not what to call,
Which shifts to every form, and shines in all:
Grammarian, painter, augur, rhetorician,
Rope-dancer, conjuror, fidler, and physician,
All trades his own, your hungry Greekling counts;
And bid him mount the sky,—the sky he mounts!
You smile—was't a barbarian, then, that flew?
No, 'twas a Greek; 'twas an Athenian, too!
—Bear with their state who will: for I disdain,
To feed their upstart pride, or swell their train:
Slaves, that in Syrian lighters stow'd, so late,
With figs and prunes, (an inauspicious freight,)
Already see their faith preferr'd to mine,
And sit above me! and before me sign!—
That on the Aventine I first drew air,
And, from the womb, was nurs'd on Sabine fare,
Avails me not! our birthright now is lost,
And all our privilege, an empty boast!
For lo! where vers'd in every soothing art,
The wily Greek assails his patron's heart,
Finds in each dull harangue an air, a grace,
And all Adonis in a Gorgon face;
Admires the voice that grates upon the ear,
Like the shrill scream of amorous chanticleer;
And equals the crane neck, and narrow chest,
To Hercules, when, straining to his breast
The giant son of Earth, his every vein
Swells with the toil, and more than mortal pain.
The wily Greek assails his patron's heart,
Finds in each dull harangue an air, a grace,
And all Adonis in a Gorgon face;
102
Like the shrill scream of amorous chanticleer;
And equals the crane neck, and narrow chest,
To Hercules, when, straining to his breast
The giant son of Earth, his every vein
Swells with the toil, and more than mortal pain.
We too can cringe as low, and praise as warm,
But flattery from the Greeks alone can charm.
See! they step forth, and figure to the life,
The naked nymph, the mistress, or the wife,
So just, you view the very woman there,
And fancy all beneath the girdle bare!
No longer now, the favourites of the stage
Boast their exclusive power to charm the age;
The happy art with them a nation shares,
Greece is a theatre, where all are players.
For lo! their patron smiles,—they burst with mirth;
He weeps,—they droop, the saddest souls on earth;
He calls for fire,—they court the mantle's heat;
'Tis warm, he cries,—and they dissolve in sweat.
Ill-match'd!—secure of victory they start,
Who, taught from youth to play a borrow'd part,
Can, with a glance, the rising passion trace,
And mould their own, to suit their patron's face;
At deeds of shame their hands admiring raise,
And mad debauchery's worst excesses praise.
But flattery from the Greeks alone can charm.
See! they step forth, and figure to the life,
The naked nymph, the mistress, or the wife,
So just, you view the very woman there,
And fancy all beneath the girdle bare!
No longer now, the favourites of the stage
Boast their exclusive power to charm the age;
The happy art with them a nation shares,
Greece is a theatre, where all are players.
For lo! their patron smiles,—they burst with mirth;
He weeps,—they droop, the saddest souls on earth;
103
'Tis warm, he cries,—and they dissolve in sweat.
Ill-match'd!—secure of victory they start,
Who, taught from youth to play a borrow'd part,
Can, with a glance, the rising passion trace,
And mould their own, to suit their patron's face;
At deeds of shame their hands admiring raise,
And mad debauchery's worst excesses praise.
Besides, no mound their raging lust restrains,
All ties it breaks, all sanctity profanes;
Wife, virgin-daughter, son unstain'd before,—
And, where these fail, they tempt the grandam hoar:
They notice every word, haunt every ear,
Your secrets learn, and fix you theirs from fear.
All ties it breaks, all sanctity profanes;
Wife, virgin-daughter, son unstain'd before,—
And, where these fail, they tempt the grandam hoar:
104
Your secrets learn, and fix you theirs from fear.
Turn to their schools:—yon gray professor see,
Smear'd with the sanguine stains of perfidy!
That tutor most accurs'd his pupil sold!
That Stoick sacrificed his friend to gold!
A true born Grecian! litter'd on the coast,
Where the Gorgonian hack a pinion lost.
Smear'd with the sanguine stains of perfidy!
That tutor most accurs'd his pupil sold!
That Stoick sacrificed his friend to gold!
A true born Grecian! litter'd on the coast,
Where the Gorgonian hack a pinion lost.
105
Hence, Romans, hence! no place for you remains,
Where Diphilus, where Erimanthus reigns;
Miscreants, who, faithful to their native art,
Admit no rival in a patron's heart:—
For let them fasten on his easy ear,
And drop one hint, one secret slander there,
Suck'd from their country's venom, or their own,
That instant they possess the man alone;
While we are spurn'd, contemptuous, from the door,
Our long, long slavery, thought upon no more.
'Tis but a client lost!—and that, we find,
Sits wondrous lightly on a patron's mind:
And (not to flatter our poor pride, my friend)
What merit with the great can we pretend,
Though, in our duty, we prevent the day,
And, darkling run our humble court to pay;
When the brisk prætor, long before, is gone,
And hastening, with stern voice, his lictors on,
Lest his colleagues o'erpass him in the street,
And first the rich and childless matrons greet,
Alba and Modia, who impatient wait,
And think the morning homage comes too late!
Where Diphilus, where Erimanthus reigns;
Miscreants, who, faithful to their native art,
Admit no rival in a patron's heart:—
For let them fasten on his easy ear,
And drop one hint, one secret slander there,
Suck'd from their country's venom, or their own,
That instant they possess the man alone;
106
Our long, long slavery, thought upon no more.
'Tis but a client lost!—and that, we find,
Sits wondrous lightly on a patron's mind:
And (not to flatter our poor pride, my friend)
What merit with the great can we pretend,
Though, in our duty, we prevent the day,
And, darkling run our humble court to pay;
When the brisk prætor, long before, is gone,
And hastening, with stern voice, his lictors on,
Lest his colleagues o'erpass him in the street,
And first the rich and childless matrons greet,
Alba and Modia, who impatient wait,
And think the morning homage comes too late!
107
Here freeborn youths wait the rich servant's call,
And, if they walk beside him, yield the wall;
And wherefore? this, forsooth, can fling away,
On one voluptuous night, a legion's pay,
While those, when some Calvina, sweeping by,
Inflames the fancy, check their roving eye,
And frugal of their scanty means, forbear,
To tempt the wanton from her splendid chair.
And, if they walk beside him, yield the wall;
And wherefore? this, forsooth, can fling away,
On one voluptuous night, a legion's pay,
While those, when some Calvina, sweeping by,
Inflames the fancy, check their roving eye,
And frugal of their scanty means, forbear,
To tempt the wanton from her splendid chair.
Produce, at Rome, your witness: let him boast,
The sanctity of Berecynthia's host,
Of Numa, or of Him, whose zeal divine
Snatch'd pale Minerva from her blazing shrine:
To search his rent-roll, first the bench prepares,
His honesty employs their latest cares:
What table does he keep, what slaves maintain,
And what, they ask, and where, is his domain?
These weighty matters known, his faith they rate,
And square his probity to his estate.
The poor may swear by all the immortal Powers,
By the Great Gods of Samothrace, and ours,
His oaths are false, they cry; he scoffs at heaven,
And all its thunders; scoffs,—and is forgiven!
Add, that the wretch is still the theme of scorn,
If the soil'd cloak be patch'd, the gown o'erworn;
If, through the bursting shoe, the foot be seen,
Or the coarse seam tell where the rent has been.
O Poverty, thy thousand ills combined,
Sink not so deep into the generous mind,
As the contempt and laughter of mankind!
The sanctity of Berecynthia's host,
108
Snatch'd pale Minerva from her blazing shrine:
To search his rent-roll, first the bench prepares,
His honesty employs their latest cares:
What table does he keep, what slaves maintain,
And what, they ask, and where, is his domain?
These weighty matters known, his faith they rate,
And square his probity to his estate.
The poor may swear by all the immortal Powers,
By the Great Gods of Samothrace, and ours,
109
And all its thunders; scoffs,—and is forgiven!
Add, that the wretch is still the theme of scorn,
If the soil'd cloak be patch'd, the gown o'erworn;
If, through the bursting shoe, the foot be seen,
Or the coarse seam tell where the rent has been.
O Poverty, thy thousand ills combined,
Sink not so deep into the generous mind,
As the contempt and laughter of mankind!
“Up! up! these cushion'd benches,” Lectius cries,
“Befit not your estates: for shame! arise.”
For “shame!”—but you say well: the pander's heir,
The spawn of bulks and stews, is seated there;
The cry'r's spruce son, fresh from the fencer's school,
And prompt the taste to settle and to rule.—
So Otho fix'd it, whose preposterous pride,
First dared to chase us from their Honours' side.
“Befit not your estates: for shame! arise.”
110
The spawn of bulks and stews, is seated there;
111
And prompt the taste to settle and to rule.—
So Otho fix'd it, whose preposterous pride,
First dared to chase us from their Honours' side.
In these curs'd walls, devote alone to gain,
When do the poor a wealthy wife obtain?
When are they named in wills? when call'd to share
The Ædile's council, and assist the chair?—
Long since should they have ris'n, thus slighted, spurn'd,
And left their home, but—not to have return'd!
When do the poor a wealthy wife obtain?
When are they named in wills? when call'd to share
The Ædile's council, and assist the chair?—
112
And left their home, but—not to have return'd!
Depress'd by indigence, the good and wise,
In every clime, by painful efforts rise;
Here, by more painful still, where scanty cheer,
Poor lodging, mean attendance,—all is dear.
In earthen ware he scorns, at Rome, to eat,
Who, call'd abruptly to the Marsian's seat,
From such, well pleased, would take his simple food,
Nor blush to wear the cheap Venetian hood.
In every clime, by painful efforts rise;
Here, by more painful still, where scanty cheer,
Poor lodging, mean attendance,—all is dear.
In earthen ware he scorns, at Rome, to eat,
Who, call'd abruptly to the Marsian's seat,
113
Nor blush to wear the cheap Venetian hood.
There's many a part of Italy, 'tis said,
Where none assume the toga, but the dead:
There, when the toil forgone and annual play,
Mark, from the rest, some high and solemn day,
To theatres of turf the rusticks throng,
Charm'd with the farce which charm'd their sires so long;
While the pale infant, of the mask in dread,
Hides, in his mother's breast, his little head.
No modes of dress high birth distinguish there;
All ranks, all orders, the same habit wear,
And the dread Ædile's dignity is known,
O sacred badge! by his white vest alone.
But here, beyond our power, array'd we go,
In all the gay varieties of show;
And when our purse supplies the charge no more,
Borrow, unblushing, from our neighbour's store:
Such is the reigning vice; and so we flaunt,
Proud in distress, and prodigal in want!
Briefly, my friend, here all are slaves to gold,
And words, and smiles, and every thing is sold.
What will you give for Cossus' nod? how high,
The silent notice of Veiento buy?
—One favourite youth is shaved, another shorn;
And, while to Jove the precious spoil is borne,
Clients are tax'd for offerings, and, (yet more,
To gall their patience,) from their little store,
Constrain'd to swell the minion's ample hoard,
And bribe the page, for leave to bribe his lord.
Where none assume the toga, but the dead:
114
Mark, from the rest, some high and solemn day,
To theatres of turf the rusticks throng,
Charm'd with the farce which charm'd their sires so long;
115
Hides, in his mother's breast, his little head.
No modes of dress high birth distinguish there;
All ranks, all orders, the same habit wear,
116
O sacred badge! by his white vest alone.
But here, beyond our power, array'd we go,
In all the gay varieties of show;
And when our purse supplies the charge no more,
Borrow, unblushing, from our neighbour's store:
117
Proud in distress, and prodigal in want!
Briefly, my friend, here all are slaves to gold,
And words, and smiles, and every thing is sold.
What will you give for Cossus' nod? how high,
The silent notice of Veiento buy?
—One favourite youth is shaved, another shorn;
And, while to Jove the precious spoil is borne,
118
To gall their patience,) from their little store,
Constrain'd to swell the minion's ample hoard,
And bribe the page, for leave to bribe his lord.
Who fears the crash of houses in retreat?
At simple Gabii, bleak Præneste's seat,
Volsinium's craggy heights, embower'd in wood,
Or Tibur, beetling o'er prone Anio's flood?
While half the city here by shores is staid,
And feeble cramps, that lend a treacherous aid:
For thus the stewards patch the riven wall,
Thus prop the mansion, tottering to its fall;
Then bid the tenant court secure repose,
While the pile nods to every blast that blows.
At simple Gabii, bleak Præneste's seat,
Volsinium's craggy heights, embower'd in wood,
Or Tibur, beetling o'er prone Anio's flood?
While half the city here by shores is staid,
And feeble cramps, that lend a treacherous aid:
For thus the stewards patch the riven wall,
Thus prop the mansion, tottering to its fall;
Then bid the tenant court secure repose,
While the pile nods to every blast that blows.
O! may I live where no such fears molest,
No midnight fires burst on my hour of rest!
For here 'tis terrour all: midst the loud cry
Of “water! water!” the scared neighbours fly,
With all their haste can seize—the flames aspire,
And the third floor is wrapt in smoke and fire,
While you, unconscious, doze: Up, ho! and know,
The impetuous blaze which spreads dismay below,
By swift degrees will reach the aerial cell,
Where, crouching, underneath the tiles you dwell,
Where your tame doves their golden couplets rear,
“And you could no mischance, but drowning fear!”
No midnight fires burst on my hour of rest!
For here 'tis terrour all: midst the loud cry
Of “water! water!” the scared neighbours fly,
With all their haste can seize—the flames aspire,
And the third floor is wrapt in smoke and fire,
While you, unconscious, doze: Up, ho! and know,
The impetuous blaze which spreads dismay below,
119
Where, crouching, underneath the tiles you dwell,
Where your tame doves their golden couplets rear,
“And you could no mischance, but drowning fear!”
“Codrus had but one bed, and that, too short,
For his short wife;” his goods, of every sort,
Were else but few:—six little pipkins graced
His cupboard head, a little can was placed
On a snug shelf beneath, and near it lay,
A Chiron, of the same cheap marble,—clay.
And was this all! O no: he yet possest,
A few Greek books, shrined in an ancient chest,
Where barbarous mice through many an inlet crept,
And fed on heavenly numbers, while he slept.—
“Codrus, in short, had nothing.” You say true;
And yet poor Codrus lost that nothing, too!
One curse alone was wanting, to complete
His woes: that, cold and hungry, through the street,
The wretch should beg, and, in the hour of need,
Find none to lodge, to clothe him, or to feed!
For his short wife;” his goods, of every sort,
Were else but few:—six little pipkins graced
His cupboard head, a little can was placed
On a snug shelf beneath, and near it lay,
A Chiron, of the same cheap marble,—clay.
And was this all! O no: he yet possest,
A few Greek books, shrined in an ancient chest,
Where barbarous mice through many an inlet crept,
And fed on heavenly numbers, while he slept.—
“Codrus, in short, had nothing.” You say true;
And yet poor Codrus lost that nothing, too!
120
His woes: that, cold and hungry, through the street,
121
Find none to lodge, to clothe him, or to feed!
But should the raging flames on grandeur prey,
And low in dust Asturius' palace lay,
The squalid matron sighs, the senate mourns,
The pleaders cease, the judge the court adjourns;
All join to wail the city's hapless fate,
And rail at fire with more than common hate.
Lo! while it burns, the obsequious courtiers haste,
With rich materials, to repair the waste:
This, brings him marble, that, a finish'd piece,
The far-famed boast of Polyclete and Greece;
This, ornaments, which graced of old the fane
Of Asia's gods; that, figured plate and plain;
This, cases, books, and busts the shelves to grace,
And piles of coin his specie to replace—
So much the childless Persian swells his store,
(Though deem'd the richest of the rich before,)
That all ascribe the flames to thirst of pelf,
And swear, Asturius fired his house himself.
And low in dust Asturius' palace lay,
The squalid matron sighs, the senate mourns,
The pleaders cease, the judge the court adjourns;
All join to wail the city's hapless fate,
And rail at fire with more than common hate.
Lo! while it burns, the obsequious courtiers haste,
With rich materials, to repair the waste:
122
The far-famed boast of Polyclete and Greece;
This, ornaments, which graced of old the fane
Of Asia's gods; that, figured plate and plain;
This, cases, books, and busts the shelves to grace,
And piles of coin his specie to replace—
So much the childless Persian swells his store,
(Though deem'd the richest of the rich before,)
That all ascribe the flames to thirst of pelf,
And swear, Asturius fired his house himself.
O, had you, from the Circus, power to fly,
In many a halcyon village, might you buy
Some elegant retreat, for what will, here,
Scarce hire a gloomy dungeon through the year!
There wells, by nature form'd, which need no rope,
No labouring arm, to crane their waters up,
Around your lawn their facile streams shall shower,
And cheer the springing plant, and opening flower.
There live, delighted with the rustick's lot,
And till, with your own hands, the little spot;
The little spot shall yield you large amends,
And glad, with many a feast, your Samian friends.
And, sure,—in any corner we can get,
To call one lizard ours, is something yet!
In many a halcyon village, might you buy
123
Scarce hire a gloomy dungeon through the year!
There wells, by nature form'd, which need no rope,
No labouring arm, to crane their waters up,
Around your lawn their facile streams shall shower,
And cheer the springing plant, and opening flower.
There live, delighted with the rustick's lot,
And till, with your own hands, the little spot;
The little spot shall yield you large amends,
And glad, with many a feast, your Samian friends.
124
To call one lizard ours, is something yet!
125
Flush'd with a mass of indigested food,
Which clogs the stomach, and inflames the blood,
What crowds, with watching wearied and o'erprest,
Curse the slow hours, and die for want of rest!
For who can hope his languid lids to close,
Where brawling taverns banish all repose?
Sleep, to the rich alone, “his visits pays:”
And hence the seeds of many a dire disease.
The carts loud rumbling through the narrow way,
The drivers' clamours at each casual stay,
From drowsy Drusus would his slumber take,
And keep the calves of Proteus broad awake!
Which clogs the stomach, and inflames the blood,
What crowds, with watching wearied and o'erprest,
Curse the slow hours, and die for want of rest!
For who can hope his languid lids to close,
Where brawling taverns banish all repose?
126
And hence the seeds of many a dire disease.
The carts loud rumbling through the narrow way,
The drivers' clamours at each casual stay,
From drowsy Drusus would his slumber take,
And keep the calves of Proteus broad awake!
127
If business call, obsequious crowds divide,
While o'er their heads the rich securely ride,
By tall Illyrians borne, and read, or write,
Or (should the early hour to rest invite,)
Close the soft litter, and enjoy the night.
Yet reach they first the goal; while, by the throng
Elbow'd and jostled, scarce we creep along;
Sharp strokes from poles, tubs, rafters, doom'd to feel;
And plaister'd o'er with mud, from head to heel:
While the rude soldier gores us as he goes,
Or marks, in blood, his progress on our toes!
While o'er their heads the rich securely ride,
By tall Illyrians borne, and read, or write,
Or (should the early hour to rest invite,)
Close the soft litter, and enjoy the night.
Yet reach they first the goal; while, by the throng
Elbow'd and jostled, scarce we creep along;
Sharp strokes from poles, tubs, rafters, doom'd to feel;
And plaister'd o'er with mud, from head to heel:
While the rude soldier gores us as he goes,
Or marks, in blood, his progress on our toes!
See, from the Dole, a vast tumultuous throng,
Each follow'd by his kitchen, pours along!
Huge pans, which Corbulo could scarce uprear,
With steady neck a puny slave must bear,
And, lest amid the way the flames expire,
Glide nimbly on, and gliding, fan the fire;
Through the close press with sinuous efforts wind,
And, piece by piece, leave his botch'd rags behind.
Each follow'd by his kitchen, pours along!
128
With steady neck a puny slave must bear,
129
Glide nimbly on, and gliding, fan the fire;
Through the close press with sinuous efforts wind,
And, piece by piece, leave his botch'd rags behind.
Hark! groaning on, the unwieldy waggon spreads
Its cumbrous load, tremendous! o'er our heads,
Projecting elm or pine, that nods on high,
And threatens death to every passer by.
Heavens! should the axle crack, which bears a weight
Of huge Ligurian stone, and pour the freight
On the pale crowd beneath, what would remain,
What joint, what bone, what atom of the slain?
The body, with the soul, would vanish quite,
Invisible as air, to mortal sight!—
Meanwhile, unconscious of their fellow's fate,
At home, they heat the water, scour the plate,
Arrange the strigils, fill the cruise with oil,
And ply their several tasks with fruitless toil:
For he who bore the dole, poor mangled ghost,
Sits pale and trembling on the Stygian coast,
Scared at the horrours of the novel scene,
At Charon's threatening voice, and scowling mien;
Nor hopes a passage, thus abruptly hurl'd,
Without his farthing, to the nether world.
Its cumbrous load, tremendous! o'er our heads,
Projecting elm or pine, that nods on high,
And threatens death to every passer by.
Heavens! should the axle crack, which bears a weight
Of huge Ligurian stone, and pour the freight
On the pale crowd beneath, what would remain,
What joint, what bone, what atom of the slain?
130
Invisible as air, to mortal sight!—
Meanwhile, unconscious of their fellow's fate,
At home, they heat the water, scour the plate,
Arrange the strigils, fill the cruise with oil,
And ply their several tasks with fruitless toil:
For he who bore the dole, poor mangled ghost,
Sits pale and trembling on the Stygian coast,
Scared at the horrours of the novel scene,
At Charon's threatening voice, and scowling mien;
Nor hopes a passage, thus abruptly hurl'd,
Without his farthing, to the nether world.
131
Pass we these fearful dangers, and survey,
What other evils threat our nightly way.
And first, behold the mansion's towering size,
Where floors on floors to the tenth story rise;
Whence heedless garretteers their potsherds throw,
And crush the unwary wretch that walks below!
Clattering the storm descends from heights unknown,
Ploughs up the street, and wounds the flinty stone!
'Tis madness, dire improvidence of ill,
To sup abroad, before you sign your Will;
Since fate in ambush lies, and marks his prey,
From every wakeful window in the way:
Pray, then,—and count your humble prayer well sped,
If pots be only—emptied on your head.
What other evils threat our nightly way.
And first, behold the mansion's towering size,
Where floors on floors to the tenth story rise;
Whence heedless garretteers their potsherds throw,
And crush the unwary wretch that walks below!
Clattering the storm descends from heights unknown,
Ploughs up the street, and wounds the flinty stone!
'Tis madness, dire improvidence of ill,
To sup abroad, before you sign your Will;
Since fate in ambush lies, and marks his prey,
From every wakeful window in the way:
132
If pots be only—emptied on your head.
The drunken bully, ere his man be slain,
Frets through the night, and courts repose in vain;
And while the thirst of blood his bosom burns,
From side to side, in restless anguish, turns,
Like Peleus' son, when, quell'd by Hector's hand,
His loved Patroclus prest the Phrygian strand.
Frets through the night, and courts repose in vain;
And while the thirst of blood his bosom burns,
From side to side, in restless anguish, turns,
Like Peleus' son, when, quell'd by Hector's hand,
His loved Patroclus prest the Phrygian strand.
There are, who murder as an opiate take,
And only, when no brawls await them, wake:
Yet even these heroes, flush'd with youth and wine,
All contest with the purple robe decline;
Securely give the lengthen'd train to pass,
The sun-bright flambeaux, and the lamps of brass.—
Me, whom the moon, or candle's paler gleam,
Whose wick I husband to the last extreme,
Guides through the gloom, he braves, devoid of fear:
The prelude to our doughty quarrel hear,
If that be deem'd a quarrel, where, heaven knows,
He only gives, and I receive, the blows!
Across my path he strides, and bids me Stand!
I bow, obsequious to the dread command;
What else remains, where madness, rage, combine
With youth, and strength superiour far to mine?
And only, when no brawls await them, wake:
133
All contest with the purple robe decline;
Securely give the lengthen'd train to pass,
The sun-bright flambeaux, and the lamps of brass.—
134
Whose wick I husband to the last extreme,
Guides through the gloom, he braves, devoid of fear:
The prelude to our doughty quarrel hear,
If that be deem'd a quarrel, where, heaven knows,
He only gives, and I receive, the blows!
Across my path he strides, and bids me Stand!
I bow, obsequious to the dread command;
What else remains, where madness, rage, combine
With youth, and strength superiour far to mine?
“Whence come you, rogue?” he cries; “whose beans, to-night,
Have stuff'd you, thus? what cobler clubb'd his mite,
For leeks, and sheep's-head porridge? Dumb! quite dumb!
Speak, or be kick'd.—Yet, once again! your home?
Where shall I find you? At what beggar's stand,
(Temple, or bridge) whimp'ring, with outstretch'd hand?”
Have stuff'd you, thus? what cobler clubb'd his mite,
For leeks, and sheep's-head porridge? Dumb! quite dumb!
Speak, or be kick'd.—Yet, once again! your home?
Where shall I find you? At what beggar's stand,
(Temple, or bridge) whimp'ring, with outstretch'd hand?”
Whether I strive some humble plea to frame,
Or steal in silence by, 'tis just the same;
I'm beaten first, then dragg'd in rage away;
Bound to the peace, or punish'd for the fray!
Or steal in silence by, 'tis just the same;
I'm beaten first, then dragg'd in rage away;
Bound to the peace, or punish'd for the fray!
Mark here the boasted freedom of the poor!
Beaten and bruis'd, that goodness to adore,
Which, at their humble prayer, suspends its ire,
And sends them home, with yet a bone entire!
Beaten and bruis'd, that goodness to adore,
Which, at their humble prayer, suspends its ire,
And sends them home, with yet a bone entire!
135
Nor this the worst; for when deep midnight reigns,
And bolts secure our doors, and massy chains,
When noisy inns a transient silence keep,
And harass'd nature woos the balm of sleep,
Then, thieves and murderers ply their dreadful trade;
With stealthy steps our secret couch invade:—
Roused from the treacherous calm, aghast we start,
And the flesh'd sword—is buried in our heart!
And bolts secure our doors, and massy chains,
When noisy inns a transient silence keep,
And harass'd nature woos the balm of sleep,
Then, thieves and murderers ply their dreadful trade;
With stealthy steps our secret couch invade:—
Roused from the treacherous calm, aghast we start,
And the flesh'd sword—is buried in our heart!
Hither from bogs, from rocks, and caves pursued,
(The Pontine marsh, and Gallinarian wood,)
The dark assassins flock, as to their home,
And fill with dire alarms the streets of Rome.
Such countless multitudes our peace annoy,
That bolts and shackles every forge employ,
And cause so wide a waste, the country fears
A want of ore for mattocks, rakes, and shares.
(The Pontine marsh, and Gallinarian wood,)
The dark assassins flock, as to their home,
And fill with dire alarms the streets of Rome.
Such countless multitudes our peace annoy,
That bolts and shackles every forge employ,
And cause so wide a waste, the country fears
A want of ore for mattocks, rakes, and shares.
136
O! happy were our sires, estranged from crimes;
And happy, happy, were the good old times,
Which saw, beneath their kings, their tribunes' reign,
One cell the nation's criminals contain!
And happy, happy, were the good old times,
Which saw, beneath their kings, their tribunes' reign,
One cell the nation's criminals contain!
Much could I add, more reasons could I cite,
If time were ours, to justify my flight;
But see! the impatient team is moving on,
The sun declining; and I must be gone:
Long since, the driver murmur'd at my stay,
And jerk'd his whip, to beckon me away.
Farewell, my friend! with this embrace we part:
Cherish my memory ever in your heart;
And when, from crowds and business, you repair,
To breathe at your Aquinum, freer air,
Fail not to draw me from my loved retreat,
To Elvine Ceres, and Diana's seat:—
For your bleak hills my Cumæ I'll resign,
And (if you blush not at such aid as mine)
Come well equipp'd, to wage, in angry rhymes,
Fierce war, with you, on follies and on crimes.
If time were ours, to justify my flight;
But see! the impatient team is moving on,
The sun declining; and I must be gone:
Long since, the driver murmur'd at my stay,
And jerk'd his whip, to beckon me away.
Farewell, my friend! with this embrace we part:
Cherish my memory ever in your heart;
And when, from crowds and business, you repair,
To breathe at your Aquinum, freer air,
Fail not to draw me from my loved retreat,
To Elvine Ceres, and Diana's seat:—
137
And (if you blush not at such aid as mine)
Come well equipp'd, to wage, in angry rhymes,
Fierce war, with you, on follies and on crimes.
| The Satires of Decimus Junius Juvenalis | |