No More Learning

two! 930
"Nay, seven, had seven been mine: believe it true! "
Now let us credit what the tragic stage
Displays of Progne and Medea's rage;
Crimes of dire name, which, disbelieved of yore,
Become familiar, and revolt no more; 935
Those ancient dames in scenes of blood were bold,
And wrought fell deeds, but not, as ours, for gold:--
In every age, we view, with less surprise,
Such horrors as from bursts of fury rise,
When stormy passions, scorning all control, 940
Rend the mad bosom, and unseat the soul.
As when impetuous winds, and driving rain,
Mine some huge rock that overhangs the plain,
The cumbrous mass descends with thundering force,
And spreads resistless ruin in its course. 945
Curse on the woman, who reflects by fits,
And in cold blood her cruelties commits! --
They see, upon the stage, the Grecian wife
Redeeming with her own her husband's life;
Yet, in her place, would willingly deprive 950
Their lords of breath to keep their dogs alive!
Abroad, at home, the Belides you meet,
And Clytemnestras swarm in every street;
But here the difference lies:--those bungling wives,
With a blunt axe hacked out their husbands' lives; 955
While now, the deed is done with dexterous art,
And a drugged bowl performs the axe's part.
Yet, if the husband, prescient of his fate,
Have fortified his breast with mithridate,
She baffles him e'en there, and has recourse 960
To the old weapon for a last resource.


SATIRE VII.

TO TELESINUS.

Yes, all the hopes of learning, 'tis confess'd,
And all the patronage, on CÆSAR rest:
For he alone the drooping Nine regards--
When, now, our best, and most illustrious bards,
Quit their ungrateful studies, and retire, 5
Bagnios and bakehouses, for bread, to hire;
With humbled views, a life of toil embrace,
And deem a crier's business no disgrace;
Since Clio, driven by hunger from the shade,
Mixes in crowds, and bustles for a trade. 10
And truly, if (the bard's too frequent curse)
No coin be found in your Pierian purse,
'Twere not ill done to copy, for the nonce,
Machæra, and turn auctioneer at once.
Hie, my poetic friend; in accents loud, 15
Commend your precious lumber to the crowd,
Old tubs, stools, presses, wrecks of many a chest,
Paccius' damned plays, Thebes, Tereus, and the rest. --
And better so--than haunt the courts of law,
And swear, for hire, to what you never saw: 20
Leave this resource to Cappadocian knights,
To Gallogreeks, and such new-fangled wights,
As want, or infamy, has chased from home,
And driven, in barefoot multitudes, to Rome.
Come, my brave youths! --the genuine sons of rhyme, 25
Who, in sweet numbers, couch the true sublime,
Shall, from this hour, no more their fate accuse,
Or stoop to pains unworthy of the Muse.
Come, my brave youths! your tuneful labors ply,
Secure of favor; lo! the imperial eye 30
Looks round, attentive, on each rising bard,
For worth to praise, for genius to reward!
But if for other patronage you look,
And therefore write, and therefore swell your book,
Quick, call for wood, and let the flames devour 35
The hapless produce of the studious hour;
Or lock it up, to moths and worms a prey,
And break your pens, and fling your ink away:--
Or pour it rather o'er your epic flights,
Your battles, sieges (fruit of sleepless nights), 40
Pour it, mistaken men, who rack your brains
In dungeons, cocklofts, for heroic strains;
Who toil and sweat to purchase mere renown,
A meagre statue, and an ivy crown!
Here bound your expectations: for the great, 45
Grown, wisely, covetous, have learned, of late,
To praise, and ONLY praise, the high-wrought strain,
As boys, the bird of Juno's glittering train.
Meanwhile those vigorous years, so fit to bear
The toils of agriculture, commerce, war, 50
Spent in this idle trade, decline apace,
And age, unthought of, stares you in the face:--
O then, appalled to find your better days
Have earned you naught but poverty and praise,
At all your barren glories you repine, 55
And curse, too late, the unavailing Nine!
Hear, now, what sneaking ways your patrons find,
To save their darling gold:--they pay in kind!
Verses, composed in every Muse's spite,
To the starved bard, they, in their turn, recite; 60
And, if they yield to Homer, let him know,
'Tis--that he lived a thousand years ago!
But if, inspired with genuine love of fame,
A dry rehearsal only be your aim,
The miser's breast with sudden warmth dilates, 65
And lo! he opes his triple-bolted gates;
Nay, sends his clients to support your cause,
And rouse the tardy audience to applause:
But will not spare one farthing to defray
The numerous charges of this glorious day, 70
The desk where, throned in conscious pride, you sit,
The joists and beams, the orchestra and the pit.
Still we persist; plow the light sand, and sow
Seed after seed, where none can ever grow:
Nay, should we, conscious of our fruitless pain, 75
Strive to escape, we strive, alas! in vain;
Long habit and the thirst of praise beset,
And close us in the inextricable net.
The insatiate itch of scribbling, hateful pest,
Creeps like a tetter, through the human breast, 80
Nor knows, nor hopes a cure; since years, which chill
All other passions, but inflame the ill!
But HE, the bard of every age and clime,
Of genius fruitful, ardent and sublime,
Who, from the glowing mint of fancy, pours 85
No spurious metal, fused from common ores,
But gold, to matchless purity refined,
And stamped with all the godhead in his mind;
He whom I feel, but want the power to paint,
Springs from a soul impatient of restraint, 90
And free from every care; a soul that loves
The Muse's haunts, clear founts and shady groves.
Never, no never, did He wildly rave,
And shake his thyrsus in the Aonian cave,
Whom poverty kept sober, and the cries 95
Of a lean stomach, clamorous for supplies:
No; the wine circled briskly through the veins,
When Horace poured his dithyrambic strains! --
What room for fancy, say, unless the mind,
And all its thoughts, to poesy resigned, 100
Be hurried with resistless force along,
By the two kindred Powers of Wine and Song!
O! 'tis the exclusive business of a breast
Impetuous, uncontrolled--not one distress'd
With household cares, to view the bright abodes, 105
The steeds, the chariots, and the forms of gods:
And the fierce Fury, as her snakes she shook,
And withered the Rutulian with a look!
Those snakes, had Virgil no Mæcenas found, }
Had dropp'd, in listless length, upon the ground; } 110
And the still slumbering trump, groaned with no mortal sound. }
Yet we expect, from Lappa's tragic rage,
Such scenes as graced, of old, the Athenian stage;
Though he, poor man, from hand to mouth be fed,
And driven to pawn his furniture for bread! 115
When Numitor is asked to serve a friend,
"He can not; he is poor. " Yet he can send
Rich presents to his mistress! he can buy
Tame lions, and find means to keep them high!
What then? the beasts are still the lightest charge; 120
For your starved bards have maws so devilish large!
Stretched in his marble palace, at his ease,
Lucan may write, and only ask to please;
But what is this, if this be all you give,
To Bassus and Serranus? They must live! 125
When Statius fixed a morning, to recite
His Thebaid to the town, with what delight
They flocked to hear! with what fond rapture hung
On the sweet strains, made sweeter by his tongue!
Yet, while the seats rung with a general peal 130
Of boisterous praise, the bard had lacked a meal,
Unless with Paris he had better sped,
And trucked a virgin tragedy for bread.
Mirror of men! he showers, with liberal hands,
On needy poets, honors and commands:-- 135
An actor's patronage a peer's outgoes,
And what the last withholds, the first bestows!
--And will you still on Camerinus wait,
And Bareas? will you still frequent the great?
Ah, rather to the player your labors take, 140
And at one lucky stroke your fortune make!
Yet envy not the man who earns hard bread
By tragedy: the Muses' friends are fled! --
Mæcenas, Proculeius, Fabius, gone,
And Lentulus, and Cotta--every one! 145
THEN worth was cherished, then the bard might toil,
Secure of favor, o'er the midnight oil;
Then all December's revelries refuse,
And give the festive moments to the Muse.
So fare the tuneful race: but ampler gains 150
Await, no doubt, the grave HISTORIANS' pains!
More time, more study they require, and pile
Page upon page, heedless of bulk the while,
Till, fact conjoined to fact with thought intense,
The work is closed, at many a ream's expense! 155
Say now, what harvest was there ever found,
What golden crop, from this long-labored ground?
'Tis barren all; and one poor plodding scribe
Gets more by framing pleas than all the tribe.
True:--'tis a slothful breed, that, nursed in ease, 160
Soft beds, and whispering shades, alone can please.
Say then, what gain the LAWYER'S toil affords,
His sacks of papers, and his war of words?
Heavens! how he bellows in our tortured ears;
But then, then chiefly, when the client hears, 165
Or one prepared, with vouchers, to attest
Some desperate debt, more anxious than the rest,
Twitches his elbow: then, his passions rise!
Then, forth he puffs the immeasurable lies
From his swollen lungs! then, the white foam appears, 170
And, driveling down his beard, his vest besmears!
Ask you the profit of this painful race?
'Tis quickly summed: Here, the joint fortunes place
Of five-score lawyers; there, Lacerta's sole--
And that one charioteer's, shall poise the whole! 175
The Generals take their seats in regal wise.
You, my pale Ajax, watch the hour, and rise,
In act to plead a trembling client's cause,
Before Judge Jolthead--learned in the laws.
Now stretch your throat, unhappy man! now raise 180
Your clamors, that, when hoarse, a bunch of bays,
Stuck in your garret window, may declare,
That some victorious pleader nestles there!
O glorious hour! but what your fee, the while?
A rope of shriveled onions from the Nile, 185
A rusty ham, a jar of broken sprats,
And wine, the refuse of our country vats;
Five flagons for four causes! if you hold,
Though this indeed be rare, a piece of gold;
The brethren, _as per contract_, on you fall, 190
And share the prize, solicitors and all!
Whate'er he asks, Æmilius may command,
Though more of law be ours: but lo! there stand
Before his gate, conspicuous from afar,
Four stately steeds, yoked to a brazen car: 195
And the great pleader, looking wary round,
On a fierce charger that disdains the ground,
Levels his threatening spear, in act to throw,
And seems to meditate no common blow.
Such arts as these, to beggary Matho brought, 200
And such the ruin of Tongillus wrought,
Who, with his troop of slaves, a draggled train,
Annoyed the baths, of his huge oil-horn vain;
Swept through the Forum, in a chair of state,
To every auction--villas, slaves, or plate; 205
And, trading on the credit of his dress,
Cheapened whate'er he saw, though penniless!
And some, indeed, have thriven by tricks like these:
Purple and violet swell a lawyer's fees;
Bustle and show above his means conduce 210
To business, and profusion proves of use.
The vice is universal: Rome confounds
The wealthiest;--prodigal beyond all bounds!
Could our old pleaders visit earth again,
Tully himself would scarce a brief obtain, 215
Unless his robe were purple, and a stone,
Diamond or ruby, on his finger shone.
The wary plaintiff, ere a fee he gives,
Inquires at what expense his counsel lives;
Has he eight slaves, ten followers? chairs to wait, 220
And clients to precede his march in state?
This Paulus knows full well, and, therefore, hires
A ring to plead in; therefore, too, acquires
More briefs than Cossus:--preference not unsound,
For how should eloquence in rags be found? 225
Who gives poor Basilus a cause of state?
When, to avert a trembling culprit's fate,
Shows he a weeping mother? or who heeds
How close he argues, and how well he pleads?
Unhappy Basilus! --but he is wrong: 230
Would he procure subsistence by his tongue,
Let him renounce the forum, and withdraw
To Gaul, or Afric, the dry-nurse of law.
But Vectius, yet more desperate than the rest,
Has opened (O that adamantine breast! ) 235
A RHETORIC school; where striplings rave and storm
At tyranny, through many a crowded form. --
The exercises lately, sitting, read,
Standing, distract his miserable head,
And every day and every hour affords 240
The selfsame subjects, in the selfsame words;
Till, like hashed cabbage served for each repast,
The repetition--kills the wretch at last!
Where the main jet of every question lies,
And whence the chief objections may arise, 245
All wish to know; but none the price will pay.
"The price," retorts the scholar, "do you say!
What have I learned? " There go the master's pains,
Because, forsooth, the Arcadian brute lacks brains!
And yet this oaf, every sixth morn, prepares 250
To split my head with Hannibal's affairs,
While he debates at large, "Whether 'twere right
To take advantage of the general fright,
And march to Rome; or, by the storm alarmed,
And all the elements against him armed, 255
The dangerous expedition to delay,
And lead his harassed troops some other way. "
--Sick of the theme, which still returns, and still
The exhausted wretch exclaims, Ask what you will,
I'll give it, so you on his sire prevail, 260
To hear, thus oft, the booby's endless tale!
So Vectius speeds: his brethren, wiser far,
Have shut up school, and hurried to the bar.
Adieu the idle fooleries of Greece,
The soporific drug, the golden fleece, 265
The faithless husband, and the abandoned wife,
And Æson, coddled to new light and life,
A long adieu! on more productive themes,
On actual crimes, the sophist now declaims:
Thou too, my friend, would'st thou my counsel hear, 270
Should'st free thyself from this ungrateful care;
Lest all be lost, and thou reduced, poor sage,
To want a tally in thy helpless age!
Bread still the lawyer earns; but tell me yet,
What your Chrysogonus and Pollio get 275
(The chief of rhetoricians), though they teach
Our youth of quality, THE ART OF SPEECH?
Oh, no! the great pursue a nobler end:--
Five thousand on a bath they freely spend;
More on a portico, where, while it lours, 280
They ride, and bid defiance to the showers.
Shall they, for brighter skies, at home remain,
Or dash their pampered mules through mud and rain?
No: let them pace beneath the stately roof,
For there no mire can soil the shining hoof. 285
See next, on proud Numidian columns rise
An eating-room, that fronts the eastern skies,
And drinks the cooler sun. Expensive these!
But (cost whate'er they may), the times to please,
Sewers for arrangement of the board admired, 290
And cooks of taste and skill must yet be hired.
Mid this extravagance, which knows no bounds,
Quintilian gets, and hardly gets, ten pounds:--
On education all is grudged as lost,
And sons are still a father's lightest cost. 295
Whence has Quintilian, then, his vast estate?
Urge not an instance of peculiar fate:
Perhaps, by luck. The lucky, I admit,
Have all advantages; have beauty, wit,
And wisdom, and high blood: the lucky, too, 300
May take, at will, the senatorial shoe;
Be first-rate speakers, pleaders, every thing;
And, though they croak like frogs, be thought to sing.
O, there's a difference, friend, beneath what sign
We spring to light, or kindly or malign! 305
FORTUNE IS ALL: She, as the fancy springs,
Makes kings of pedants, and of pedants kings.
For, what were Tullius, and Ventidius, say,
But great examples of the wondrous sway
Of stars, whose mystic influence alone, 310
Bestows, on captives triumphs, slaves a throne?
He, then, is lucky; and, amid the clan,
Ranks with the milk-white crow, or sable swan:
While all his hapless brethren count their gains,
And execrate, too late, their fruitless pains. 315
Witness thy end, Thrasymachus! and thine,
Unblest Charinas! --Thou beheld'st him pine,
Thou, Athens! and would'st naught but bane bestow;
The only charity--thou seem'st to know!
Shades of our sires! O, sacred be your rest, 320
And lightly lie the turf upon your breast!
Flowers round your urns breathe sweets beyond compare,
And spring eternal shed its influence there!
You honored tutors, now a slighted race,
And gave them all a parent's power and place. 325
Achilles, grown a man, the lyre assayed
On his paternal hills, and, while he played,
With trembling eyed the rod;--and yet, the tail
Of the good Centaur, scarcely, then, could fail
To force a smile: such reverence now is rare, 330
And boys with bibs strike Rufus on his chair,
Fastidious Rufus, who, with critic rage,
Arraigned the purity of Tully's page!
Enough of these. Let the last wretched band,
The poor GRAMMARIANS, say, what liberal hand 335
Rewards their toil: let learned Palæmon tell,
Who proffers what his skill deserves so well.
Yet from this pittance, whatsoe'er it be
(Less, surely, than the rhetorician's fee),
The usher snips off something for his pains, 340
And the purveyor nibbles what remains.
Courage, Palæmon! be not over-nice,
But suffer some abatement in your price;
As those who deal in rugs, will ask you high,
And sink by pence and half-pence, till you buy. 345
Yes, suffer this; while something's left to pay
Your rising hours before the dawn of day,
When e'en the laboring poor their slumbers take,
And not a weaver, not a smith's awake:
While something's left to pay you for the stench 350
Of smouldering lamps, thick spread o'er every bench,
Where ropy vapors Virgil's pages soil,
And Horace looks one blot, all soot and oil!
Even then, the stipend thus reduced, thus small,
Without a lawsuit, rarely comes at all. 355
Add yet, ye parents, add to the disgrace,
And heap new hardships on this wretched race.
Make it a point that all, and every part,
Of their own science, be possessed by heart;
That general history with our own they blend, 360
And have all authors at their fingers' end:
Still ready to inform you, should you meet,
And ask them at the bath, or in the street,
Who nursed Anchises; from what country came
The step-dame of Archemorus, what her name; 365
How long Acestes flourished, and what store
Of generous wine the Phrygians from him bore--
Make it a point too, that, like ductile clay,
They mould the tender mind, and day by day
Bring out the form of Virtue; that they prove 370
A father to the youths, in care and love;
And watch that no obscenities prevail--
And trust me, friend, even Argus' self might fail,
The busy hands of schoolboys to espy,
And the lewd fires which twinkle in their eye. 375
All this, and more, exact; and, having found
The man you seek, say--When the year comes round,
We'll give thee for thy twelve months' anxious pains,
As much--as, IN AN HOUR, A FENCER GAINS!


SATIRE VIII.

TO PONTICUS.

"Your ancient house! " no more. --I can not see
The wondrous merits of a pedigree:
No, Ponticus;--nor of a proud display
Of smoky ancestors, in wax or clay;
Æmilius, mounted on his car sublime, 5
Curius, half wasted by the teeth of time,
Corvinus, dwindled to a shapeless bust,
And high-born Galba, crumbling into dust.
What boots it, on the LINEAL TREE to trace,
Through many a branch, the founders of our race, 10
Time-honored chiefs; if, in their sight, we give
A loose to vice, and like low villains live?
Say, what avails it, that, on either hand,
The stern Numantii, an illustrious band,
Frown from the walls, if their degenerate race 15
Waste the long night at dice, before their face?
If, staggering, to a drowsy bed they creep,
At that prime hour when, starting from their sleep,
Their sires the signal of the fight unfurled,
And drew their legions forth, and won the world? 20
Say, why should Fabius, of the Herculean name,
To the GREAT ALTAR vaunt his lineal claim,
If, softer than Euganean lambs, the youth,
His wanton limbs, with Ætna's pumice, smooth,
And shame his rough-hewn sires? if greedy, vain, 25
If, a vile trafficker in secret bane,
He blast his wretched kindred with a bust,
For public vengeance to--reduce to dust!
Fond man! though all the heroes of your line
Bedeck your halls, and round your galleries shine 30
In proud display; yet, take this truth from me,
VIRTUE ALONE IS TRUE NOBILITY.
Set Cossus, Drusus, Paulus, then, in view,
The bright example of their lives pursue;
Let these precede the statues of your race, 35
And these, when Consul, of your rods take place.
O give me inborn worth! dare to be just,
Firm to your word, and faithful to your trust:
These praises hear, at least deserve to hear,
I grant your claim, and recognize the peer. 40
Hail! from whatever stock you draw your birth,
The son of Cossus, or the son of Earth,
All hail! in you, exulting Rome espies
Her guardian Power, her great Palladium rise;
And shouts like Egypt, when her priests have found, 45
A new Osiris, for the old one drowned!
But shall we call those noble, who disgrace
Their lineage, proud of an illustrious race?
Vain thought! --but thus, with many a taunting smile,
The dwarf an Atlas, Moor a swan, we style; 50
The crookbacked wench, Europa; and the hound,
With age enfeebled, toothless, and unsound,
That listless lies, and licks the lamps for food,
Lord of the chase, and tyrant of the wood!
You, too, beware, lest Satire's piercing eye 55
The slave of guilt through grandeur's blaze espy,
And, drawing from your crime some sounding name,
Declare at once your greatness and your shame.
Ask you for whom this picture I design?
Plautus, thy birth and folly make it thine. 60
Thou vaunt'st thy pedigree, on every side
To noble and imperial blood allied;
As if thy honors by thyself were won,
And thou hadst some illustrious action done,
To make the world believe thee Julia's heir, 65
And not the offspring of some easy fair,
Who, shivering in the wind, near yon dead wall,
Plies her vile labor, and is all to all.
"Away, away! ye slaves of humblest birth,
Ye dregs of Rome, ye nothings of the earth, 70
Whose fathers who shall tell! my ancient line
Descends from Cecrops. " Man of blood divine!
Live, and enjoy the secret sweets which spring
In breasts, affined to so remote a king! --
Yet know, amid these "dregs," low grandeur's scorn, 75
Will those be found whom arts and arms adorn:
Some, skilled to plead a noble blockhead's cause,
And solve the dark enigmas of the laws;
Some, who the Tigris' hostile banks explore,
And plant our eagles on Batavia's shore: 80
While thou, in mean, inglorious pleasure lost,
With "Cecrops! Cecrops! " all thou hast to boast,
Art a full brother to the crossway stone,
Which clowns have chipped the head of Hermes on:
For 'tis no bar to kindred, that thy block 85
Is formed of flesh and blood, and theirs of rock.
Of beasts, great son of Troy, who vaunts the breed,
Unless renowned for courage, strength, or speed?
'Tis thus we praise the horse, who mocks our eyes,
While, to the goal, with lightning's speed, he flies! 90
Whom many a well-earned palm and trophy grace,
And the Cirque hails, unrivaled in the race!
--Yes, he is noble, spring from whom he will,
Whose footsteps, in the dust, are foremost still;
While Hirpine's stock are to the market led, 95
If Victory perch but rarely on their head:
For no respect to pedigree is paid,
No honor to a sire's illustrious shade.
Flung cheaply off, they drag the cumbrous wain,
With shoulders bare and bleeding from the chain; 100
Or take, with some blind ass in concert found,
At Nepo's mill, their everlasting round.
That Rome may, therefore, YOU, not YOURS, admire,
By virtuous actions, first, to praise aspire;
Seek not to shine by borrowed light alone, 105
But with your father's glories blend your own.
THIS to the youth, whom Rumor brands as vain,
And swelling--full of his Neronian strain;
Perhaps, with truth:--for rarely shall we find
A sense of modesty in that proud kind. 110
But were my Ponticus content to raise
His honors thus, on a forefather's praise,
Worthless the while--'twould tinge my cheeks with shame--
'Tis dangerous building on another's fame,
Lest the substructure fail, and on the ground 115
Your baseless pile be hurled, in fragments, round. --
Stretched on the plain, the vine's weak tendrils try
To clasp the elm they drop from; fail--and die!
Be brave, be just; and when your country's laws
Call you to witness in a dubious cause, 120
Though Phalaris plant his bull before your eye,
And, frowning, dictate to your lips the lie,
Think it a crime no tears can e'er efface,
To purchase safety with compliance base,
At honor's cost a feverish span extend, 125
AND SACRIFICE FOR LIFE, LIFE'S ONLY END!
LIFE! 'tis not life--who merits death is dead;
Though Gauran oysters for his feasts be spread,
Though his limbs drip with exquisite perfume,
And the late rose around his temples bloom! 130
O, when the province, long desired, you gain,
Your boiling rage, your lust of wealth, restrain,
And pity our allies: all Asia grieves--
Her blood, her marrow, drained by legal thieves.
Revere the laws, obey the parent state; 135
Observe what rich rewards the good await.
What punishments the bad: how Tutor sped,
While Rome's whole thunder rattled round his head!
And yet what boots it, that one spoiler bleed,
If still a worse, and still a worse succeed; 140
If neither fear nor shame control their theft,
And Pansa seize the little Natta left?
Haste then, Chærippus, ere thy rags be known,
And sell the few thou yet canst call thine own,
And O, conceal the price! 'tis honest craft; 145
Thou could'st not keep the hatchet--save the haft.
Not such the cries of old, nor such the stroke,
When first the nations bowed beneath our yoke.
Wealth, then, was theirs, wealth without fear possess'd,
Full every house, and bursting every chest-- 150
Crimson, in looms of Sparta taught to glow,
And purple, deeply dyed in grain of Co;
Busts, to which Myro's touch did motion give,
And ivory, taught by Phidias' skill to live;
On every side a Polyclete you viewed, 155
And scarce a board without a Mentor stood.
These, these, the lust of rapine first inspired,
These, Antony and Dolabella fired.
And sacrilegious Verres:--so, for Rome
They shipped their secret plunder; and brought home 160
More treasures from our friends, in peace obtained,
Than from our foes, in war, were ever gained!
Now all is gone! the stallion made a prey,
The few brood mares and oxen swept away,
The Lares--if the sacred hearth possess'd } 165
One little god, that pleased above the rest-- }
Mean spoils, indeed! but such were now their best }
Perhaps you scorn (and may securely scorn)
The essenced Greek, whom arts, not arms, adorn:
Soft limbs, and spirits by refinement broke, 170
Would feebly struggle with the oppressive yoke.
But spare the Gaul, the fierce Illyrian spare,
And the rough Spaniard, terrible in war;
Spare too the Afric hind, whose ceaseless pain
Fills our wide granaries with autumnal grain, 175
And pampers Rome, while weightier cares engage
Her precious hours--the Circus and the Stage!
For, should you rifle them, O think in time,
What spoil would pay the execrable crime,
When greedy Marius fleeced them all so late, 180
And bare and bleeding left the hapless state!
But chief the brave, and wretched--tremble there;
Nor tempt too far the madness of despair:
For, should you all their little treasures drain,
Helmets, and spears, and swords, would still remain; 185
THE PLUNDERED NE'ER WANT ARMS. What I foretell }
Is no trite apophthegm, but--mark me well-- }
True as a Sibyl's leaf! fixed as an oracle! }
If men of worth the posts beneath you hold,
And no spruce favorite barter law for gold; 190
If no inherent stain your wife disgrace,
Nor, harpy-like, she flit from place to place,
A fell Celæno, ever on the watch,
And ever furious, all she sees to snatch;
Then choose what race you will: derive your birth 195
From Picus, or those elder sons of earth,
Who shook the throne of heaven; call him your sire,
Who first informed our clay with living fire;
Or single from the songs of ancient days,
What tale may suit you, and what parent raise. 200
But--if rash pride, and lust, your bosom sway,
If, with stern joy, you ply, from day to day
The ensanguined rods, and head on head demand,
Till the tired axe drop from the lictor's hand;
Then, every honor, by your father won, 205
Indignant to be borne by such a son,
Will, to his blood, oppose your daring claim,
And fire a torch to blaze upon your shame!
--
Vice glares more strongly in the public eye,
As he who sins, in power or place is high. 210
SEE! by his great progenitors' remains
Fat Damasippus sweeps, with loosened reins.
Good Consul! he no pride of office feels,
But stoops, himself, to clog his headlong wheels.
"But this is all by night," the hero cries. 215
Yet the MOON sees! yet the STARS stretch their eyes,
Full on your shame! --A few short moments wait,
And Damasippus quits the pomp of state:
Then, proud the experienced driver to display,
He mounts his chariot in the face of day, 220
Whirls, with bold front, his grave associate by,
And jerks his whip, to catch the senior's eye:
Unyokes his weary steeds, and, to requite
Their service, feeds and litters them, at night.
Meanwhile, 'tis all he can, what time he stands 225
At Jove's high altar, as the law commands,
And offers sheep and oxen, he forswears
The Eternal King, and gives his silent prayers
To thee, Hippona, goddess of the stalls,
And gods more vile, daubed on the reeking walls! 230
At night, to his old haunts he scours, elate
(The tavern by the Idumean gate),
Where, while the host, bedrenched with liquid sweets,
With many a courteous phrase his entrance greets,
And many a smile; the hostess nimbly moves, 235
And gets the flagon ready, which he loves.
Here some, perhaps, my growing warmth may blame:
"In youth's wild hours," they urge, "we did the same. "
'Tis granted, friends; but then we stopped in time,
Nor hugged our darling faults beyond our prime. 240
Brief let our follies be! and youthful sin
Fall, with the firstlings of the manly chin! --
Boys we may pity, nay, perhaps, excuse:
But Damasippus STILL frequents the stews,
Though now mature in vigor, ripe in age, 245
Of Cæsar's foes to check the headlong rage,
On Tigris' banks, in burnished arms, to shine,
And sternly guard the Danube, or the Rhine.
"The East revolts. " Ho! let the troops repair
To Ostium, quick! "But where's the General? " Where! 250
Go, search the taverns; there the chief you'll find,
With cut-throats, plunderers, rogues of every kind,
Bier-jobbers, bargemen, drenched in fumes of wine,
And Cybele's priests, mid their loose drums, supine!
There none are less, none greater than the rest, 255
There my lord gives, and takes the scurvy jest;
There all who can, round the same table sprawl.
And there one greasy tankard serves for all.
Blessings of birth! --but, Ponticus, a word:
Owned you a slave like this degenerate lord, 260
What were his fate? your Lucan farm to till,
Or aid the mules to turn your Tuscan mill.
But Troy's great sons dispense with being good,
And boldly sin by courtesy of blood;
Wink at each other's crimes, and look for fame 265
In what would tinge a cobbler's cheek with shame.
And have I wreaked on such foul deeds my rage,
That worse should yet remain to blot my page! --
See Damasippus, all his fortune lost,
Compelled, for hire, to play a squealing ghost! 270
While Lentulus, his brother in renown,
Performs, with so much art, the perjured clown,
And suffers with such grace, that, for his pains,
I hold him worthy of--the CROSS he feigns.
Nor deem the heedless rabble void of blame:-- 275
Strangers alike to decency and shame,
They sit with brazen front, and calmly see
The hired patrician's low buffoonery;
Laugh at the Fabii's tricks, and grin to hear
The cuffs resound from the Mamerci's ear! 280
Who cares how low their blood is sold, how high? --
No Nero drives them, now, their fate to try:
Freely they come, and freely they expose
Their lives for hire, to grace the public shows!
But grant the worst: suppose the arena here, 285
And there the stage; on which would you appear?
The first: for who of death so much in dread,
As not to tremble more, the stage to tread,
Squat on his hams, in some blind nook to sit,
And watch his mistress, in a jealous fit! -- 290
But 'tis not strange, that, when the Emperor tunes
A scurvy harp, the lords should turn buffoons;
The wonder is, they turn not fencers too,
Secutors, Retiarians--AND THEY DO!
Gracchus steps forth: No sword his thigh invests-- 295
No helmet, shield--such armor he detests,
Detests and spurns; and impudently stands,
With the poised net and trident in his hands.
The foe advances--lo! a cast he tries,
But misses, and in frantic terror flies 300
Round the thronged Cirque; and, anxious to be known,
Lifts his bare face, with many a piteous moan.
"'Tis he! 'tis he! --I know the Salian vest,
With golden fringes, pendent from the breast;
The Salian bonnet, from whose pointed crown 305
The glittering ribbons float redundant down.
O spare him, spare! "--The brave Secutor heard,
And, blushing, stopped the chase; for he preferred
Wounds, death itself, to the contemptuous smile,
Of conquering one so noble, and--so vile! 310
Who, Nero, so depraved, if choice were free,
To hesitate 'twixt Seneca and thee?
Whose crimes, so much have they all crimes outgone,
Deserve more serpents, apes, and sacks, than one.
Not so, thou say'st; there are, whom I could name, 315
As deep in guilt, and as accursed in fame;
Orestes slew HIS mother. True; but know,
The same effects from different causes flow:
A father murdered at the social board,
And heaven's command, unsheathed his righteous sword. 320
Besides, Orestes, in his wildest mood,
Poisoned no cousin, shed no consort's blood,
Buried no poniard in a sister's throat,
Sung on no public stage, NO TROICS WROTE. --
THIS topped his frantic crimes! THIS roused mankind! 325
For what could Galba, what Virginius find,
In the dire annals of that bloody reign,
Which called for vengeance in a louder strain?
Lo here, the arts, the studies that engage
The world's great master! on a foreign stage, 330
To prostitute his voice for base renown,
And ravish, from the Greeks, a parsley crown!
Come then, great prince, great poet! while we throng
To greet thee, recent from triumphant song,
Come, place the unfading wreath, with reverence meet, 335
On the Domitii's brows! before their feet
The mask and pall of old Thyestes lay,
And Menalippé; while, in proud display,
From the colossal marble of thy sire,
Depends, the boast of Rome, thy conquering lyre! 340
Cethegus! Catiline! whose ancestors
Were nobler born, were higher ranked, than yours?
Yet ye conspired, with more than Gallic hate,
To wrap in midnight flames this hapless state;
On men and gods your barbarous rage to pour, 345
And deluge Rome with her own children's gore:
Horrors, which called, indeed, for vengeance dire,
For the pitched coat and stake, and smouldering fire!
But Tully watched--your league in silence broke,
And crushed your impious arms, without a stroke. 350
Yes he, poor Arpine, of no name at home,
And scarcely ranked among the knights at Rome,
Secured the trembling town, placed a firm guard
In every street, and toiled in every ward:--
And thus, within the walls, the GOWN obtained, 355
More fame, for Tully, than Octavius gained
At Actium and Philippi, from a SWORD,
Drenched in the eternal stream by patriots poured!
For Rome, free Rome, hailed him, with loud acclaim,
THE FATHER OF HIS COUNTRY--glorious name! 360
Another Arpine, trained the ground to till,
Tired of the plow, forsook his native hill,
And joined the camp; where, if his adze was slow,
The vine-twig whelked his back with many a blow:
And yet, when the fierce Cimbri threatened Rome 365
With swift, and scarcely evitable doom,
This man, in the dread hour, to save her rose,
And turned the impending ruin on her foes!
For which, while ravening birds devoured the slain,
And their huge bones lay whitening on the plain, 370
His high-born colleague to his worth gave way,
And took, well pleased, the secondary bay.
The Decii were plebeians! mean their name,
And mean the parent stock from which they came:
Yet they devoted, in the trying hour, 375
Their heads to Earth, and each infernal Power;
And by that solemn act, redeemed from fate, }
Auxiliars, legions, all the Latian state; }
More prized than those they saved, in heaven's just estimate! }
And him, who graced the purple which he wore 380
(The last good king of Rome), a bondmaid bore.
The Consul's sons (while storms yet shook the state,
And Tarquin thundered vengeance at the gate),
Who should, to crown the labors of their sire,
Have dared what Cocles, Mutius, might admire, 385
And she, who mocked the javelins whistling round,
And swam the Tiber, then the empire's bound;
Had to the tyrant's rage the town exposed,
But that a slave their dark designs disclosed. --
For Him, when stretched upon his honored bier, 390
The grateful matrons shed the pious tear,
While, with stern eye, the patriot and the sire
Saw, by the axe, the high-born pair expire:
They fell--just victims to the offended laws,
And the first sacrifice to FREEDOM'S cause! 395
For me, who naught but innate worth admire,
I'd rather vile Thersites were thy sire,
So thou wert like Achilles, and could'st wield
Vulcanian arms, the terror of the field,
Than that Achilles should thy father be, 400
And, in his offspring, vile Thersites see.
And yet, how high soe'er thy pride may trace
The long-forgotten founders of thy race,
Still must the search with that Asylum end,
From whose polluted source we all descend. 405
Haste then, the inquiry haste; secure to find
Thy sire some vagrant slave, some bankrupt hind,
Some--but I mark the kindling glow of shame,
And will not shock thee with a baser name.


SATIRE IX.

JUVENAL, NÆVOLUS.

Juv. still drooping, Nævolus! What, prithee, say,
Portends this show of grief from day to day,
This copy of flayed Marsyas? what dost thou
With such a rueful face, and such a brow,
As Ravola wore, when caught--Not so cast down 5
Looked Pollio, when, of late, he scoured the town,
And, proffering treble rate, from friend to friend,
Found none so foolish, none so mad, to lend!
But, seriously, for thine's a serious case,
Whence came those sudden wrinkles in thy face? 10
I knew thee once, a gay, light-hearted slave,
Contented with the little fortune gave;
A sprightly guest, of every table free,
And famed for modish wit and repartee.
Now all's reversed: dejected is thy mien, 15
Thy locks are like a tangled thicket seen;
And every limb, once smoothed with nicest care,
Rank with neglect, a shrubbery of hair!
What dost thou with that dull, dead, withered look,
Like some old debauchee, long ague-shook? 20
All is not well within; for, still we find
The face the unerring index of the mind,
And as THIS feels or fancies joys or woes,
THAT pales with sorrow, or with rapture glows.
What should I think? Too sure the scene is changed, 25
And thou from thy old course of life estranged:
For late, as I remember, at all haunts,
Where dames of fashion flock to hire gallants,
At Isis and at Ganymede's abodes,
At Cybele's, dread mother of the gods, 30
Nay, at chaste Ceres' (for at shame they spurn,
And even her temples now to brothels turn),
None was so famed: the favorites of the town,
Baffled alike in business and renown,
Murmuring retired; wives, daughters, were thy own, 35
And--if the truth MUST come--not THEY alone.
NÆV. Right: and to some this trade has answered yet;
But not to me: for what is all I get?
A drugget cloak, to save my gown from rain, }
Coarse in its texture, dingy in its grain, } 40
And a few pieces of the "second vein! " }
FATE GOVERNS ALL. Fate, with full sway, presides
Even o'er those parts, which modest nature hides;
And little, if her genial influence fail,
Will vigor stead, or boundless powers avail: 45
Though Virro, gloating on your naked charms,
Foam with desire, and woo you to his arms,
With many a soothing, many a flattering phrase--
For your cursed pathics have such winning ways!
Hear now this prodigy, this mass impure, 50
Of lust and avarice! "Let us, friend, be sure:
I've given thee this, and this;--now count the sums:"
(He counts, and woos the while), "behold! it comes
To five sestertia, five! --now, look again,
And see how much it overpays thy pain:" 55
What! "overpays? "--but you are formed for love,
And worthy of the cup and couch of Jove!
--Will those relieve a client! --those, who grudge
A wretched pittance to the painful drudge
That toils in their disease? --O mark, my friend, 60
The blooming youth, to whom we presents send,
Or on the Female Calends, or the day
Which gave him birth! in what a lady-way
He takes our favors as he sits in state,
And sees adoring crowds besiege his gate! 65
Insatiate sparrow! whom do your domains,
Your numerous hills await, your numerous plains?
Regions, that such a tract of land embrace,
That kites are tired within the unmeasured space!
For you the purple vine luxuriant glows, 70
On Trifoline's plain, and on Misenus' brows;
And hollow Gaurus, from his fruitful hills,
Your spacious vaults with generous nectar fills:
What were it, then, a few poor roods to grant
To one so worn with lechery and want? 75
Sure yonder female, with the child she bred,
The dog their playmate, and their little shed,
Had, with more justice, been conferred on me,
Than on a cymbal-beating debauchee!
"I'm troublesome," you say, when I apply, 80
"And give! give! give! is my eternal cry. "--
But house-rent due solicits to be sped,
And my sole slave, importunate for bread,
Follows me, clamoring in as loud a tone
As Polyphemus, when his prey was flown. 85
Nor will this one suffice, the toil's so great!
Another must be bought; and both must eat.
What shall I say, when cold December blows,
And their bare limbs shrink at the driving snows,
What shall I say, their drooping hearts to cheer? 90
"Be merry, boys, the spring will soon be here! "
But though my other merits you deny,
One yet must be allowed--that had not I,
I, your devoted client, lent my aid,
Your wife had to this hour remained a maid. 95
You know what motives urged me to the deed,
And what was promised, could I but succeed:--
Oft in my arms the flying fair I caught,
And back to your cold bed, reluctant, brought,
Even when she'd canceled all her former vows, 100
And now was signing to another spouse.
What pains it cost to set these matters right,
While you stood whimpering at the door all night,
I spare to tell:--a friend like me has tied
Full many a knot, when ready to divide. 105
Where will you turn you now, sir? whither fly?
What, to my charges, first, or last, reply?
Is it no merit, speak, ungrateful! none,
To give you thus a daughter, or a son,
Whom you may breed with credit at your board, 110
And prove yourself a man upon record? --
Haste, with triumphal wreaths your gates adorn,
You're now a father, now no theme for scorn;
My toils have ta'en the opprobrium from your name,
And stopp'd the babbling of malicious fame. 115
A parent's rights you now may proudly share,
Now, thank my industry, be named an heir;
Take now the whole bequest, with what beside,
From lucky windfalls, may in time betide;
And other blessings, if I but repeat 120
My pains, and make the number THREE complete.
JUV. Nay, thou hast reason to complain, I feel:
But, what says Virro?
NÆV. Not a syllable;
But, while my wrongs and I unnoticed pass,
Hunts out some other drudge, some two-legged ass. 125
Enough;--and never, on your life, unfold
The secret thus to you, in friendship told;
But let my injuries, undivulged, still rest
Within the closest chamber of your breast:
How the discovery might be borne, none knows-- 130
And your smooth pathics are such fatal foes!
Virro, who trusts me yet, may soon repent,
And hate me for the confidence he lent;
With fire and sword my wretched life pursue,
As if I'd blabbed already all I knew. 135
Sad situation mine! for, in your ear,
The rich can never buy revenge too dear;
And--but enough: be cautious, I entreat,
And secret as the Athenian judgment-seat.
JUV. And dost thou seriously believe, fond swain, 140
The actions of the great unknown remain?
Poor Corydon! even beasts would silence break,
And stocks and stones, if servants did not, speak.
Bolt every door, stop every cranny tight,
Close every window, put out every light; 145
Let not a whisper reach the listening ear,
No noise, no motion; let no soul be near;
Yet all that passed at the cock's second crow,
The neighboring vintner shall, ere daybreak, know;
With what besides the cook and carver's brain, 150
Subtly malicious, can in vengeance feign!
For thus they glory, with licentious tongue,
To quit the harsh command and galling thong.
Should these be mute, some drunkard in the streets
Will pour out all he knows to all he meets, 155
Force them, unwilling, the long tale to hear,
And with his stories drench their hapless ear.
Go now, and earnestly of those request,
To lock, like me, the secret in their breast:
Alas! they hear thee not; and will not sell 160
The dear, dear privilege--to see and tell,
For more stolen wine than late Saufeia boused,
When, for the people's welfare, she--caroused!
LIVE VIRTUOUSLY:--thus many a reason cries,
But chiefly this, that so thou may'st despise 165
Thy servant's tongue; for, lay this truth to heart,
The tongue is the vile servant's vilest part:
Yet viler he, who lives in constant dread
Of the domestic spies that--eat his bread.
NÆV. Well have you taught, how we may best disdain 170
The envenomed babbling of our household train;
But this is general, and to all applies:--
What, in my proper case, would you advise?
After such flattering expectations cross'd,
And so much time in vain dependence lost? 175
For youth, too transient flower! of life's short day
The shortest part, but blossoms--to decay.
Lo! while we give the unregarded hour
To revelry and joy, in Pleasure's bower,
While now for rosy wreaths our brows to twine, 180
And now for nymphs we call, and now for wine,
The noiseless foot of Time steals swiftly by,
And ere we dream of manhood, age is nigh!
JUV. Oh, fear not: thou canst never seek in vain
A pathic friend, while these seven hills remain. 185
Hither in crowds the master-misses come,
From every point, as to their proper home:
One hope has failed, another may succeed;
Meanwhile do thou on hot eringo feed.
NÆV. Tell this to happier men; the Fates ne'er meant 190
Such luck for me: my Clotho is content,
When all my oil a bare subsistence gains,
And fills my belly, by my back and reins.
O, my poor Lares! dear, domestic Powers!
To whom I come with incense, cakes, and flowers, 195
When shall my prayers, so long preferred in vain,
Acceptance find? O, when shall I obtain
Enough to free me from the constant dread
Of life's worst ill, gray hairs and want of bread?
On mortgage, six-score pounds a year, or eight, 200
A little sideboard, which, for overweight,
Fabricius would have censured; a stout pair
Of hireling Mæsians, to support my chair,
In the thronged Circus: add to these, one slave
Well skilled to paint, another to engrave; 205
And I--but let me give these day-dreams o'er--
Wish as I may, I ever shall be poor;
For when to Fortune I prefer my prayers,
The obdurate goddess stops at once her ears;
Stops with that wax which saved Ulysses' crew, } 210
When by the Syrens' rocks and songs they flew, }
False songs and treacherous rocks, that all to ruin drew. }


SATIRE X.

In every clime, from Ganges' distant stream
To Gades, gilded by the western beam,
Few, from the clouds of mental error free,
In its true light or good or evil see.
For what, with reason, do we seek or shun? 5
What plan, how happily soe'er begun,
But, finished, we our own success lament,
And rue the pains, so fatally misspent? --
To headlong ruin see whole houses driven,
Cursed with their prayers, by too indulgent heaven! 10
Bewildered thus by folly or by fate,
We beg pernicious gifts in every state,
In peace, in war. A full and rapid flow
Of eloquence, lays many a speaker low:
Even strength itself is fatal; Milo tries 15
His wondrous arms, and--in the trial dies!
But avarice wider spreads her deadly snare,
And hoards amassed with too successful care,
Hoards, which o'er all paternal fortunes rise,
As o'er the dolphin towers the whale in size. 20
For this, in other times, at Nero's word,
The ruffian bands unsheathed the murderous sword,
Rushed to the swelling coffers of the great,
Chased Lateranus from his lordly seat,
Besieged too-wealthy Seneca's wide walls, 25
And closed, terrific, round Longinus' halls:
While sweetly in their cocklofts slept the poor,
And heard no soldier thundering at their door.
The traveler, freighted with a little wealth,
Sets forth at night, and wins his way by stealth: 30
Even then, he fears the bludgeon and the blade,
And starts and trembles at a rush's shade;
While, void of care, the beggar trips along,
And, in the spoiler's presence, trolls his song.
The first great wish, that all with rapture own, 35
The general cry, to every temple known,
Is, gold, gold, gold! --"and let, all-gracious Powers,
The largest chest the Forum boasts be ours! "
Yet none from earthen bowls destruction sip:
Dread then the draught, when, mantling, at your lip, 40
The goblet sparkles, radiant from the mine,
And the broad gold inflames the ruby wine.
And do we, now, admire the stories told
Of the two Sages, so renowned of old;
How this forever laughed, whene'er he stepp'd 45
Beyond the threshold; that, forever wept?
But all can laugh:--the wonder yet appears,
What fount supplied the eternal stream of tears!
Democritus, at every step he took,
His sides with unextinguished laughter shook, 50
Though, in his days, Abdera's simple towns
No fasces knew, chairs, litters, purple gowns. --
What! had he seen, in his triumphal car,
Amid the dusty Cirque, conspicuous far,
The Prætor perched aloft, superbly dress'd 55
In Jove's proud tunic, with a trailing vest
Of Tyrian tapestry, and o'er him spread
A crown, too bulky for a mortal head,
Borne by a sweating slave, maintained to ride
In the same car, and mortify his pride! 60
Add now the bird, that, with expanded wing,
From the raised sceptre seems prepared to spring;
And trumpets here; and there the long parade
Of duteous friends, who head the cavalcade;
Add, too, the zeal of clients robed in white, } 65
Who hang upon his reins, and grace the sight, }
Unbribed, unbought--save by the dole, at night! }
Yes, in those days, in every varied scene,
The good old man found matter for his spleen:
A wondrous sage! whose story makes it clear 70
That men may rise in folly's atmosphere,
Beneath Bœotian fogs, of soul sublime,
And great examples to the coming time. --
He laughed aloud to see the vulgar fears,
Laughed at their joys, and sometimes at their tears: 75
Secure the while, he mocked at Fortune's frown,
And when she threatened, bade her hang or drown!
Superfluous then, or fatal, is the prayer,
Which, to the Immortals' knees, we fondly bear.
Some, POWER hurls headlong from her envied height, 80
Some, the broad tablet, flashing on the sight,
With titles, names: the statues, tumbled down,
Are dragged by hooting thousands through the town;
The brazen cars torn rudely from the yoke,
And, with the blameless steeds, to shivers broke-- 85
Then roar the flames! the sooty artist blows,
And all Sejanus in the furnace glows;
Sejanus, once so honored, so adored,
And only second to the world's great lord,
Runs glittering from the mould, in cups and cans, 90
Basins and ewers, plates, pitchers, pots, and pans.
"Crown all your doors with bay, triumphant bay!
Sacred to Jove, the milk-white victim slay,
For lo! where great Sejanus by the throng,
A joyful spectacle! is dragged along. 95
What lips! what cheeks! ha, traitor! --for my part,
I never loved the fellow--in my heart. "
"But tell me; Why was he adjudged to bleed?
And who discovered? and who proved the deed? "
"Proved! --a huge, wordy letter came to-day 100
From Capreæ. " Good!