No More Learning

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! what think the people? They!
They follow fortune, as of old, and hate,
With their whole souls, the victim of the state.
Yet would the herd, thus zealous, thus on fire,
Had Nurscia met the Tuscan's fond desire, 105
And crushed the unwary prince, have all combined,
And hailed Sejanus, MASTER OF MANKIND!
For since their votes have been no longer bought,
All public care has vanished from their thought;
And those who once, with unresisted sway, 110
Gave armies, empire, every thing, away,
For two poor claims have long renounced the whole,
And only ask--the Circus and the Dole.
"But there are more to suffer. " "So I find;
A fire so fierce for one was ne'er designed. 115
I met my friend Brutidius, and I fear,
From his pale looks, he thinks there's danger near.
What if this Ajax, in his phrensy, strike,
Suspicious of our zeal, at all alike! "
"True: fly we then, our loyalty to show; 120
And trample on the carcass of his foe,
While yet exposed on Tiber's banks it lies"--
"But let our slaves be there," another cries:
"Yes; let them (lest our ardor they forswear,
And drag us, pinioned, to the Bar) be there. " 125
Thus of the favorite's fall the converse ran,
And thus the whisper passed from man to man.
Lured by the splendor of his happier hour,
Would'st thou possess Sejanus' wealth and power;
See crowds of suppliants at thy levee wait, 130
Give this to sway the army, that the state;
And keep a prince in ward, retired to reign
O'er Capreæ's crags, with his Chaldean train?
Yes, yes, thou would'st (for I can read thy breast)
Enjoy that favor which he once possess'd, 135
Assume all offices, grasp all commands,
The Imperial Horse, and the Prætorian Bands.
'Tis nature, this; even those who want the will,
Pant for the dreadful privilege to kill:
Yet what delight can rank and power bestow, 140
Since every joy is balanced by its woe!
--STILL would'st thou choose the favorite's purple, say?
Or, thus forewarned, some paltry hamlet sway?
At Gabii, or Fidenæ, rules propound,
For faulty measures, and for wares unsound; 145
And take the tarnished robe, and petty state,
Of poor Ulubræ's ragged magistrate? --
You grant me then, Sejanus grossly erred,
Nor knew what prayer his folly had preferred:
For when he begged for too much wealth and power, 150
Stage above stage, he raised a tottering tower,
And higher still, and higher; to be thrown,
With louder crash, and wider ruin down!
What wrought the Crassi, what the Pompeys' doom,
And his, who bowed the stubborn neck of Rome? 155
What but the wild, the unbounded wish to rise,
Heard, in malignant kindness, by the skies!
Few kings, few tyrants, find a bloodless end,
Or to the grave, without a wound, descend.
The child, with whom a trusty slave is sent, 160
Charged with his little scrip, has scarcely spent
His mite at school, ere all his bosom glows
With the fond hope he never more foregoes,
To reach Demosthenes' or Tully's name,
Rival of both in eloquence and fame! -- 165
Yet by this eloquence, alas! expired
Each orator, so envied, so admired!
Yet by the rapid and resistless sway
Of torrent genius, each was swept away!
Genius, for that, the baneful potion sped, 170
And lopp'd, from this, the hands and gory head:
While meaner pleaders unmolested stood,
Nor stained the rostrum with their wretched blood.
"_How fortuNATE A NATAL day was thine,_
_In that LATE conSULATE, O Rome, of mine! _" 175
Oh, soul of eloquence! had all been found
An empty vaunt, like this, a jingling sound,
Thou might'st, in peace, thy humble fame have borne,
And laughed the swords of Antony to scorn!
Yet this would I prefer, the common jest, 180
To that which fired the fierce triumvir's breast,
That second scroll, where eloquence divine
Burst on the ear from every glowing line.
And he too fell, whom Athens, wondering, saw
Her fierce democracy, at will, o'erawe, 185
And "fulmine over Greece! " some angry Power
Scowled, with dire influence, on his natal hour. --
Bleared with the glowing mass, the ambitious sire,
From anvils, sledges, bellows, tongs, and fire,
From tempting swords, his own more safe employ, 190
To study RHETORIC, sent his hopeful boy.
The spoils of WAR; the trunk in triumph placed
With all the trophies of the battle graced,
Crushed helms, and battered shields; and streamers borne
From vanquished fleets, and beams from chariots torn; 195
And arcs of triumph, where the captive foe
Bends, in mute anguish, o'er the pomp below,
Are blessings, which the slaves of glory rate
Beyond a mortal's hope, a mortal's fate!
Fired with the love of these, what countless swarms, 200
Barbarians, Romans, Greeks, have rushed to arms,
All danger slighted, and all toil defied,
And madly conquered, or as madly died!
So much the raging thirst of fame exceeds
The generous warmth, which prompts to worthy deeds, 205
That none confess fair virtue's genuine power,
Or woo her to their breast, without a dower.
Yet has this wild desire, in other days,
This boundless avarice of a few for praise,
This frantic rage for names to grace a tomb, 210
Involved whole countries in one general doom;
Vain "rage! " the roots of the wild fig-tree rise,
Strike through the marble, and their memory dies!
For, like their mouldering tenants, tombs decay,
And, with the dust they hide, are swept away. 215
Produce the urn that Hannibal contains,
And weigh the mighty dust, which yet remains:
AND IS THIS ALL! Yet THIS was once the bold,
The aspiring chief, whom Afric could not hold,
Though stretched in breadth from where the Atlantic roars, 220
To distant Nilus, and his sun-burnt shores;
In length, from Carthage to the burning zone,
Where other moors, and elephants are known.
--Spain conquered, o'er the Pyrenees he bounds:
Nature opposed her everlasting mounds, 225
Her Alps, and snows; o'er these, with torrent force,
He pours, and rends through rocks his dreadful course.
Already at his feet, Italia lies;--
Yet thundering on, "Think nothing done," he cries,
"Till Rome, proud Rome, beneath my fury falls, 230
And Afric's standards float along her walls! "
Big words! --but view his figure! view his face!
O, for some master-hand the lines to trace,
As through the Etrurian swamps, by floods increas'd,
The one-eyed chief urged his Getulian beast! 235
But what ensued? Illusive Glory, say.
Subdued on Zama's memorable day,
He flies in exile to a petty state,
With headlong haste! and, at a despot's gate,
Sits, mighty suppliant! of his life in doubt, 240
Till the Bithynian's morning nap be out.
No swords, nor spears, nor stones from engines hurled,
Shall quell the man whose frown alarmed the world:
The vengeance due to Cannæ's fatal field,
And floods of human gore, a ring shall yield! -- 245
Fly, madman, fly! at toil and danger mock,
Pierce the deep snow, and scale the eternal rock,
To please the rhetoricians, and become
A DECLAMATION for the boys of Rome!
One world, the ambitious youth of Pella found 250
Too small; and tossed his feverish limbs around,
And gasped for breath, as if immured the while
In Gyaræ, or Seripho's rocky isle:
But entering Babylon, found ample room
Within the narrow limits of a tomb! 255
Death, the great teacher, Death alone proclaims
The true dimensions of our puny frames.
The daring tales, in Grecian story found,
Were once believed:--of Athos sailed around,
Of fleets, that bridges o'er the waves supplied, 260
Of chariots, rolling on the steadfast tide,
Of lakes exhausted, and of rivers quaff'd,
By countless nations, at a morning's draught,
And all that Sostratus so wildly sings,
Besotted poet, of the king of kings. 265
But how returned he, say? this soul of fire,
This proud barbarian, whose impatient ire
Chastised the winds, that disobeyed his nod,
With stripes, ne'er suffered from the Æolian god;
Fettered the Shaker of the sea and land-- 270
But, in pure clemency, forbode to brand!
And sure, if aught can touch the Powers above,
This calls for all their service, all their love!
But how returned he? say;--His navy lost,
In a small bark he fled the hostile coast, 275
And, urged by terror, drove his laboring prore,
Through floating carcasses, and floods of gore.
So Xerxes sped, so speed the conquering race;
They catch at glory, and they clasp disgrace!
"LIFE! LENGTH OF LIFE! " For this, with earnest cries, 280
Or sick or well, we supplicate the skies.
Pernicious prayer! for mark what ills attend,
Still, on the old, as to the grave they bend:
A ghastly visage, to themselves unknown,
For a smooth skin, a hide with scurf o'ergrown, 285
And such a cheek, as many a grandam ape,
In Tabraca's thick woods, is seen to scrape.
Strength, beauty, and a thousand charms beside,
With sweet distinction, youth from youth divide;
While age presents one universal face: 290
A faltering voice, a weak and trembling pace,
An ever-dropping nose, a forehead bare,
And toothless gums to mumble o'er its fare.
Poor wretch, behold him, tottering to his fall,
So loathsome to himself, wife, children, all, 295
That those who hoped the legacy to share,
And flattered long--disgusted, disappear.
The sluggish palate dulled, the feast no more
Excites the same sensations as of yore;
Taste, feeling, all, a universal blot, 300
And e'en the rites of love remembered not:
Or if--through the long night he feebly strives
To raise a flame where not a spark survives;
While Venus marks the effort with distrust,
And hates the gray decrepitude of lust. 305
Another loss! --no joy can song inspire,
Though famed Seleucus lead the warbling quire:
The sweetest airs escape him; and the lute,
Which thrills the general ear, to him is mute. --
He sits, perhaps, too distant: bring him near; 310
Alas! 'tis still the same: he scarce can hear
The deep-toned horn, the trumpet's clanging sound,
And the loud blast which shakes the benches round.
Even at his ear, his slave must bawl the hour,
And shout the comer's name, with all his power! 315
Add that a fever only warms his veins,
And thaws the little blood which yet remains;
That ills of every kind, and every name,
Rush in, and seize the unresisting frame.
Ask you how many? I could sooner say 320
How many drudges Hippia kept in pay,
How many orphans Basilus beguiled,
How many pupils Hæmolus defiled,
How many men long Maura overmatched,
How many patients Themison dispatched 325
In one short autumn; nay, perhaps, record,
How many villas call my quondam barber lord!
These their shrunk shoulders, those their hams bemoan;
This hath no eyes, and envies that with one:
This takes, as helpless at the board he stands, 330
His food, with bloodless lips, from others' hands;
While that, whose eager jaws, instinctive, spread
At every feast, gapes feebly to be fed,
Like Progne's brood, when, laden with supplies,
From bill to bill, the fasting mother flies. 335
But other ills, and worse, succeed to those:
His limbs long since were gone; his memory goes.
Poor driveler! he forgets his servants quite,
Forgets, at morn, with whom he supped at night;
Forgets the children he begot and bred; 340
And makes a strumpet heiress in their stead. --
So much avails it the rank arts to use,
Gained, by long practice, in the loathsome stews!
But grant his senses unimpaired remain;
Still woes on woes succeed, a mournful train! 345
He sees his sons, his daughters, all expire,
His faithful consort on the funeral pyre,
Sees brothers, sisters, friends, to ashes turn,
And all he loved, or loved him, in their urn.
Lo here, the dreadful fine we ever pay 350
For life protracted to a distant day!
To see our house by sickness, pain pursued,
And scenes of death incessantly renewed:
In sable weeds to waste the joyless years,
And drop, at last, mid solitude and tears! 355
The Pylian's (if we credit Homer's page)
Was only second to the raven's age.
"O happy, sure, beyond the common rate,
Who warded off, so long, the stroke of fate!
Who told his years by centuries, who so oft 360
Quaffed the new must! O happy, sure"--But, soft.
This "happy" man of destiny complained,
Cursed his gray hairs, and every god arraigned;
What time he lit the pyre, with streaming eyes,
And, in dark volumes, saw the flames arise 365
Round his Antilochus:--"Tell me," he cried,
To every friend who lingered at his side,
"Tell me what crimes have roused the Immortals' hate,
That thus, in vengeance, they protract my date? "
So questioned heaven Laertes--Peleus so-- 370
(Their hoary heads bowed to the grave with woe)
While this bewailed his son, at Ilium slain;
That his, long wandering o'er the faithless main.
While Troy yet flourished, had her Priam died,
With what solemnity, what funeral pride, 375
Had he descended, every duty paid,
To old Assaracus, illustrious shade! --
Hector himself, bedewed with many a tear,
Had joined his brothers to support the bier;
While Troy's dejected dames, a numerous train, 380
Followed, in sable pomp, and wept amain,
As sad Polyxena her pall had rent,
And wild Cassandra raised the loud lament:
Had he but fallen, ere his adulterous boy
Spread his bold sails, and left the shores of Troy. 385
But what did lengthened life avail the sire?
To see his realm laid waste by sword and fire.
Then too, too late, the feeble soldier tried
Unequal arms, and flung his crown aside;
Tottered, his children's murderer to repel, 390
With trembling haste, and at Jove's altar fell,
Fell without effort; like the steer, that, now,
Time-worn and weak, and, by the ungrateful plow,
Spurned forth to slaughter, to the master's knife
Yields his shrunk veins and miserable life. 395
His end, howe'er, was human; while his mate,
Doomed, in a brute, to drain the dregs of fate,
Pursued the foes of Troy from shore to shore,
And barked and howled at those she cursed before.
I pass, while hastening to the Roman page, 400
The Pontic king, and Crœsus, whom the Sage
Wisely forbade in fortune to confide,
Or take the name of HAPPY, till he died.
That Marius, exiled from his native plains,
Was hid in fens, discovered, bound in chains; 405
That, bursting these, to Africa he fled,
And, through the realms he conquered, begged his bread,
Arose from age, from treacherous age alone:
For what had Rome, or earth, so happy known,
Had he, in that bless'd moment, ceased to live, 410
When, graced with all that Victory could give,
"Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war,"
He first alighted from his Cimbrian car!
Campania, prescient of her Pompey's fate,
Send a kind fever to arrest his date: 415
When lo! a thousand suppliant altars rise,
And public prayers obtain him of the skies.
Ill done! that head, thus rescued from the grave,
His Evil Fate and ours, by Nilus' wave,
Lopp'd from the trunk:--such mutilation dire } 420
Cornelius 'scaped; Cethegus fell entire; }
And Catiline pressed, whole, the funeral pyre. }
Whene'er the fane of Venus meets her eye,
The anxious mother breathes a secret sigh
For handsome boys; but asks, with bolder prayer, 425
That all her girls be exquisitely fair!
"And wherefore not? Latona, in the sight
Of Dian's beauty, took unblamed delight. "
True; but Lucretia cursed her fatal charms,
When spent with struggling in a Tarquin's arms; 430
And poor Virginia would have changed her grace
For Rutila's crooked back and homely face.
"But boys may still be fair? " No; they destroy
Their parents' peace, and murder all their joy;
For rarely do we meet, in one combined, 435
A beauteous body and a virtuous mind,
Though, through the rugged line, there still has run
A Sabine sanctity, from sire to son. --
Besides, should Nature, in her kindest mood,
Confer the ingenuous flush of modest blood, 440
The disposition chaste as unsunned snow--
(And what can Nature more than these bestow,
These, which no art, no care can give)? --even then,
They can not hope, they must not, to be men!
Smit with their charms, the imps of hell appear, 445
And pour their proffers in a parent's ear,
For prostitution! --infamously bold,
And trusting to the almighty power of gold:
While youths in shape and air less formed to please
No tyrants mutilate, no Neros seize. 450
Go now, and triumph in your beauteous boy,
Your Ganymede! whom other ills annoy,
And other dangers wait: his graces known,
He stands professed, the favorite of the town;
And dreads, incessant dreads, on every hand, 455
The vengeance which a husband's wrongs demand:
For sure detection follows soon or late;
Born under Mars, he can not scape his fate.
Oft on the adulterer, too, the furious spouse
Inflicts worse evils than the law allows; 460
By blows, stripes, gashes some are robbed of breath
And others, by the mullet, racked to death.
"But my Endymion will more lucky prove,
And serve a beauteous mistress, all for love. "
No; he will soon to ugliness be sold, 465
And serve a toothless grandam, all for gold.
Servilia will not lose him; jewels, clothes,
All, all she sells, and all on him bestows;
For women naught to the dear youth deny,
Or think his labors can be bought too high: 470
When love's the word, the naked sex appear,
And every niggard is a spendthrift here.
"But if my boy with virtue be endued,
What harm will beauty do him? " Nay, what good?
Say, what availed, of old, to Theseus' son, 475
The stern resolve? what to Bellerophon? --
O, then did Phædra redden, then her pride
Took fire, to be so steadfastly denied!
Then, too, did Sthenobœa glow with shame,
And both burst forth with unextinguished flame! 480
A woman scorned is pitiless as fate,
For, there, the dread of shame adds stings to hate.
But Silius comes. --Now, be thy judgment tried:
Shall he accept, or not, the proffered bride,
And marry Cæsar's wife? hard point, in truth: 485
Lo! this most noble, this most beauteous youth,
Is hurried off, a helpless sacrifice
To the lewd glance of Messalina's eyes!
--Haste, bring the victim: in the nuptial vest
Already see the impatient Empress dress'd; 490
The genial couch prepared, the accustomed sum
Told out, the augurs and the notaries come.
"But why all these? " You think, perhaps, the rite
Were better, known to few, and kept from sight;
Not so the lady; she abhors a flaw, 495
And wisely calls for every form of law.
But what shall Silius do? refuse to wed?
A moment sees him numbered with the dead.
Consent, and gratify the eager dame?
He gains a respite, till the tale of shame, 500
Through town and country, reach the Emperor's ear,
Still sure the last--his own disgrace to hear.
Then let him, if a day's precarious life
Be worth his study, make the fair his wife;
For wed or not, poor youth, 'tis still the same, 505
And still the axe must mangle that fine frame!
Say then, shall man, deprived all power of choice,
Ne'er raise to heaven the supplicating voice?
Not so; but to the gods his fortunes trust:
Their thoughts are wise, their dispensations just. 510
What best may profit or delight they know,
And real good for fancied bliss bestow:
With eyes of pity they our frailties scan;
More dear to them, than to himself, is man.
By blind desire, by headlong passion driven, 515
For wife and heirs we daily weary Heaven:
Yet still 'tis Heaven's prerogative to know,
If heirs, or wife, will bring us weal or woe.
But (for 'tis good our humble hope to prove),
That thou may'st, still, ask something from above, 520
Thy pious offerings to the temple bear,
And, while the altars blaze, be this thy prayer.
O THOU, who know'st the wants of human kind,
Vouchsafe me health of body, health of mind;
A soul prepared to meet the frowns of fate, 525
And look undaunted on a future state;
That reckons death a blessing, yet can bear
Existence nobly, with its weight of care;
That anger and desire alike restrains,
And counts Alcides' toils, and cruel pains, 530
Superior far to banquets, wanton nights,
And all the Assyrian monarch's soft delights!
Here bound, at length, thy wishes. I but teach
What blessings man, by his own powers, may reach.
THE PATH TO PEACE IS VIRTUE. We should see, 535
If wise, O Fortune, naught divine in thee:
But we have deified a name alone,
And fixed in heaven thy visionary throne!


SATIRE XI.

TO PERSICUS.

If Atticus in sumptuous fare delight,
'Tis taste: if Rutilus, 'tis madness quite:
And what diverts the sneering rabble more
Than an Apicius miserably poor?
In every company, go where you will, 5
Bath, forum, theatre, the talk is still
Of Rutilus! --While fit (they cry) to wield,
With firm and vigorous arm, the spear and shield,
While his full veins beat high with youthful blood,
Forced by no tribune--yet by none withstood, 10
He cultivates the gladiator's trade,
And learns the imperious language of the blade.
What swarms we see of this degenerate kind!
Swarms whom their creditors can only find
At flesh and fish-stalls:--thither they repair, 15
Sure, though deceived at home, to catch them there.
These live but for their palate; and, of these,
The most distressed (while Ruin hastes to seize
The crumbling mansion and disparting wall),
Spread richer feasts, and riot as they fall! -- 20
Meanwhile, ere yet the last supply be spent,
They search for dainties every element,
Awed by no price; nay, making this their boast,
And still preferring that which costs them most,
Joyous, and reckless of to-morrow's fate, 25
To raise a desperate sum, they pledge their plate,
Or mother's fractured image; to prepare
Yet one treat more, though but in earthen ware!
Then to the fencer's mess they come, of course,
And mount the scaffold as a last resource. 30
No foe to sumptuous boards, I only scan,
When such are spread, the motives, and the man,
And praise or censure, as I see the feast
Or by the noble or the beggar dress'd:
In this, 'tis gluttony; in that, fit pride, 35
Sanctioned by wealth, by station dignified. --
Whip me the fool, who marks how Atlas soars
O'er every hill on Mauritania's shores,
Yet sees no difference 'twixt the coffer's hoards,
And the poor pittance a small purse affords! 40
Heaven sent us "KNOW THYSELF! "--Be this impress'd
In living characters, upon thy breast,
And still revolved; whether a wife thou choose,
Or to the SACRED SENATE point thy views. --
Or seek'st thou rather, in some doubtful cause, 45
To vindicate thy country's injured laws?
Knock at thy bosom, play the censor's part,
And note with caution what and who thou art,
An orator of force and skill profound,
Or a mere Matho, emptiness and sound! 50
Yes, KNOW THYSELF: in great concerns, in small,
Be this thy care, for this, my friend, is all:
Nor, when thy purse will scarce a gudgeon buy,
With fond intemperance for turbots sigh!
O think what end awaits thee, timely think, 55
If thy throat widens as thy pockets shrink,
Thy throat, of all thy father's thrift could save,
Flocks, herds, and fields, the insatiable grave! --
At length, when naught remains a meal to bring,
The last poor shift, off comes the knightly ring, 60
And "sad Sir Pollio" begs his daily fare,
With undistinguished hands, and finger bare!
To these, an early grave no terror brings,
"A short and merry life! " the spendthrift sings;
Death seems to him a refuge from despair, 65
And far less terrible than hoary hair.
Mark now the progress of their rapid fate!
Money (regardless of the monthly rate),
On every side, they borrow, and apace,
Waste what is borrowed before the lender's face: 70
Then, while they yet some wretched remnant hold,
And the pale usurer trembles for his gold,
They wisely sicken for the country air,
And flock to Baiæ, Ostia, Jove knows where. --
For now 'tis held (so rife the evil's grown) 75
No greater shame, for debt, to flee the town,
Than from the thronged Suburra to remove,
In dog-days, to the Esquilian shades above.
One thought alone, what time they leave behind
Friends, country, all, weighs heavy on their mind, 80
One thought alone--for twelve long months to lose
The dear delights of Rome, the public shows!
Where sleeps the modest blood! In all our veins,
No conscious drop, to form a blush, remains:
SHAME, from the town, derided, speeds her way, 85
And few, alas! solicit her to stay.
Enough: to-day my Persicus shall see
Whether my precepts with my life agree;
Whether, with feigned austerity, I prize
The spare repast, a glutton in disguise! 90
Bawl for coarse pottage, that my friends may hear,
But whisper "sweetmeats! " in my servant's ear.
For since, by promise, you are now my guest,
Know, I invite you to no sumptuous feast,
But to such simple fare, as long, long since, 95
The good Evander bade the Trojan prince.
Come then, my friend, you will not, sure, despise
The food that pleased the offspring of the skies;
Come, and while fancy brings past times to view,
I'll think myself the king, the hero you. 100
Take now your bill of fare: my simple board
Is with no dainties from the market stored,
But dishes all my own. From Tibur's stock
A kid shall come, the fattest of the flock,
The tenderest too, and yet too young to browse 105
The thistle's shoots, the willow's watery boughs,
With more of milk than blood; and pullets dress'd
With new-laid eggs, yet tepid from the nest,
And sperage wild, which, from the mountain's side,
My housemaid left her spindle to provide; 110
And grapes long kept, yet pulpy still, and fair,
And the rich Signian and the Syrian pear;
And apples, that in flavor and in smell
The boasted Picene equal, or excel:--
Nor need you fear, my friend, their liberal use, 115
For age has mellowed and improved their juice.
How homely this! and yet this homely fare
A senator would, once, have counted rare;
When the good Curius thought it no disgrace
O'er a few sticks a little pot to place, 120
With herbs by his small garden-plot supplied--
Food, which the squalid wretch would now deride,
Who digs in fetters, and, with fond regret,
The tavern's savory dish remembers yet!
Time was, when, on the rack, a man would lay 125
The seasoned flitch, against a solemn day;
And think the friends who met, with decent mirth,
To celebrate the hour which gave him birth,
On this, and what of fresh the altars spared
(For altars then were honored), nobly fared.
130
Some kinsman, who had camps and senates swayed,
Had thrice been consul, once dictator made,
From public cares retired, would gayly haste,
Before the wonted hour, to such repast,
Shouldering the spade, that, with no common toil, 135
Had tamed the genius of the mountain soil. --
Yes, when the world was filled with Rome's just fame,
And Romans trembled at the Fabian name,
The Scauran, and Fabrician; when they saw
A censor's rigor even a censor awe, 140
No son of Troy e'er thought it his concern,
Or worth a moment's serious care, to learn,
What land, what sea, the fairest tortoise bred,
Whose clouded shell might best adorn his bed. --
His bed was small, and did no signs impart 145
Or of the painter's or the sculptor's art,
Save where the front, cheaply inlaid with brass,
Showed the rude features of a vine-crowned ass;
An uncouth brute, round which his children played,
And laughed and jested at the face it made! 150
Briefly, his house, his furniture, his food,
Were uniformly plain, and simply good.
Then the rough soldier, yet untaught by Greece
To hang, enraptured, o'er a finished piece,
If haply, 'mid the congregated spoils 155
(Proofs of his power, and guerdon of his toils),
Some antique vase of master-hands were found,
Would dash the glittering bauble on the ground;
That, in new forms, the molten fragments dress'd,
Might blaze illustrious round his courser's chest, 160
Or, flashing from his burnished helmet, show
(A dreadful omen to the trembling foe)
The mighty sire, with glittering shield and spear,
Hovering, enamored, o'er the sleeping fair,
The wolf, by Rome's high destinies made mild, 165
And, playful at her side, each wondrous child.
Thus, all the wealth those simple times could boast,
Small wealth! their horses and their arms engross'd;
The rest was homely, and their frugal fare,
Cooked without art, was served in earthen ware: 170
Yet worthy all our envy, were the breast
But with one spark of noble spleen possess'd.
THEN shone the fanes with majesty divine,
A present god was felt at every shrine!
And solemn sounds, heard from the sacred walls, 175
At midnight's solemn hour, announced the Gauls,
Now rushing from the main; while, prompt to save,
Stood Jove, the prophet of the signs he gave!
Yet, when he thus revealed the will of fate,
And watched attentive o'er the Latian state, 180
His shrine, his statue, rose of humble mould,
Of artless form, and unprofaned with gold.
Those good old times no foreign tables sought;
From their own woods the walnut-tree was brought,
When withering limbs declared its pith unsound, 185
Or winds uptore, and stretched it on the ground.
But now, such strange caprice has seized the great,
They find no pleasure in the costliest treat,
Suspect the flowers a sickly scent exhale,
And think the ven'son rank, the turbot stale, 190
Unless wide-yawning panthers, towering high--
Enormous pedestals of ivory,
Formed of the teeth which Elephantis sends,
Which the dark Moor, or darker Indian, vends,
Or those which, now, too heavy for the head, 195
The beasts in Nabathea's forest shed--
The spacious ORBS support: then they can feed,
And every dish is delicate indeed!
For silver feet are viewed with equal scorn,
As iron rings upon the finger worn. 200
To me, forever be the guest unknown,
Who, measuring my expenses by his own,
Remarks the difference with a scornful leer,
And slights my humble house and homely cheer.
Look not to me for ivory; I have none: 205
My chess-board and my men are all of bone;
Nay, my knife-handles; yet, my friend, for this,
My pullets neither cut nor taste amiss.
I boast no artist, tutored in the school
Of learned Trypherus, to carve by rule; 210
Where large sow-paps of elm, and boar, and hare,
And phœnicopter, and pygargus rare,
Getulian oryx, Scythian pheasants, point,
The nice anatomy of every joint;
And dull blunt tools, severing the wooden treat, 215
Clatter around, and deafen all the street.
My simple lad, whose highest efforts rise
To broil a steak in the plain country guise,
Knows no such art; humbly content to serve,
And bring the dishes which he can not kerve. 220
Another lad (for I have two to-day),
Clad, like the first, in homespun russet gray,
Shall fill our earthen bowls: no Phrygian he,
No pampered attribute of luxury,
But a rude rustic:--when you want him, speak, 225
And speak in Latin, for he knows not Greek.
Both go alike, with close-cropp'd hair, undress'd,
But spruced to-day in honor of my guest;
And both were born on my estate, and one
Is my rough shepherd's, one, my neatherd's son. 230
Poor youth! he mourns, with many an artless tear,
His long, long absence from his mother dear;
Sighs for his little cottage, and would fain
Meet his old playfellows, the goats, again.
Though humble be his birth, ingenuous grace 235
Beams from his eye, and flushes in his face;
Charming suffusion! that would well become
The youthful offspring of the chiefs of Rome. --
He, Persicus, shall fill us wine which grew
Where first the breath of life the stripling drew, 240
On Tibur's hills;--dear hills, that many a day
Witnessed the transports of his infant play.
But you, perhaps, expect a wanton throng
Of Gaditanian girls, with dance and song,
To kindle loose desire; girls, that now bound } 245
Aloft with active grace, now, on the ground, }
Quivering, alight, while peals of praise go round. }
Lo! wives, beside their husbands placed, behold,
What could not in their ear, for shame, be told;
Expedients of the rich, the blood to fire, 250
And wake the dying embers of desire.
Behold? O heavens! they view, with keenest gust,
These strong provocatives of jaded lust;
With every gesture feel their passions rise,
And draw in pleasure both at ears and eyes! 255
Such vicious fancies are too great for me.
Let him the wanton dance unblushing see,
And hear the immodest terms which, in the stews,
The veriest strumpet would disdain to use,
Whose drunken spawlings roll, tumultuous, o'er 260
The proud expansion of a marble floor:
For there the world a large allowance make,
And spare the folly for the fortune's sake. --
Dice, and adultery, with a small estate,
Are damning crimes; but venial, with a great; 265
Venial? nay, graceful: witty, gallant, brave,
And such wild tricks "as gentlemen should have! "
My feast, to-day, shall other joys afford:
Hushed as we sit around the frugal board.
Great Homer shall his deep-toned thunder roll, 270
And mighty Maro elevate the soul;
Maro, who, warmed with all the poet's fire,
Disputes the palm of victory with his sire:
Nor fear my rustic clerks; read as they will,
The bard, the bard, shall rise superior still! 275
Come then, my friend, an hour to pleasure spare,
And quit awhile your business and your care;
The day is all our own: come, and forget
Bonds, interest, all; the credit and the debt;
Nay, e'en your wife: though, with the dawning light, 280
She left your couch, and late returned at night;
Though her loose hair in wild disorder flowed,
Her eye yet glistened, and her cheek yet glowed,
Her rumpled girdle busy hands express'd--
Yet, at my threshold, tranquilize your breast; 285
There leave the thoughts of home, and what the haste
Of heedless slaves may in your absence waste;
And, what the generous spirit most offends,
O, more than all, leave there UNGRATEFUL FRIENDS.
But see! the napkin, waved aloft, proclaims 290
The glad commencement of the Idæan games,
And the proud prætor, in triumphal state,
Ascends his car, the arbiter of fate!
Ere this, all Rome (if 'tis, for once, allowed,
To say all Rome, of so immense a crowd) 295
The Circus throngs, and--Hark! loud shouts arise--
From these, I guess the GREEN has won the prize;
For had it lost, all joy had been suppress'd,
And grief and horror seized the public breast;
As when dire Carthage forced our arms to yield, 300
And poured our noblest blood on Cannæ's field.
Thither let youth, whom it befits, repair,
And seat themselves beside some favorite fair,
Wrangle, and urge the desperate bet aloud;
While we, retired from business and the crowd, 305
Stretch our shrunk limbs by sunny bank or stream,
And drink, at every pore, the vernal beam.
Haste, then: for we may use our freedom now,
And bathe, an hour ere noon, with fearless brow--
Indulge for once:--Yet such delights as these, 310
In five short morns, would lose the power to please;
For still, the sweetest pleasures soonest cloy,
And its best flavor temperance gives to joy.


SATIRE XII.

TO CORVINUS.

Not with such joy, Corvinus, I survey
My natal hour, as this auspicious day;
This day, on which the festive turf demands
The promised victims, at my willing hands.
A snow-white lamb to Juno I decree, 5
Another to Minerva; and to thee,
Tarpeian Jove! a steer, which, from afar,
Shakes his long rope, and meditates the war.
'Tis a fierce animal, that proudly scorns
The dug, since first he tried his budding horns 10
Against an oak; free mettled, and, in fine,
Fit for the knife, and sacrificial wine.
O, were my power but equal to my love,
A nobler victim should my rapture prove!
A bull high fed, and boasting in his veins, 15
The luscious juices of Clitumnus' plains,
Fatter than fat Hispulla, huge and slow,
Should fall, but fall beneath no common blow--
Fall for my friend, who now, from danger free,
Revolves the recent perils of the sea; 20
Shrinks at the roaring waves, the howling winds,
And scarcely trusts the safety which he finds!
For not the gods' inevitable fire,
The surging billows that to heaven aspire,
Alone, perdition threat; black clouds arise, 25
And blot out all the splendor of the skies;
Loud and more loud the thunder's voice is heard,
And sulphurous fires flash dreadful on the yard. --
Trembled the crew, and, fixed in wild amaze,
Saw the rent sails burst into sudden blaze; 30
While shipwreck, late so dreadful, now appeared
A refuge from the flames, more wished than feared.
Horror on horror! earth, and sea, and skies,
Convulsed, as when POETIC TEMPESTS rise!
From the same source another danger view, 35
With pitying eye--though dire alas! not new;
But known too well, as Isis' temples show,
By many a pictured scene of votive woe;
Isis, by whom the painters now are fed,
Since our own gods no longer yield them bread! -- 40
And such befell our friend: for now a sea,
Upsurging, poured tremendous o'er the lee,
And filled the hold; while, pressed by wave and wind,
To right and left, by turns, the ship inclined:
Then, while Catullus viewed, with drooping heart, 45
The storm prevailing o'er the pilot's art,
He wisely hastened to compound the strife,
And gave his treasure to preserve his life.
The beaver thus to scape his hunter tries,
And leaves behind the medicated prize; 50
Happy to purchase with his dearest blood,
A timely refuge in the well-known flood.
"Away with all that's mine," he cries, "away! "
And plunges in the deep, without delay,
Purples, which soft Mæcenases might wear, 55
Crimsons, deep-tinctured in the Bætic air,
Where herbs, and springs of secret virtues, stain
The flocks at feed, with Nature's richest grain.
With these, neat baskets from the Britons bought,
Rare silver chargers by Parthenius wrought, 60
A huge two-handed goblet, which might strain
A Pholus, or a Fuscus' wife, to drain;
Followed by numerous services of plate,
Plain, and enchased; with cups of ancient date,
In which, while at the city's strength he laughed, 65
The wily chapman of Olynthus quaffed.
Yet show me, in this elemental strife,
Another, who would barter wealth for life! --
Few GAIN TO LIVE, Corvinus, few or none,
But, blind with avarice, LIVE TO GAIN alone. 70
Now had the deep devoured their richest store;
Nor seems their safety nearer than before:
The last resource alone was unexplored--
To cut the mast and rigging by the board;
Haply the vessel so might steadier ride 75
O'er the vexed surface of the raging tide.
Dire threats the impending blow, when, thus distress'd,
We sacrifice a part, to save the rest!
Go now, fond man, the faithless ocean brave,
Commit your fortune to the wind and wave; 80
Trust to a plank, and draw precarious breath,
At most, seven inches from the jaws of death!
Go, but forget not that a storm may rise,
And put up hatchets with your sea supplies.
But now the winds were hushed; the wearied main 85
Sunk to repose, a calm, unruffled plain;
For fate, superior to the tempest's power,
Averted from my friend the mortal hour:
A whiter thread the cheerful Sisters spun,
And lo, with favoring hands their spindles run! 90
Mild as the breeze of eve, a rising gale
Rippled the wave, and filled their only sail;
Others the crew supplied, of vests combined,
And spread to catch each vagrant breath of wind:
By aids like these, slow o'er the deep impelled, 95
The shattered bark her course for Ostia held;
While the glad sun uprose, supremely bright,
And hope returned with the returning light.
At length the heights, where, from Lavinum moved,
Iülus built the city which he loved, 100
Burst on the view; auspicious heights! whose name
From a white sow and thirty sucklings came.
And now, the port they gain; the tower, whose ray
Guides the poor wanderer o'er the watery way,
And the huge mole, whose arms the waves embrace, 105
And stretching, an immeasurable space,
Far into Ocean's bosom, leave the coast,
Till, in the distance, Italy is lost! --
Less wonderful the bays which Nature forms,
And less secure against assailing storms: 110
Here rides the wave-worn bark, devoid of fear;
For Baian skiffs might ply with safety here.
The joyful crew, with shaven crowns, relate
Their timely rescue from the jaws of fate;
On every ill a pomp of words bestow, 115
And dwell delighted on the tale of woe.
Go then, my boys--but let no boding strain
Break on the sacred silence--dress the fane
With garlands, bind the sod with ribbons gay,
And on the knives the salted offering lay: 120
This done, I'll speed, myself the rites to share,
And finish what remains, with pious care.
Then, hastening home, where chaplets of sweet flowers
Bedeck my Lares, dear, domestic Powers!
I'll offer incense there, and at the shrine 125
Of highest Jove, my father's god, and mine;
There will I scatter every bud that blows,
And every tint the various violet knows.
All savors here of joy; luxuriant bay }
O'ershades my portal, while the taper's ray } 130
Anticipates the feast, and chides the tardy day: }
Nor think, Corvinus, interest fires my breast:
Catullus, for whose sake my house is dress'd,
Has three sweet boys, who all such hopes destroy,
And nobler views excite my boundless joy. 135
Yet who besides, on such a barren friend,
Would waste a sickly pullet? who would spend
So vast a treasure, where no hopes prevail,
Or, for a FATHER, sacrifice a quail? --
But should the symptoms of a slight disease 140
The childless Paccius or Gallita seize,
Legions of flatterers to the fanes repair,
And hang in rows their votive tablets there.
Nay, some with vows of hecatombs will come--
For yet no elephants are sold at Rome; 145
The breed, to Latium and to us unknown,
Is only found beneath the burning zone:
Thence to our shore, by swarthy Moors conveyed,
They roam at large through the Rutulian shade,
Kept for the imperial pleasure, envied fate! 150
And sacred from the subject, and the state.
Though their progenitors, in days of yore,
Did worthy service, and to battle bore
Whole cohorts; taught the general's voice to know,
And rush, themselves an army, on the foe. 155
But what avails their worth! could gold obtain
So rare a creature, worth might plead in vain:
Novius, without delay, their blood would shed,
To raise his Paccius from affliction's bed;
An offering, sacred to the great design, 160
And worthy of the votary and the shrine!
Pacuvius, did our laws the crime allow,
The fairest of his numerous slaves would vow;
The blooming boy, the love-inspiring maid,
With garlands crown, and to the temple lead; 165
Nay, seize his Iphigene, prepared to wed,
And drag her to the altar, from the bed;
Though hopeless, like the Grecian sire, to find,
In happy hour, the substituted hind.
And who shall say my countryman does ill? 170
A thousand ships are trifles to a Will!
For Paccius, should the fates his health restore,
May cancel every _item_ framed before
(Won by his friend's vast merits, and beset,
On all sides, by the inextricable net), 175
And, in one line, convey plate, jewels, gold,
Lands, every thing to him, "to have and hold. "
With victory crowned, Pacuvius struts along,
And smiles contemptuous on the baffled throng;
Then counts his gains, and deems himself o'erpaid 180
For the cheap murder of one wretched maid.
Health to the man! and may he THUS get more
Than Nero plundered! pile his shining store
High, mountain high; in years a Nestor prove,
And, loving none, ne'er know another's love! 185


SATIRE XIII.

TO CALVINUS.

Man, wretched man, whene'er he stoops to sin,
Feels, with the act, a strong remorse within;
'Tis the first vengeance: Conscience tries the cause,
And vindicates the violated laws;
Though the bribed Prætor at their sentence spurn, 5
And falsify the verdict of the Urn.
What says the world, not always, friend, unjust,
Of his late injury, this breach of trust?
That thy estate so small a loss can bear,
And that the evil, now no longer rare, 10
Is one of that inevitable set,
Which man is born to suffer and forget.
Then moderate thy grief: 'tis mean to show
An anguish disproportioned to the blow.
But thou, so new to crosses, as to feel 15
The slightest portion of the slightest ill,
Art tired with rage, because a friend forswears
The sacred pledge, intrusted to his cares.
What, thou, Calvinus, bear so weak a mind!
Thou, who hast left full three-score years behind! 20
Heaven, have they taught thee nothing! nothing, friend!
And art thou grown gray-headed to no end! --
Wisdom, I know, contains a sovereign charm,
To vanquish fortune, or at least disarm:
Blest they who walk in her unerring rule! -- 25
Nor those unblest, who, tutored in life's school,
Have learned of old experience to submit,
And lightly bear the yoke they can not quit.
What day so sacred, which no guilt profanes,
No secret fraud, no open rapine stains? 30
What hour, in which no dark assassins prowl,
Nor point the sword for hire, nor drug the bowl?
THE GOOD, ALAS, ARE FEW! "The valued file,"
Less than the gates of Thebes, the mouths of Nile!
For now an age is come, that teems with crimes, 35
Beyond all precedent of former times;
An age so bad, that Nature can not frame
A metal base enough to give it name!
Yet you, indignant at a paltry cheat,
Call heaven and earth to witness the deceit, 40
With cries as deafening, as the shout that breaks
From the bribed audience, when Fæsidius speaks.
Dotard in nonage! are you to be told
What loves, what graces, deck another's gold?
Are you to learn, what peals of mirth resound, 45
At your simplicity, from all around?
When you step forth, and, with a serious air, }
Bid them abstain from perjury, and beware }
To tempt the altars--for A GOD IS THERE! }
Idle old man! there was, indeed, a time, 50
When the rude natives of this happy clime
Cherished such dreams: 'twas ere the king of heaven,
To change his sceptre for a scythe was driven;
Ere Juno yet the sweets of love had tried,
Or Jove advanced beyond the caves of Ide. 55
'Twas when no gods indulged in sumptuous feasts,
No Ganymede, no Hebe served the guests;
No Vulcan, with his sooty labors foul,
Limped round, officious, with the nectared bowl;
But each in private dined: 'twas when the throng 60
Of godlings, now beyond the scope of song,
The courts of heaven, in spacious ease, possess'd,
And with a lighter load poor Atlas press'd! --
Ere Neptune's lot the watery world obtained,
Or Dis and his Sicilian consort reigned; 65
Ere Tityus and his ravening bird were known,
Ixion's wheel, or Sisyphus's stone:
While yet the shades confessed no tyrant's power,
And all below was one Elysian bower!
Vice was a phœnix in that blissful time, 70
Believed, but never seen: and 'twas a crime,
Worthy of death, such awe did years engage,
If manhood rose not up to reverend age,
And youth to manhood, though a larger hoard
Of hips and acorns graced the stripling's board. 75
Then, then was age so venerable thought,
That every day increase of honor brought;
And children, in the springing down, revered
The sacred promise of a hoary beard!
Now, if a friend, miraculously just, 80
Restore the pledge, with all its gathered rust,
'Tis deemed a portent, worthy to appear
Among the wonders of the Tuscan year;
A prodigy of faith, which threats the state,
And a ewe lamb can scarcely expiate! -- 85
Struck at the view, if now I chance to see
A man of ancient worth and probity,
To pregnant mules the MONSTER I compare,
Or fish upturned beneath the wondering share:
Anxious and trembling for the woe to come, 90
As if a shower of stones had fallen on Rome;
As if a swarm of bees, together clung,
Down from the Capitol, thick-clustering, hung;
Or Tiber, swollen to madness, burst away,
And roll'd, a milky deluge, to the sea. 95
And dost thou at a trivial loss repine!
What, if another, by a friend like thine,
Is stripp'd of ten times more! a third, again,
Of what his bursting chest would scarce contain!
For 'tis so common, in this age of ours, 100
So easy, to contemn the Immortal Powers,
That, can we but elude man's searching eyes.
We laugh to scorn the witness of the skies.
Mark, with how bold a voice, and fixed a brow,
The villain dares his treachery disavow! 105
"By the all-hallowed orb that flames above,
I HAD IT NOT! By the red bolts of Jove,
By the winged shaft that laid the Centaur low,
By Dian's arrows, by Apollo's bow,
By the strong lance that Mars delights to wield, 110
By Neptune's trident, by Minerva's shield,
And every weapon that, to vengeance given,
Stores the tremendous magazine of heaven! --
Nay, IF I HAD, I'll slay this son of mine,
And eat his head, soused in Egyptian brine. " 115
There are, who think that chance is all in all,
That no First Cause directs the eternal ball;
But that brute Nature, in her blind career,
Varies the seasons, and brings round the year:
These rush to every shrine, with equal ease, 120
And, owning none, swear by what Power you please.
Others believe, and but believe, a god,
And think that punishment MAY follow fraud;
Yet they forswear, and, reasoning on the deed,
Thus reconcile their actions with their creed: 125
"Let Isis storm, if to revenge inclined,
And with her angry sistrum strike me blind,
So, with my eyes, she ravish not my ore,
But let me keep the pledge which I forswore.
Are putrid sores, catarrhs that seldom kill, 130
And crippled limbs, forsooth, so great an ill!
Ladas, if not stark mad, would change, no doubt,
His flying feet for riches and the gout;
For what do those procure him? mere renown,
And the starved honor of an olive crown. " 135
"But grant the wrath of heaven be great; 'tis slow,
And days, and months, and years precede the blow.
If, then, to punish ALL, the gods decree,
When, in their vengeance, will they come to me?
But I, perhaps, their anger may appease-- 140
For they are wont to pardon faults like these:
At worst, there's hope; since every age and clime
See different fates attend the self-same crime;
Some made by villainy, and some undone,
And this ascend a scaffold, that a throne. " 145
These sophistries, to fix a while suffice
The mind, yet shuddering at the thought of vice;
And, thus confirmed, at the first call they come,
Nay, rush before you to the sacred dome:
Chide your slow pace, drag you, amazed, along, 150
And play the raving Phasma, to the throng.
(For impudence the vulgar suffrage draws,
And seems the assurance of a righteous cause. )
While you, poor wretch, suspected by the crowd,
With Stentor's lungs, or Mars', exclaim aloud: 155
"Jove! Jove! will naught thy indignation rouse?
Canst thou, in silence, hear these faithless vows?
When all thy fury, on the slaves accurst,
From lips of marble or of brass should burst! --
Or else, why burn we incense at thy shrine, 160
And heap thy altars with the fat of swine,
When we might crave redress, for aught I see,
As wisely of Bathyllus as of thee! "
Rash man! --but hear, in turn, what I propose,
To mitigate, if not to heal, your woes; 165
I, who no knowledge of the schools possess,
Cynic, or Stoic, differing but in dress,
Or thine, calm Epicurus, whose pure mind
To one small garden every wish confined.
In desperate cases, able doctors fee; 170
But trust your pulse to Philip's boy--or me.
If no example of so foul a deed
On earth be found, I urge no more: proceed,
And beat your breast, and rend your hoary hair;
'Tis just:-for thus our losses we declare; 175
And money is bewailed with deeper sighs,
Than friends or kindred, and with louder cries.
There none dissemble, none, with scenic art,
Affect a sorrow, foreign from the heart;
Content in squalid garments to appear, 180
And vex their lids for one hard-gotten tear:
No, genuine drops fall copious from their eyes,
And their breasts labor with unbidden sighs.
But when you see each court of justice thronged
With crowds, like you, by faithless friendship wronged, 185
See men abjure their bonds, though duly framed,
And oft revised, by all the parties named,
While their own hand and seal, in every eye,
Flash broad conviction, and evince the lie;
Shall you alone on Fortune's smiles presume, 190
And claim exemption from the common doom?
--From a white hen, forsooth, 'twas yours to spring,
Ours, to be hatched beneath some luckless wing!
Pause from your grief, and, with impartial eyes,
Survey the daring crimes which round you rise; 195
Your injuries, then, will scarce deserve a name,
And your false friend be half absolved from blame!
What's he, poor knave! to those who stab for hire,
Who kindle, and then spread, the midnight fire?
Say, what to those, who, from the hoary shrine, 200
Tear the huge vessels age hath stamped divine,
Offerings of price, by grateful nations given,
And crowns inscribed, by pious kings, to heaven?
What to the minor thieves, who, missing these,
Abrade the gilded thighs of Hercules, 205
Strip Neptune of his silvery beard, and peel
Castor's leaf gold, where spread from head to heel?
Or what to those, who, with pernicious craft,
Mingle and set to sale the deadly draught;
Or those, who in a raw ox-hide are bound, 210
And, with an ill-starred ape, poor sufferer! drowned?
Yet these--how small a portion of the crimes,
That stain the records of those dreadful times,
And Gallicus, the city præfect, hears,
From light's first dawning, till it disappears! 215
The state of morals would you learn at Rome?
No farther seek than his judicial dome:
Give one short morning to the horrors there,
And then complain, then murmur, if you dare!
Say, whom do goitres on the Alps surprise? 220
In Meroë, whom the breast's enormous size?
Whom locks, in Germany, of golden hue,
And spiral curls, and eyes of sapphire blue?
None; for the prodigy, among them shared,
Becomes mere nature, and escapes regard. 225
When clouds of Thracian birds obscure the sky,
To arms! to arms! the desperate Pigmies cry:
But soon, defeated in the unequal fray,
Disordered flee; while, pouncing on their prey,
The victor cranes descend, and, clamoring, bear 230
The wriggling manikins aloft in air.
Here, could our climes to such a scene give birth,
We all should burst with agonies of mirth;
There, unsurprised, they view the frequent fight,
Nor smile at heroes scarce a foot in height. 235
"Shall then no ill the perjured head attend,
No punishment o'ertake this faithless friend? "
Suppose him seized, abandoned to your will,
What more would rage? to torture or to kill;
Yet still your loss, your injury would remain, 240
And draw no retribution from his pain.
"True,; but methinks the smallest drop of blood,
Squeezed from his mangled limbs, would do me good:
Revenge, THEY SAY, and I believe their words,
A pleasure sweeter far than life affords. " 245
WHO SAY? the fools, whose passions, prone to ire,
At slightest causes, or at none take fire;
Whose boiling breasts, at every turn, o'erflow
With rancorous gall: Chrysippus SAID not so;
Nor Thales, to our frailties clement still; 250
Nor that old man, by sweet Hymettus' hill,
Who drank the poison with unruffled soul,
And dying, from his foes withheld the bowl.
Divine philosophy! by whose pure light
We first distinguish, then pursue the right, 255
Thy power the breast from every error frees,
And weeds out all its vices by degrees:--
Illumined by thy beam, revenge we find, }
The abject pleasure of an abject mind, }
And hence so dear to poor, weak, womankind. } 260
But why are those, Calvinus, thought to scape
Unpunished, whom, in every fearful shape,
Guilt still alarms, and conscience, ne'er asleep,
Wounds with incessant strokes, "not loud but deep,"
While the vexed mind, her own tormentor, plies 265
A scorpion scourge, unmarked by human eyes!
Trust me, no tortures which the poets feign,
Can match the fierce, the unutterable pain
He feels, who night and day, devoid of rest,
Carries his own accuser in his breast. 270
A Spartan once the Oracle besought
To solve a scruple which perplexed his thought,
And plainly tell him, if he might forswear
A purse, of old confided to his care.
Incensed, the priestess answered--"Waverer, no! 275
Nor shalt thou, for the doubt, unpunished go. "
With that, he hastened to restore the trust;
But fear alone, not virtue, made him just:
Hence, he soon proved the Oracle divine,
And all the answer worthy of the shrine; 280
For plagues pursued his race without delay,
And swept them from the earth, like dust, away.
By such dire sufferings did the wretch atone
The crime of meditated fraud alone!
For, IN THE EYE OF HEAVEN, a wicked deed 285
Devised, is done: What, then, if we proceed? --
Perpetual fears the offender's peace destroy,
And rob the social hour of all its joy:
Feverish, and parched, he chews, with many a pause,
The tasteless food, that swells beneath his jaws: 290
Spits out the produce of the Albanian hill,
Mellowed by age;--you bring him mellower still,
And lo, such wrinkles on his brow appear,
As if you brought Falernian vinegar!
At night, should sleep his harassed limbs compose, 295
And steal him one short moment from his woes,
Then dreams invade; sudden, before his eyes
The violated fane and altar rise;
And (what disturbs him most) your injured shade,
In more than mortal majesty arrayed, 300
Frowns on the wretch, alarms his treacherous rest,
And wrings the dreadful secret from his breast.
These, these are they, who tremble and turn pale
At the first mutterings of the hollow gale! 305
Who sink with terror at the transient glare
Of meteors, glancing through the turbid air!
Oh, 'tis not chance, they cry; this hideous crash
Is not the war of winds; nor this dread flash
The encounter of dark clouds; but blasting fire,
Charged with the wrath of heaven's insulted sire! 310
That dreaded peal, innoxious, dies away;
Shuddering, they wait the next with more dismay,
As if the short reprieve were only sent
To add new horrors to their punishment.
Yet more; when the first symptoms of disease, 315
When feverish heats, their restless members seize,
They think the plague by wrath divine bestowed,
And feel, in every pang, the avenging God.
Racked at the thought, in hopeless grief they lie,
And dare not tempt the mercy of the sky: 320
For what can such expect!