_
THIS, _charming_!
THIS, _charming_!
Satires
360
Quit then the plays! the FARCE OF LIFE supplies
A scene more comic in the sage's eyes.
For who amuses most? --the man who springs,
Light, through the hoop, and on the tight-rope swings;
Or he, who, to a fragile bark confined, 365
Dwells on the deep, the sport of wave and wind?
Fool-hardy wretch! scrambling for every bale
Of stinking merchandise, exposed to sale;
And proud to Crete, for ropy wine, to rove,
And jars, the fellow-citizens of Jove! 370
THAT skips along the rope, with wavering tread,
Dangerous dexterity, which brings him bread;
THIS ventures life, for wealth too vast to spend,
Farm joined to farm, and villas without end!
Lo! every harbor thronged and every bay, 375
And half mankind upon the watery way!
For, where he hears the attractive voice of gain,
The merchant hurries, and defies the main. --
Nor will he only range the Libyan shore,
But, passing Calpé, other worlds explore; 380
See Phœbus, sinking in the Atlantic, lave
His fiery car, and hear the hissing wave.
And all for what? O glorious end! to come,
His toils o'erpast, with purse replenished, home,
And, with a traveler's privilege, vent his boasts, 385
Of unknown monsters seen on unknown coasts.
What varying forms in madness may we trace! --
Safe in his loved Electra's fond embrace,
Orestes sees the avenging Furies rise,
And flash their bloody torches in his eyes; 390
While Ajax strikes an ox, and, at the blow,
Hears Agamemnon or Ulysses low:
And surely he (though, haply, he forbear,
Like these, his keeper and his clothes to tear)
Is just as mad, who to the water's brim 395
Loads his frail bark--a plank 'twixt death and him!
When all this risk is but to swell his store
With a few coins, a few gold pieces more.
Heaven lowers, and frequent, through the muttering air,
The nimble lightning glares, or seems to glare: 400
"Weigh! weigh! " the impatient man of traffic cries,
"These gathering clouds, this rack that dims the skies,
Are but the pageants of a sultry day;
A thunder shower, that frowns, and melts away. "
Deluded wretch! dashed on some dangerous coast, 405
This night, this hour, perhaps, his bark is lost;
While he still strives, though whelmed beneath the wave,
His darling purse with teeth or hand to save.
Thus he, who sighed, of late, for all the gold
Down the bright Tagus and Pactolus rolled, 410
Now bounds his wishes to one poor request,
A scanty morsel and a tattered vest;
And shows, where tears, where supplications fail,
A daubing of his melancholy tale!
Wealth, by such dangers earned, such anxious pain, 415
Requires more care to keep it, than to gain:
Whate'er my miseries, make me not, kind Fate,
The sleepless Argus of a vast estate!
The slaves of Licinus, a numerous band,
Watch through the night, with buckets in their hand, 420
While their rich master trembling lies, afraid
Lest fire his ivory, amber, gold, invade,
The naked Cynic mocks such restless cares,
His earthen tub no conflagration fears;
If cracked, to-morrow he procures a new, 425
Or, coarsely soldering, makes the old one do.
Even Philip's son, when, in his little cell
Content, he saw the mighty master dwell,
Owned, with a sigh, that he, who naught desired,
Was happier far, than he who worlds required, 430
And whose ambition certain dangers brought,
Vast, and unbounded, as the object sought. --
Fortune, advanced to heaven by fools alone,
Would lose, were wisdom ours, her shadowy throne.
"What call I, then, ENOUGH? " What will afford 435
A decent habit, and a frugal board;
What Epicurus' little garden bore,
And Socrates sufficient thought, before:
These squared by Nature's rules their blameless life--
Nature and Wisdom never are at strife. 440
You think, perhaps, these rigid means too scant,
And that I ground philosophy on want;
Take then (for I will be indulgent now,
And something for the change of times allow),
As much as Otho for a knight requires:-- 445
If this, unequal to your wild desires,
Contract your brow; enlarge the sum, and take
As much as two--as much as three--will make.
If yet, in spite of this prodigious store,
Your craving bosom yawn, unfilled, for more, 450
Then, all the wealth of Lydia's king, increast
By all the treasures of the gorgeous East,
Will not content you; no, nor all the gold
Of that proud slave, whose mandate Rome controlled,
Who swayed the Emperor, and whose fatal word 455
Plunged in the Empress' breast the lingering sword!
SATIRE XV.
TO VOLUSIUS BITHYNICUS.
Who knows not to what monstrous gods, my friend,
The mad inhabitants of Egypt bend? --
The snake-devouring ibis, these enshrine,
Those think the crocodile alone divine;
Others, where Thebes' vast ruins strew the ground, 5
And shattered Memnon yields a magic sound,
Set up a glittering brute of uncouth shape,
And bow before the image of an ape!
Thousands regard the hound with holy fear,
Not one, Diana: and 'tis dangerous here, 10
To violate an onion, or to stain
The sanctity of leeks with tooth profane.
O holy nations! Sacro-sanct abodes!
Where every garden propagates its gods!
They spare the fleecy kind, and think it ill, 15
The blood of lambkins, or of kids, to spill:
But, human flesh--O! that is lawful fare.
And you may eat it without scandal there.
When, at the amazed Alcinous' board, of old,
Ulysses of so strange an action told, 20
He moved of some the mirth, of more the gall,
And, for a lying vagrant, passed with all.
"Will no one plunge this babbler in the waves
(Worthy a true Charybdis)--while he raves
Of monsters seen not since the world began, 25
Cyclops and Læstrigons, who feed on man!
For me--I less should doubt of Scylla's train,
Of rocks that float and jostle in the main,
Of bladders filled with storms, of men, in fine,
By magic changed, and driven to grunt with swine, 30
Than of his cannibals:--the fellow feigns,
As if he thought Phæacians had no brains. "
Thus, one, perhaps, more sober than the rest,
Observed, and justly, of their traveled guest,
Who spoke of prodigies till then unknown; 35
Yet brought no attestation but his own.
--I bring my wonders, too; and I can tell,
When Junius, late, was consul, what befell,
Near Coptus' walls; tell of a people stained
With deeper guilt than tragedy e'er feigned: 40
For, sure, no buskined bard, from Pyrrha's time,
E'er taxed a whole community with crime;
Take then a scene yet to the stage unknown,
And, by a nation, acted--IN OUR OWN!
Between two neighboring towns a deadly hate, 45
Sprung from a sacred grudge of ancient date,
Yet burns; a hate no lenients can assuage,
No time subdue, a rooted, rancorous rage!
Blind bigotry, at first, the evil wrought:
For each despised the other's gods, and thought 50
Its own the true, the genuine, in a word,
The only deities to be adored!
And now the Ombite festival drew near:
When the prime Tent'rites, envious of their cheer,
Resolved to seize the occasion, to annoy 55
Their feast, and spoil the sacred week of joy. --
It came: the hour the thoughtless Ombites greet,
And crowd the porches, crowd the public street,
With tables richly spread; where, night and day,
Plunged in the abyss of gluttony, they lay: 60
(For savage as the nome appears, it vies
In luxury, if I MAY TRUST MY EYES,
With dissolute Canopus:) Six were past,
Six days of riot, and the seventh and last
Rose on the feast; and now the Tent'rites thought, 65
A cheap, a bloodless victory might be bought,
O'er such a helpless crew: nor thought they wrong,
Nor could the event be doubtful, where a throng
Of drunken revelers, stammering, reeling-ripe,
And capering to a sooty minstrel's pipe. 70
Coarse unguents, chaplets, flowers, on this side fight,
On that, keen hatred, and deliberate spite!
At first both sides, though eager to engage.
With taunts and jeers, the heralds of their rage,
Blow up their mutual fury; and anon, 75
Kindled to madness, with loud shouts rush on;
Deal, though unarmed, their vengeance blindly round,
And with clenched fists print many a ghastly wound.
Then might you see, amid the desperate fray,
Features disfigured, noses torn away, 80
Hands, where the gore of mangled eyes yet reeks,
And jaw-bones starting through the cloven cheeks!
But this is sport, mere children's play, they cry--
As yet beneath their feet no bodies lie,
And, to what purpose should such armies fight 85
The cause of heaven, if none be slain outright?
Roused at the thought, more fiercely they engage,
With stones, the weapons of intestine rage;
Yet not precisely such, to tell you true,
As Turnus erst, or mightier Ajax, threw: 90
Nor quite so large as that two-handed stone,
Which bruised Æneas on the huckle-bone;
But such as men, in our degenerate days,
Ah, how unlike to theirs! make shift to raise.
Even in his time, Mæonides could trace 95
Some diminution of the human race:
Now, earth, grown old and frigid, rears with pain
A pigmy brood, a weak and wicked train;
Which every god, who marks their passions vile,
Regards with laughter, though he loathes the while. 100
But to our tale. Enforced with armed supplies.
The zealous Tent'rites feel their courage rise,
And wave their swords, and, kindling at the sight,
Press on, and with fell rage renew the fight.
The Ombites flee; they follow:--in the rear, 105
A luckless wretch, confounded by his fear,
Trips and falls headlong; with loud yelling cries,
The pack rush in, and seize him as he lies.
And now the conquerors, none to disappoint
Of the dire banquet, tear him joint by joint, 110
And dole him round; the bones yet warm, they gnaw,
And champ the flesh that heaves beneath their jaw.
They want no cook to dress it--'twould be long,
And appetite is keen, and rage is strong.
And here, Volusius, I rejoice at least, 115
That fire was unprofaned by this cursed feast,
Fire, rapt from heaven! and you will, sure, agree
To greet the element's escape, with me.
--But all who ventured on the carcass, swore
They never tasted--aught so sweet before! 120
Nor did the relish charm the first alone--
Those who arrived too late for flesh, or bone,
Stooped down, and scraping where the wretch had lain,
With savage pleasure licked the gory plain!
The Vascons once (the story yet is rife), 125
With such dire sustenance prolonged their life;
But then the cause was different: Fortune, there,
Proved adverse: they had borne the extremes of war,
The rage of famine, the still-watchful foe,
And all the ills beleaguered cities know. 130
(And nothing else should prompt mankind to use
Such desperate means. ) May this their crime excuse!
For after every root and herb were gone,
And every aliment to hunger known;
When their lean frames, and cheeks of sallow hue, 135
Struck even the foe with pity at the view,
And all were ready their own flesh to tear,
They first adventured on this horrid fare.
And surely every god would pity grant
To men so worn by wretchedness and want, 140
And even the very ghosts of those they ate,
Absolve them, mindful of their dreadful state!
True, we are wiser; and, by Zeno taught,
Know life itself may be too dearly bought;
But the poor Vascon, in that early age, 145
Knew naught of Zeno, or the Stoic page. --
Now, thanks to Greece and Rome, in wisdom's robe
The bearded tribes rush forth, and seize the globe;
Already, learned Gaul aspires to teach
Your British orators the Art of Speech, 150
And Thulé, blessings on her, seems to say,
She'll hire a good grammarian, cost what may.
The Vascons, then, who thus prolonged their breath,
And the Saguntines, true, like them, to death,
Brave too, like them, but by worse ills subdued, 155
Had some small plea for this abhorred food.
Diana first (and let us doubt no more
The barbarous rites we disbelieved of yore)
Reared her dread altar near the Tauric flood,
And asked the sacrifice of human blood: 160
Yet there the victim only lost his life,
And feared no cruelty beyond the knife.
Far, far more savage Egypt's frantic train,
They butcher first, and then devour the slain!
But say, what causa impelled them to proceed, 165
What siege, what famine, to this monstrous deed?
What could they more, had Nile refused to rise,
And the soil gaped with ever-glowing skies,
What could they more, the guilty Flood to shame,
And heap opprobrium on his hateful name! 170
Lo! what the barbarous hordes of Scythia, Thrace,
Gaul, Britain, never dared--dared by a race
Of puny dastards, who, with fingers frail,
Tug the light oar, and hoist the little sail,
In painted pans! What tortures can the mind 175
Suggest for miscreants of this abject kind,
Whom spite impelled worse horrors to pursue,
Than famine, in its deadliest form, e'er knew!
NATURE, who gave us tears, by that alone
Proclaims she made the feeling heart our own; 180
And 'tis her noblest boon: This bids us fly,
To wipe the drops from sorrowing friendship's eye,
Sorrowing ourselves; to wail the prisoner's state,
And sympathize in the wronged orphan's fate,
Compelled his treacherous guardian to accuse, 185
While many a shower his blooming cheek bedews,
And through his scattered tresses, wet with tears,
A doubtful face, or boy or girl's, appears.
As Nature bids, we sigh, when some bright maid
Is, ere her spousals, to the pyre conveyed; 190
Some babe--by fate's inexorable doom,
Just shown on earth, and hurried to the tomb.
For who, that to the sanctity aspires
Which Ceres, for her mystic torch, requires,
Feels not another's woes? This marks our birth; 195
The great distinction from the beasts of earth!
And therefore--gifted with superior powers,
And capable of things divine--'tis ours,
To learn, and practice, every useful art;
And, from high heaven, deduce that better part, 200
That moral sense, denied to creatures prone,
And downward bent, and found with man alone! --
For He, who gave this vast machine to roll,
Breathed LIFE in them, in us a REASONING SOUL;
That kindred feelings might our state improve, 205
And mutual wants conduct to mutual love;
Woo to one spot the scattered hordes of men,
From their old forest and paternal den;
Raise the fair dome, extend the social line,
And, to our mansion, those of others join, 210
Join too our faith, our confidence to theirs,
And sleep, relying on the general cares:--
In war, that each to each support might lend,
When wounded, succor, and when fallen, defend;
At the same trumpet's clangor rush to arms, 215
By the same walls be sheltered from alarms,
Near the same tower the foe's incursions wait,
And trust their safety to one common gate.
--But serpents, now, more links of concord bind:
The cruel leopard spares the spotted kind; 220
No lion spills a weaker lion's gore,
No boar expires beneath a stronger boar;
In leagues of friendship tigers roam the plain,
And bears with bears perpetual peace maintain.
While man, alas! fleshed in the dreadful trade, 225
Forges without remorse the murderous blade,
On that dire anvil, where primæval skill,
As yet untaught a brother's blood to spill,
Wrought only what meek nature would allow,
Goads for the ox, and coulters for the plow! 230
Even this is trifling: we have seen a rage
Too fierce for murder only to assuage;
Seen a whole state their victim piecemeal tear,
And count each quivering limb delicious fare.
O, could the Samian Sage these horrors see, 235
What would he say? or to what deserts flee?
He, who the flesh of beasts, like man's, declined,
And scarce indulged in pulse--of every kind!
SATIRE XVI.
TO GALLUS.
Who can recount the advantages that wait,
Dear Gallus, on the Military State? --
For let me once, beneath a lucky star,
Faint as I am of heart, and new to war,
But join the camp, and that ascendant hour 5
Shall lord it o'er my fate with happier power,
Than if a line from Venus should commend
My suit to Mars, or Juno stand my friend!
And first, of benefits which all may share:
'Tis somewhat--that no citizen shall dare 10
To strike you, or, though struck, return the blow:
But waive the wrong; nor to the Prætor show
His teeth dashed out, his face deformed with gore,
And eyes no skill can promise to restore!
A Judge, if to the camp your plaints you bear, 15
Coarse shod, and coarser greaved, awaits you there:
By antique law proceeds the cassocked sage,
And rules prescribed in old Camillus' age;
_To wit_, ~Let soldiers seek no foreign bench,~
~Nor plead to any charge without the trench~. 20
O nicely do Centurions sift the cause,
When buff-and-belt-men violate the laws!
And ample, if with reason we complain,
Is, doubtless, the redress our injuries gain!
Even so:--but the whole legion are our foes, 25
And, with determined aim, the award oppose.
"These sniveling rogues take special pleasure still
To make the punishment outweigh the ill. "
So runs the cry; and he must be possest
Of more, Vagellius, than thy iron breast, 30
Who braves their anger, and, with ten poor toes,
Defies such countless hosts of hobnailed shoes.
Who so untutored in the ways of Rome,
Say, who so true a Pylades, to come
Within the camp? --no; let thy tears be dried, 35
Nor ask that kindness, which must be denied,
For, when the Court exclaims, "Your witness, here! "
Let that firm friend, that man of men, appear,
And testify but what he saw and heard;
And I pronounce him worthy of the beard 40
And hair of our forefathers! You may find
False witnesses against an honest hind,
Easier than true (and who their fears can blame? ),
Against a soldier's purse, a soldier's fame!
But there are other benefits, my friend, 45
And greater, which the sons of war attend:
Should a litigious neighbor bid me yield
My vale irriguous, and paternal field;
Or from my bounds the sacred landmark tear,
To which, with each revolving spring, I bear, 50
In pious duty to the grateful soil,
My humble offerings, honey, meal, and oil;
Or a vile debtor my just claims withstand,
Deny his signet, and abjure his hand;
Term after Term I wait, till months be past, 55
And scarce obtain a hearing at the last.
Even when the hour is fixed, a thousand stays
Retard my suit, a thousand vague delays:
The cause is called, the witnesses attend,
Chairs brought, and cushions laid--and there an end: 60
Cæditius finds his cloak or gown too hot,
And Fuscus slips aside to seek the pot;
Thus, with our dearest hopes the judges sport,
And when we rise to speak, dismiss the Court!
But spear-and-shield-men may command the hour; 65
The time to plead is always in their power;
Nor are their wealth and patience worn away,
By the slow drag-chain of the law's delay.
Add that the soldier, while his father lives,
And he alone, his wealth bequeaths or gives; 70
For what by pay is earned, by plunder won,
The law declares, vests solely in the son.
Coranus therefore sees his hoary sire,
To gain his Will, by every art, aspire! --
He rose by service; rank in fields obtained, 75
And well deserved the fortune which he gained.
And every prudent chief must, sure, desire,
That still the worthiest should the most acquire;
That those who merit, their rewards should have,
Trappings, and chains, and all that decks the brave. 80
PERSIUS.
PROLOGUE.
'Twas never yet my luck, I ween,
To drench my lips in Hippocrene;
Nor, if I recollect aright,
On the forked Hill to sleep a night,
That I, like others of the trade, 5
Might wake--a poet ready made!
Thee, Helicon, with all the Nine,
And pale Pyrene, I resign,
Unenvied, to the tuneful race,
Whose busts (of many a fane the grace) 10
Sequacious ivy climbs, and spreads
Unfading verdure round their heads.
Enough for me, too mean for praise,
To bear my rude, uncultured lays
To Phœbus and the Muses' shrine, 15
And place them near their gifts divine.
Who bade the parrot χαῖρε cry;
And forced our language on the pie?
The BELLY: Master, he, of Arts,
Bestower of ingenious parts; 20
Powerful the creatures to endue
With sounds their natures never knew!
For, let the wily hand unfold
The glittering bait of tempting gold,
And straight the choir of daws and pies, 25
To such poetic heights shall rise,
That, lost in wonder, you will swear
Apollo and the Nine are there!
SATIRE I.
Alas, for man! how vain are all his cares!
And oh! what bubbles, his most grave affairs!
Tush! who will read such trite--Heavens! this to me?
Not one, by Jove. Not one? Well, two, or three;
Or rather--none: a piteous case, in truth! 5
Why piteous? _lest Polydamas_, forsooth,
_And Troy's proud dames_, pronounce my merits fall
Beneath their Labeo's! I can bear it all.
Nor should my friend, though still, as fashion sways,
The purblind town conspire to sink or raise, 10
Determine, as her wavering beam prevails,
And trust his judgment to her coarser scales.
O not abroad for vague opinion roam;
The wise man's bosom is his proper home:
And Rome is--What? Ah, might the truth be told! -- 15
And, sure it may, it must. --When I behold
What fond pursuits have formed our prime employ,
Since first we dropped the playthings of the boy,
To gray maturity, to this late hour,
When every brow frowns with censorial power, 20
Then, then--O yet suppress this carping mood.
Impossible! I could not if I would;
For nature framed me of satiric mould,
And spleen, too petulant to be controlled.
Immured within our studies, we compose; 25
Some, shackled metre; some, free-footed prose;
But all, bombast; stuff, which the breast may strain,
And the huge lungs puff forth with awkward pain.
'Tis done! and now the bard, elate and proud,
Prepares a grand rehearsal for the crowd. 30
Lo! he steps forth in birthday splendor bright,
Combed and perfumed, and robed in dazzling white;
And mounts the desk; his pliant throat he clears,
And deals, insidious, round his wanton leers;
While Rome's first nobles, by the prelude wrought, 35
Watch, with indecent glee, each prurient thought,
And squeal with rapture, as the luscious line
Thrills through the marrow, and inflames the chine.
Vile dotard! Canst thou thus consent to please!
To pander for such itching fools as these! 40
Fools--whose applause must shoot beyond thy aim,
And tinge thy cheek, bronzed as it is, with shame!
But wherefore have I learned, if, thus represt,
The leaven still must swell within my breast?
If the wild fig-tree, deeply rooted there, 45
Must never burst its bounds, and shoot in air?
Are these the fruits of study! these of age!
O times, O manners--Thou misjudging sage,
Is science only useful as 'tis shown,
And is thy knowledge nothing, if not known? 50
"But, sure, 'tis pleasant, as we walk, to see
The pointed finger, hear the loud _That's he_,
On every side:--and seems it, in your sight,
So poor a trifle, that whate'er we write
Is introduced to every school of note, 55
And taught the youth of quality by rote?
--Nay, more! Our nobles, gorged, and swilled with wine,
Call, o'er the banquet, for a lay divine.
Here one, on whom the princely purple glows,
Snuffles some musty legend through his nose; 60
Slowly distills Hypsipyle's sad fate,
And love-lorn Phillis, dying for her mate,
With what of woeful else is said or sung;
And trips up every word, with lisping tongue.
The maudlin audience, from the couches round, 65
Hum their assent, responsive to the sound. --
And are not now the poet's ashes blest!
Now lies the turf not lightly on his breast!
They pause a moment--and again, the room
Rings with his praise: now will not roses bloom, 70
Now, from his relics, will not violets spring,
And o'er his hallowed urn their fragrance fling!
"You laugh ('tis answered), and too freely here
Indulge that vile propensity to sneer.
Lives there, who would not at applause rejoice, 75
And merit, if he could, the public voice?
Who would not leave posterity such rhymes,
As cedar oil might keep to latest times;
Rhymes, which should fear no desperate grocer's hand,
Nor fly with fish and spices through the land! 80
Thou, my kind monitor, whoe'er thou art,
Whom I suppose to play the opponent's part,
Know--when I write, if chance some happier strain
(And chance it needs must be) rewards my pain,
Know, I can relish praise with genuine zest; 85
Not mine the torpid, mine the unfeeling breast:
But that I merely toil for this acclaim,
And make these eulogies my end and aim,
I must not, can not grant: for--sift them all,
Mark well their value, and on what they fall: 90
Are they not showered (to pass these trifles o'er)
On Labeo's Iliad, drunk with hellebore?
On princely love-lays driveled without thought,
And the crude trash on citron couches wrought?
You spread the table--'tis a master-stroke, 95
And give the shivering guest a threadbare cloak,
Then, while his heart with gratitude dilates
At the glad vest and the delicious cates,
Tell me, you cry--for truth is my delight,
What says the Town of me, and what I write? 100
He can not:--he has neither ears nor eyes.
But shall I tell you, who your bribes despise?
--Bald trifler! cease at once your thriftless trade;
That mountain paunch for verse was never made.
O Janus, happiest of thy happy kind! -- 105
No waggish stork can peck at thee behind:
No tongue thrust forth, expose to passing jeers;
No twinkling fingers, perked like ass's ears,
Point to the vulgar mirth:--but you, ye Great,
To a blind occiput condemned by fate, 110
Prevent, while yet you may, the rabble's glee,
And tremble at the scoff you can not see! --
"What says the Town"--precisely what it ought:
All you produce, sir, with such skill is wrought,
That o'er the polished surface, far and wide, 115
The critic nail without a jar must glide;
Since every verse is drawn as straight and fine
As if one eye had fixed the ruddled line.
--Whate'er the subject of his varied rhymes,
The humors, passions, vices of the times; 120
The pomp of nobles, barbarous pride of kings,
All, all is great, and all inspired he sings!
Lo! striplings, scarcely from the ferule freed,
And smarting yet from Greek, with headlong speed
Rush on heroics; though devoid of skill 125
To paint the rustling grove, or purling rill;
Or praise the country, robed in cheerful green,
Where hogs, and hearths, and osier frails are seen,
And happy hinds, who leap o'er smouldering hay,
In honor, Pales, of thy sacred day. 130
_--Scenes of delight! --there Remus lived, and there,_
_In grassy furrows Quinctius tired his share;_
_Quinctius, on whom his wife, with trembling haste,_
_The dictatorial robes, exulting, placed,_
_Before his team; while homeward, with his plow, 135_
_The lictors hurried_--Good! a Homer, thou!
There are, who hunt out antiquated lore;
And never, but on musty authors, pore;
These, Accius' jagged and knotty lines engage,
And those, Pacuvius' hard and horny page; 140
Where, in quaint tropes, Antiopa is seen
To--_prop her dolorific heart with teen_!
O, when you mark the sire, to judgment blind,
Commend such models to the infant mind,
Forbear to wonder whence this olio sprung, 145
This sputtering jargon which infests our tongue;
This scandal of the times, which shocks my ear,
And which our knights bound from their seats to hear!
How monstrous seems it, that we can not plead,
When called to answer for some felon deed, 150
Nor danger from the trembling head repel,
Without a wish for--_Bravo! Vastly well! _
This Pedius is a thief, the accusers cry.
You hear them, Pedius; now, for your reply?
In terse antitheses he weighs the crime, 155
Equals the pause, and balances the chime;
And with such skill his flowery tropes employs,
That the rapt audience scarce contain their joys.
_O charming! charming! he must sure prevail.
_
THIS, _charming_! Can a Roman wag the tail? 160
Were the wrecked mariner to chant his woe,
Should I or sympathy or alms bestow?
Sing you, when, in that tablet on your breast,
I see your story to the life exprest;
A shattered bark, dashed madly on the shore, 165
And you, scarce floating, on a broken oar! --
No, he must feel that would my pity share,
And drop a natural, not a studied tear.
But yet our numbers boast a grace unknown
To our rough sires, a smoothness all our own. 170
True: the spruce metre in sweet cadence flows,
And answering sounds a tuneful chime compose:
Blue Nereus here, the Dolphin swift divides;
And Idè there, sees Attin climb her sides:
Nor this alone--for, in some happier line, 175
We win the chine of the long Apennine!
_Arms and the man_--Here, too, perhaps, you find
A pithless branch beneath a fungous rind?
Not so;--a seasoned trunk of many a day,
Whose gross and watery parts are drawn away. 180
But what, in fine (for still you jeer me), call
For the moist eye, bowed head, and lengthened drawl,
What strains of genuine pathos? --_O'er the hill_
_The dismal slug-horn sounded, loud and shrill,_
_A Mimallonian blast: fired at the sound, 185_
_In maddening groups the Bacchants pour around,_
_Mangle the haughty calf with gory hands,_
_And scourge the indocile lynx with ivy wands;_
_While Echo lengthens out the barbarous yell,_
_And propagates the din from cell to cell! _ 190
O were not every spark of manly sense,
Of pristine vigor quenched, or banished hence,
Could this be borne! this cuckoo-spit of Rome,
Which gathers round the lips in froth and foam!
--The _haughty calf_, and _Attin's_ jangling strain, 195
Dropped, without effort, from the rheumy brain;
No savor they of bleeding nails afford,
Or desk, oft smitten for the happy word.
But why must you, alone, displeased appear,
And with harsh truths thus grate the tender ear? 200
O yet beware! think of the closing gate!
And dread the cold reception of the great:
This currish humor you extend too far,
While every word growls with that hateful gnar!
Right! From this hour (for now my fault I see) 205
All shall be charming--charming all, for me:
What late seemed base, already looks divine,
And wonders start to view in every line!
Tis well, you cry: this spot let none defile,
Or turn to purposes obscene and vile. 210
Paint, then, two snakes entwined; and write around,
URINE NOT, CHILDREN, HERE; 'TIS HOLY GROUND.
Awed, I retire: and yet--when vice appeared,
Lucilius o'er the town his falchion reared;
On Lupus, Mutius, poured his rage by name, 215
And broke his grinders on their bleeding fame.
And yet--arch Horace, while he strove to mend,
Probed all the foibles of his smiling friend;
Played lightly round and round the peccant part,
And won, unfelt, an entrance to his heart. 220
Well skilled the follies of the crowd to trace,
And sneer, with gay good humor in his face.
And I! --I must not mutter? No; nor dare--
Not to myself? No. To a ditch? Nowhere.
Yes, here I'll dig--here, to sure trust confide 225
The secret which I would, but can not, hide.
My darling book, a word;--"King Midas wears
(These eyes beheld them, these! ) such ass's ears! "--
This quip of mine, which none must hear, or know,
This fond conceit, which takes my fancy so, 230
This nothing, if you will; you should not buy
With all those Iliads that you prize so high.
But thou, whom Eupolis' impassioned page,
Hostile to vice, inflames with kindred rage,
Whom bold Cratinus, and that awful sire, 235
Force, as thou readest, to tremble and admire;
O, view my humbler labors:--there, if aught
More highly finished, more maturely wrought,
Detain thy ear, and give thy breast to glow
With warmth, responsive to the inspiring flow-- 240
I seek no farther:--Far from me the rest,
Yes, far the wretch, who, with a low-born jest,
Can mock the blind for blindness, and pursue
With vulgar ribaldry the Grecian shoe:
Bursting with self-conceit, with pride elate, 245
Because, forsooth, in magisterial state,
His worship (ædile of some paltry town)
Broke scanty weights, and put false measures down.
Far too be he--the monstrous witty fool,
Who turns the numeral scale to ridicule; 250
Derides the problems traced in dust or sand,
And treads out all Geometry has planned--
Who roars outright to see Nonaria seize,
And tug the cynic's beard--To such as these
I recommend, at morn, the Prætor's bill, 255
At eve, Calirrhoë, or--what they will.
SATIRE II.
TO PLOTIUS MACRINUS (ON HIS BIRTHDAY).
Health to my friend! and while my vows I pay,
O mark, Macrinus, this auspicious day,
Which, to your sum of years already flown,
Adds yet another--with a whiter stone.
Indulge your Genius, drench in wine your cares:-- 5
It is not yours, with mercenary prayers
To ask of Heaven what you would die with shame,
Unless you drew the gods aside, to name;
While other great ones stand, with down-cast eyes,
And with a silent censer tempt the skies! -- 10
Hard, hard the task, from the low, muttered prayer,
To free the fanes; or find one suppliant there,
Who dares to ask but what his state requires,
And live to heaven and earth with known desires!
Sound sense, integrity, a conscience clear, 15
Are begged aloud, that all at hand may hear:
But prayers like these (half whispered, half supprest)
The tongue scarce hazards from the conscious breast:
_O that I could my rich old uncle see,_
_In funeral pomp! --O that some deity 20_
_To pots of buried gold would guide my share! _
_O that my ward, whom I succeed as heir,_
_Were once at rest! poor child, he lives in pain,_
_And death to him must be accounted gain. --_
_By wedlock, thrice has Nerius swelled his store, 25_
_And now--is he a widower once more! _
These blessings, with due sanctity, to crave,
Once, twice, and thrice in Tiber's eddying wave
He dips each morn, and bids the stream convey
The gathered evils of the night, away! 30
One question, friend:--an easy one, in fine--
What are thy thoughts of Jove? My thoughts! Yes; thine.
Wouldst thou prefer him to the herd of Rome?
To any individual? --But, to whom?
To Staius, for example. Heavens! a pause? 35
Which of the two would best dispense the laws?
Best shield the unfriended orphan? Good! Now move
The suit to Staius, late preferred to Jove:--
"O Jove! good Jove! " he cries, o'erwhelmed with shame,
And must not Jove himself, _O Jove! _ exclaim? 40
Or dost thou think the impious wish forgiven,
Because, when thunder shakes the vault of heaven,
The bolt innoxious flies o'er thee and thine,
To rend the forest oak and mountain pine?
--Because, yet livid from the lightning's seath, 45
Thy mouldering corpse (a monument of wrath)
Lies in no blasted grove, for public care
To expiate with sacrifice and prayer;
Must, therefore, Jove, unsceptred and unfeared,
Give to thy ruder mirth his foolish beard? 50
What bribe hast thou to win the Powers divine,
Thus, to thy nod? The lungs and lights of swine.
Lo! from his little crib, the grandam hoar,
Or aunt, well versed in superstitious lore,
Snatches the babe; in lustral spittle dips 55
Her middle finger, and anoints his lips
And forehead:--"Charms of potency," she cries,
"To break the influence of evil eyes! "
The spell complete, she dandles high in air
Her starveling hope; and breathes a humble prayer, 60
That heaven would only tender to his hands
All Crassus' houses, all Licinius' lands! --
"Let every gazer by his charms be won,
And kings and queens aspire to call him son:
Contending virgins fly his smiles to meet, 65
And roses spring where'er he sets his feet! "
Insane of soul--but I, O Jove, am free.
Thou knowest, I trust no nurse with prayers for me:
In mercy, then, reject each fond demand,
Though, robed in white, she at thy altar stand. 70
This begs for nerves to pain and sickness steeled,
A frame of body that shall slowly yield
To late old age:--'Tis well, enjoy thy wish. --
But the huge platter, and high-seasoned dish,
Day after day the willing gods withstand, 75
And dash the blessing from their opening hand.
That sues for wealth: the laboring ox is slain,
And frequent victims woo the "god of gain. "
"O crown my hearth with plenty and with peace,
And give my flocks and herds a large increase! " 80
Madman! how can he, when, from day to day,
Steer after steer in offerings melt away? --
Still he persists; and still new hopes arise,
With harslet and with tripe, to storm the skies.
"Now swell my harvests! now my fields! now, now, 85
It comes--it comes--auspicious to my vow! "
While thus, poor wretch, he hangs 'twixt hope and fear,
He starts, in dreadful certainty, to hear
His chest reverberate the hollow groan
Of his last piece, to find itself alone? 90
If from my sideboard I should bid you take
Goblets of gold or silver, you would shake
With eager rapture; drops of joy would start,
And your left breast scarce hold your fluttering heart:
Hence, you presume the gods are bought and sold; 95
And overlay their busts with captured gold.
For, of the brazen brotherhood, the Power
Who sends you dreams, at morning's truer hour,
Most purged from phlegm, enjoys your best regards,
And a gold beard his prescient skill rewards! 100
Now, from the temples, GOLD has chased the plain
And frugal ware of Numa's pious reign;.
The ritual pots of brass are seen no more,
And Vesta's pitchers blaze in burnished ore.
O groveling souls! and void of things divine! 105
Why bring our passions to the Immortals' shrine,
And judge, from what this CARNAL SENSE delights,
Of what is pleasing in their purer sights?
THIS, the Calabrian fleece with purple soils,
And mingles cassia with our native oils; 110
Tears from the rocky conch its pearly store,
And strains the metal from the glowing ore.
This, this, indeed, is vicious; yet it tends
To gladden life, perhaps; and boasts its ends;
But you, ye priests (for, sure, ye can), unfold-- 115
In heavenly things, what boots this pomp of gold?
No more, in truth, than dolls to Venus paid
(The toys of childhood), by the riper maid!
No; let me bring the Immortals, what the race
Of great Messala, now depraved and base, 120
On their huge charger, can not;--bring a mind,
Where legal and where moral sense are joined
With the pure essence; holy thoughts, that dwell
In the soul's most retired and sacred cell;
A bosom dyed in honor's noblest grain, 125
Deep-dyed:--with these let me approach the fane,
And Heaven will hear the humble prayer I make,
Though all my offering be a barley cake.
SATIRE III.
What! ever thus? See! while the beams of day
In broad effulgence o'er the shutters play,
Stream through the crevice, widen on the walls,
On the fifth line the gnomon's shadow falls!
Yet still you sleep, like one that, stretched supine, 5
Snores off the fumes of strong Falernian wine.
Up! up! mad Sirius parches every blade,
And flocks and herds lie panting in the shade.
Here my youth rouses, rubs his heavy eyes,
"Is it _so_ late? so _very_ late? " he cries; 10
"Shame, shame! Who waits? Who waits there? quick, my page!
Why, when! " His bile overflows; he foams with rage,
And brays so loudly, that you start in fear,
And fancy all Arcadia at your ear.
Behold him, with his bedgown and his books, 15
His pens and paper, and his studious looks,
Intent and earnest! What arrests his speed,
Alas! the viscous liquid clogs the reed.
Dilute it. Pish! now every word I write
Sinks through the paper, and eludes the sight; 20
Now the pen leaves no mark, the point's too fine;
Now 'tis too blunt, and doubles every line!
O wretch! whom every day more wretched sees--
Are these the fruits of all your studies? these!
Give o'er at once: and like same callow dove, 25
Some prince's heir, some lady's infant love,
Call for chewed pap; and, pouting at the breast,
Scream at the lullaby that woos to rest!
"But why such warmth? See what a pen! nay, see! "--
And is this subterfuge employed on me? 30
Fond boy! your time, with your pretext, is lost;
And all your arts are at your proper cost.
While with occasion thus you madly play,
Your best of life unheeded leaks away,
And scorn flows in apace: the ill-baked ware, 35
Rung by the potter, will its fault declare;
Thus--But you yet are moist and yielding clay:
Call for some plastic hand without delay,
Nor cease the labor, till the wheel produce
A vessel nicely formed, and fit for use. 40
"But wherefore this? My father, thanks to fate,
Left me a fair, if not a large, estate:--
A salt unsullied on my table shines,
And due oblations, in their little shrines,
My household gods receive; my hearth is pure, 45
And all my means of life confirmed and sure:
What need I more? " Nay, nothing; it is well.
--And it becomes you, too, with pride to swell,
Because, the thousandth in descent, you trace
Your blood, unmixed, from some high Tuscan race; 50
Or, when the knights march by the censor's chair,
In annual pomp, can greet a kinsman there!
Away! these trappings to the rabble show:
Me they deceive not; for your soul I know,
Within, without. --And blush you not to see 55
Loose Natta's life and yours so well agree?
--But Natta's is not _life_: the sleep of sin
Has seized his powers, and palsied all within;
Huge cawls of fat envelope every part,
And torpor weighs on his insensate heart: 60
Absolved from blame by ignorance so gross,
He neither sees nor comprehends his loss;
Content in guilt's profound abyss to drop,
Nor, struggling, send one bubble to the top!
Dread sire of gods! when lust's envenomed stings 65
Stir the fierce natures of tyrannic kings;
When storms of rage within their bosoms roll,
And call, in thunder, for thy just control,
O, then relax the bolt, suspend the blow,
And thus, and thus alone, thy vengeance show, 70
In all her charms, set Virtue in their eye,
And let them see their loss, despair, and--die!
Say, could the wretch severer tortures feel,
Closed in the brazen bull? --Could the bright steel,
That, while the board with regal pomp was spread, 75
Gleamed o'er the guest, suspended by a thread,
Worse pangs inflict than he endures, who cries
(As on the rack of conscious guilt he lies,
In mental agony), "Alas! I fall,
Down, down the unfathomed steep, without recall! " 80
And withers at the heart, and dares not show
His bosom wife the secret of his woe!
Oft (I remember yet), my sight to spoil.
Oft, when a boy, I bleared my eyes with oil,
What time I wished my studies to decline, 85
Nor make great Cato's dying speeches mine;
Speeches my master to the skies had raised,
Poor pedagogue! unknowing what he praised;
And which my sire, suspense 'twixt hope and fear,
With venial pride, had brought his friends to hear. 90
For then, alas! 'twas my supreme delight
To study chances, and compute aright,
What sum the lucky sice would yield in play,
And what the fatal aces sweep away:
Anxious no rival candidate for fame 95
Should hit the long-necked jar with nicer aim;
Nor, while the whirling top beguiled the eye,
With happier skill the sounding scourge apply.
But you have passed the schools; have studied long,
And learned the eternal bounds of Right and Wrong, 100
And what the Porch (by Mycon limned, of yore,
With trowsered Medes), unfolds of ethic lore,
Where the shorn youth, on herbs and pottage fed,
Bend, o'er the midnight page, the sleepless head:
And, sure, the letter where, divergent wide, 105
The Samian branches shoot on either side,
Has to your view, with no obscure display,
Marked, on the right, the strait but better way.
And yet you slumber still! and still opprest
With last night's revels, knock your head and breast! 110
And stretching o'er your drowsy couch, produce
Yawn after yawn, as if your jaws were loose!
Is there no certain mark at which to aim? --
Still must your bow be bent at casual game?
With clods, and potsherds, must you still pursue 115
Each wandering crow that chance presents to view;
And, careless of your life's contracted span,
Live from the moment, and without a plan?
When bloated dropsies every limb invade.
In vain to hellebore you fly for aid: 120
Meet with preventive skill the young disease,
And Craterus will boast no golden fees.
Mount, hapless youths, on Contemplation's wings,
And mark the Causes and the End of things:--
Learn what we are, and for what purpose born, 125
What station here 'tis given us to adorn;
How best to blend security with ease,
And win our way through life's tempestuous seas;
What bounds the love of property requires,
And what to wish, with unreproved desires; 130
How far the genuine use of wealth extends;
And the just claims of country, kindred, friends
What Heaven would have us be, and where our stand,
In this GREAT WHOLE, is fixed by high command.
Learn these--and envy not the sordid gains 135
Which recompense the well-tongued lawyer's pains;
Though Umbrian rustics, for his sage advice,
Pour in their jars of fish, and oil, and spice,
So thick and fast, that, ere the first be o'er,
A second, and a third, are at the door. 140
"But here, some brother of the blade, some coarse
And shag-haired captain, bellows loud and hoarse;
Away with this cramp, philosophic stuff!
My learning serves my turn, and that's enough.
I laugh at all your dismal Solons, I; 145
Who stalk with downcast looks, and heads awry,
Muttering within themselves, where'er they roam,
And churning their mad silence till it foam!
Who mope o'er sick men's dreams, howe'er absurd,
And on protruded lips poise every word; 150
_Nothing can come from nothing. _ Apt and plain!
_Nothing return to nothing. _ Good, again!
And this it is for which they peak and pine,
This precious stuff, for which they never dine! "
Jove, how he laughs! the brawny youths around 155
Catch the contagion, and return the sound;
Convulsive mirth on every cheek appears,
And every nose is wrinkled into sneers!
"Doctor, a patient said, employ your art,
I feel a strange wild fluttering at the heart; 160
My breast seems tightened, and a fetid smell
sets my breath--feel here; all is not well,"
Medicine and rest the fever's rage compose,
And the third day his blood more calmly flows.
The fourth, unable to contain, he sends 165
A hasty message to his wealthier friends,
And _just about to bathe_--requests, in fine,
A moderate flask of old Surrentin wine.
"Good heavens! my friend, what sallow looks are here? "
Pshaw! nonsense! nothing! "Yet 'tis worth your fear, 170
Whate'er it be: the waters rise within,
And, though unfelt, distend your sickly skin. "
--And yours still more! Whence springs this freedom, tro'?
Are you, forsooth, my guardian? Long ago
I buried him; and thought my nonage o'er: 175
But you remain to school me! "Sir, no more. "--
Now to the bath, full gorged with luscious fare,
See the pale wretch his bloated carcass bear;
While from his lungs, that faintly play by fits,
His gasping throat sulphureous steam emits! -- 180
Cold shiverings seize him, as for wine he calls,
His grasp betrays him, and the goblet falls!
From his loose teeth the lip, convulsed, withdraws,
And the rich cates drop through his listless jaws.
Then trumpets, torches come, in solemn state; 185
And my fine youth, so confident of late,
Stretched on a splendid bier, and essenced o'er,
Lies, a stiff corpse, heels foremost at the door.
Romans of yesterday, with covered head,
Shoulder him to the pyre, and--all is said! -- 190
"But why to me? Examine every part;
My pulse:--and lay your finger on my heart;
You'll find no fever: touch my hands and feet,
A natural warmth, and nothing more, you'll meet. "
'Tis well! But if you light on gold by chance, 195
If a fair neighbor cast a sidelong glance,
Still will that pulse with equal calmness flow,
And still that heart no fiercer throbbings know?
Try yet again. In a brown dish behold,
Coarse gritty bread, and coleworts stale and old: 200
Now, prove your taste. Why those averted eyes?
Hah! I perceive:--a secret ulcer lies
Within that pampered mouth, too sore to bear
The untender grating of plebeian fare!
Where dwells this _natural warmth_, when danger's near, 205
And "each particular hair" starts up with fear?
Or where resides it, when vindictive ire
Inflames the bosom; when the veins run fire,
The reddening eye-balls glare; and all you say,
And all you do, a mind so warped betray, 210
That mad Orestes, if the freaks he saw,
Would give you up at once to chains and straw!
SATIRE IV.
Quit then the plays! the FARCE OF LIFE supplies
A scene more comic in the sage's eyes.
For who amuses most? --the man who springs,
Light, through the hoop, and on the tight-rope swings;
Or he, who, to a fragile bark confined, 365
Dwells on the deep, the sport of wave and wind?
Fool-hardy wretch! scrambling for every bale
Of stinking merchandise, exposed to sale;
And proud to Crete, for ropy wine, to rove,
And jars, the fellow-citizens of Jove! 370
THAT skips along the rope, with wavering tread,
Dangerous dexterity, which brings him bread;
THIS ventures life, for wealth too vast to spend,
Farm joined to farm, and villas without end!
Lo! every harbor thronged and every bay, 375
And half mankind upon the watery way!
For, where he hears the attractive voice of gain,
The merchant hurries, and defies the main. --
Nor will he only range the Libyan shore,
But, passing Calpé, other worlds explore; 380
See Phœbus, sinking in the Atlantic, lave
His fiery car, and hear the hissing wave.
And all for what? O glorious end! to come,
His toils o'erpast, with purse replenished, home,
And, with a traveler's privilege, vent his boasts, 385
Of unknown monsters seen on unknown coasts.
What varying forms in madness may we trace! --
Safe in his loved Electra's fond embrace,
Orestes sees the avenging Furies rise,
And flash their bloody torches in his eyes; 390
While Ajax strikes an ox, and, at the blow,
Hears Agamemnon or Ulysses low:
And surely he (though, haply, he forbear,
Like these, his keeper and his clothes to tear)
Is just as mad, who to the water's brim 395
Loads his frail bark--a plank 'twixt death and him!
When all this risk is but to swell his store
With a few coins, a few gold pieces more.
Heaven lowers, and frequent, through the muttering air,
The nimble lightning glares, or seems to glare: 400
"Weigh! weigh! " the impatient man of traffic cries,
"These gathering clouds, this rack that dims the skies,
Are but the pageants of a sultry day;
A thunder shower, that frowns, and melts away. "
Deluded wretch! dashed on some dangerous coast, 405
This night, this hour, perhaps, his bark is lost;
While he still strives, though whelmed beneath the wave,
His darling purse with teeth or hand to save.
Thus he, who sighed, of late, for all the gold
Down the bright Tagus and Pactolus rolled, 410
Now bounds his wishes to one poor request,
A scanty morsel and a tattered vest;
And shows, where tears, where supplications fail,
A daubing of his melancholy tale!
Wealth, by such dangers earned, such anxious pain, 415
Requires more care to keep it, than to gain:
Whate'er my miseries, make me not, kind Fate,
The sleepless Argus of a vast estate!
The slaves of Licinus, a numerous band,
Watch through the night, with buckets in their hand, 420
While their rich master trembling lies, afraid
Lest fire his ivory, amber, gold, invade,
The naked Cynic mocks such restless cares,
His earthen tub no conflagration fears;
If cracked, to-morrow he procures a new, 425
Or, coarsely soldering, makes the old one do.
Even Philip's son, when, in his little cell
Content, he saw the mighty master dwell,
Owned, with a sigh, that he, who naught desired,
Was happier far, than he who worlds required, 430
And whose ambition certain dangers brought,
Vast, and unbounded, as the object sought. --
Fortune, advanced to heaven by fools alone,
Would lose, were wisdom ours, her shadowy throne.
"What call I, then, ENOUGH? " What will afford 435
A decent habit, and a frugal board;
What Epicurus' little garden bore,
And Socrates sufficient thought, before:
These squared by Nature's rules their blameless life--
Nature and Wisdom never are at strife. 440
You think, perhaps, these rigid means too scant,
And that I ground philosophy on want;
Take then (for I will be indulgent now,
And something for the change of times allow),
As much as Otho for a knight requires:-- 445
If this, unequal to your wild desires,
Contract your brow; enlarge the sum, and take
As much as two--as much as three--will make.
If yet, in spite of this prodigious store,
Your craving bosom yawn, unfilled, for more, 450
Then, all the wealth of Lydia's king, increast
By all the treasures of the gorgeous East,
Will not content you; no, nor all the gold
Of that proud slave, whose mandate Rome controlled,
Who swayed the Emperor, and whose fatal word 455
Plunged in the Empress' breast the lingering sword!
SATIRE XV.
TO VOLUSIUS BITHYNICUS.
Who knows not to what monstrous gods, my friend,
The mad inhabitants of Egypt bend? --
The snake-devouring ibis, these enshrine,
Those think the crocodile alone divine;
Others, where Thebes' vast ruins strew the ground, 5
And shattered Memnon yields a magic sound,
Set up a glittering brute of uncouth shape,
And bow before the image of an ape!
Thousands regard the hound with holy fear,
Not one, Diana: and 'tis dangerous here, 10
To violate an onion, or to stain
The sanctity of leeks with tooth profane.
O holy nations! Sacro-sanct abodes!
Where every garden propagates its gods!
They spare the fleecy kind, and think it ill, 15
The blood of lambkins, or of kids, to spill:
But, human flesh--O! that is lawful fare.
And you may eat it without scandal there.
When, at the amazed Alcinous' board, of old,
Ulysses of so strange an action told, 20
He moved of some the mirth, of more the gall,
And, for a lying vagrant, passed with all.
"Will no one plunge this babbler in the waves
(Worthy a true Charybdis)--while he raves
Of monsters seen not since the world began, 25
Cyclops and Læstrigons, who feed on man!
For me--I less should doubt of Scylla's train,
Of rocks that float and jostle in the main,
Of bladders filled with storms, of men, in fine,
By magic changed, and driven to grunt with swine, 30
Than of his cannibals:--the fellow feigns,
As if he thought Phæacians had no brains. "
Thus, one, perhaps, more sober than the rest,
Observed, and justly, of their traveled guest,
Who spoke of prodigies till then unknown; 35
Yet brought no attestation but his own.
--I bring my wonders, too; and I can tell,
When Junius, late, was consul, what befell,
Near Coptus' walls; tell of a people stained
With deeper guilt than tragedy e'er feigned: 40
For, sure, no buskined bard, from Pyrrha's time,
E'er taxed a whole community with crime;
Take then a scene yet to the stage unknown,
And, by a nation, acted--IN OUR OWN!
Between two neighboring towns a deadly hate, 45
Sprung from a sacred grudge of ancient date,
Yet burns; a hate no lenients can assuage,
No time subdue, a rooted, rancorous rage!
Blind bigotry, at first, the evil wrought:
For each despised the other's gods, and thought 50
Its own the true, the genuine, in a word,
The only deities to be adored!
And now the Ombite festival drew near:
When the prime Tent'rites, envious of their cheer,
Resolved to seize the occasion, to annoy 55
Their feast, and spoil the sacred week of joy. --
It came: the hour the thoughtless Ombites greet,
And crowd the porches, crowd the public street,
With tables richly spread; where, night and day,
Plunged in the abyss of gluttony, they lay: 60
(For savage as the nome appears, it vies
In luxury, if I MAY TRUST MY EYES,
With dissolute Canopus:) Six were past,
Six days of riot, and the seventh and last
Rose on the feast; and now the Tent'rites thought, 65
A cheap, a bloodless victory might be bought,
O'er such a helpless crew: nor thought they wrong,
Nor could the event be doubtful, where a throng
Of drunken revelers, stammering, reeling-ripe,
And capering to a sooty minstrel's pipe. 70
Coarse unguents, chaplets, flowers, on this side fight,
On that, keen hatred, and deliberate spite!
At first both sides, though eager to engage.
With taunts and jeers, the heralds of their rage,
Blow up their mutual fury; and anon, 75
Kindled to madness, with loud shouts rush on;
Deal, though unarmed, their vengeance blindly round,
And with clenched fists print many a ghastly wound.
Then might you see, amid the desperate fray,
Features disfigured, noses torn away, 80
Hands, where the gore of mangled eyes yet reeks,
And jaw-bones starting through the cloven cheeks!
But this is sport, mere children's play, they cry--
As yet beneath their feet no bodies lie,
And, to what purpose should such armies fight 85
The cause of heaven, if none be slain outright?
Roused at the thought, more fiercely they engage,
With stones, the weapons of intestine rage;
Yet not precisely such, to tell you true,
As Turnus erst, or mightier Ajax, threw: 90
Nor quite so large as that two-handed stone,
Which bruised Æneas on the huckle-bone;
But such as men, in our degenerate days,
Ah, how unlike to theirs! make shift to raise.
Even in his time, Mæonides could trace 95
Some diminution of the human race:
Now, earth, grown old and frigid, rears with pain
A pigmy brood, a weak and wicked train;
Which every god, who marks their passions vile,
Regards with laughter, though he loathes the while. 100
But to our tale. Enforced with armed supplies.
The zealous Tent'rites feel their courage rise,
And wave their swords, and, kindling at the sight,
Press on, and with fell rage renew the fight.
The Ombites flee; they follow:--in the rear, 105
A luckless wretch, confounded by his fear,
Trips and falls headlong; with loud yelling cries,
The pack rush in, and seize him as he lies.
And now the conquerors, none to disappoint
Of the dire banquet, tear him joint by joint, 110
And dole him round; the bones yet warm, they gnaw,
And champ the flesh that heaves beneath their jaw.
They want no cook to dress it--'twould be long,
And appetite is keen, and rage is strong.
And here, Volusius, I rejoice at least, 115
That fire was unprofaned by this cursed feast,
Fire, rapt from heaven! and you will, sure, agree
To greet the element's escape, with me.
--But all who ventured on the carcass, swore
They never tasted--aught so sweet before! 120
Nor did the relish charm the first alone--
Those who arrived too late for flesh, or bone,
Stooped down, and scraping where the wretch had lain,
With savage pleasure licked the gory plain!
The Vascons once (the story yet is rife), 125
With such dire sustenance prolonged their life;
But then the cause was different: Fortune, there,
Proved adverse: they had borne the extremes of war,
The rage of famine, the still-watchful foe,
And all the ills beleaguered cities know. 130
(And nothing else should prompt mankind to use
Such desperate means. ) May this their crime excuse!
For after every root and herb were gone,
And every aliment to hunger known;
When their lean frames, and cheeks of sallow hue, 135
Struck even the foe with pity at the view,
And all were ready their own flesh to tear,
They first adventured on this horrid fare.
And surely every god would pity grant
To men so worn by wretchedness and want, 140
And even the very ghosts of those they ate,
Absolve them, mindful of their dreadful state!
True, we are wiser; and, by Zeno taught,
Know life itself may be too dearly bought;
But the poor Vascon, in that early age, 145
Knew naught of Zeno, or the Stoic page. --
Now, thanks to Greece and Rome, in wisdom's robe
The bearded tribes rush forth, and seize the globe;
Already, learned Gaul aspires to teach
Your British orators the Art of Speech, 150
And Thulé, blessings on her, seems to say,
She'll hire a good grammarian, cost what may.
The Vascons, then, who thus prolonged their breath,
And the Saguntines, true, like them, to death,
Brave too, like them, but by worse ills subdued, 155
Had some small plea for this abhorred food.
Diana first (and let us doubt no more
The barbarous rites we disbelieved of yore)
Reared her dread altar near the Tauric flood,
And asked the sacrifice of human blood: 160
Yet there the victim only lost his life,
And feared no cruelty beyond the knife.
Far, far more savage Egypt's frantic train,
They butcher first, and then devour the slain!
But say, what causa impelled them to proceed, 165
What siege, what famine, to this monstrous deed?
What could they more, had Nile refused to rise,
And the soil gaped with ever-glowing skies,
What could they more, the guilty Flood to shame,
And heap opprobrium on his hateful name! 170
Lo! what the barbarous hordes of Scythia, Thrace,
Gaul, Britain, never dared--dared by a race
Of puny dastards, who, with fingers frail,
Tug the light oar, and hoist the little sail,
In painted pans! What tortures can the mind 175
Suggest for miscreants of this abject kind,
Whom spite impelled worse horrors to pursue,
Than famine, in its deadliest form, e'er knew!
NATURE, who gave us tears, by that alone
Proclaims she made the feeling heart our own; 180
And 'tis her noblest boon: This bids us fly,
To wipe the drops from sorrowing friendship's eye,
Sorrowing ourselves; to wail the prisoner's state,
And sympathize in the wronged orphan's fate,
Compelled his treacherous guardian to accuse, 185
While many a shower his blooming cheek bedews,
And through his scattered tresses, wet with tears,
A doubtful face, or boy or girl's, appears.
As Nature bids, we sigh, when some bright maid
Is, ere her spousals, to the pyre conveyed; 190
Some babe--by fate's inexorable doom,
Just shown on earth, and hurried to the tomb.
For who, that to the sanctity aspires
Which Ceres, for her mystic torch, requires,
Feels not another's woes? This marks our birth; 195
The great distinction from the beasts of earth!
And therefore--gifted with superior powers,
And capable of things divine--'tis ours,
To learn, and practice, every useful art;
And, from high heaven, deduce that better part, 200
That moral sense, denied to creatures prone,
And downward bent, and found with man alone! --
For He, who gave this vast machine to roll,
Breathed LIFE in them, in us a REASONING SOUL;
That kindred feelings might our state improve, 205
And mutual wants conduct to mutual love;
Woo to one spot the scattered hordes of men,
From their old forest and paternal den;
Raise the fair dome, extend the social line,
And, to our mansion, those of others join, 210
Join too our faith, our confidence to theirs,
And sleep, relying on the general cares:--
In war, that each to each support might lend,
When wounded, succor, and when fallen, defend;
At the same trumpet's clangor rush to arms, 215
By the same walls be sheltered from alarms,
Near the same tower the foe's incursions wait,
And trust their safety to one common gate.
--But serpents, now, more links of concord bind:
The cruel leopard spares the spotted kind; 220
No lion spills a weaker lion's gore,
No boar expires beneath a stronger boar;
In leagues of friendship tigers roam the plain,
And bears with bears perpetual peace maintain.
While man, alas! fleshed in the dreadful trade, 225
Forges without remorse the murderous blade,
On that dire anvil, where primæval skill,
As yet untaught a brother's blood to spill,
Wrought only what meek nature would allow,
Goads for the ox, and coulters for the plow! 230
Even this is trifling: we have seen a rage
Too fierce for murder only to assuage;
Seen a whole state their victim piecemeal tear,
And count each quivering limb delicious fare.
O, could the Samian Sage these horrors see, 235
What would he say? or to what deserts flee?
He, who the flesh of beasts, like man's, declined,
And scarce indulged in pulse--of every kind!
SATIRE XVI.
TO GALLUS.
Who can recount the advantages that wait,
Dear Gallus, on the Military State? --
For let me once, beneath a lucky star,
Faint as I am of heart, and new to war,
But join the camp, and that ascendant hour 5
Shall lord it o'er my fate with happier power,
Than if a line from Venus should commend
My suit to Mars, or Juno stand my friend!
And first, of benefits which all may share:
'Tis somewhat--that no citizen shall dare 10
To strike you, or, though struck, return the blow:
But waive the wrong; nor to the Prætor show
His teeth dashed out, his face deformed with gore,
And eyes no skill can promise to restore!
A Judge, if to the camp your plaints you bear, 15
Coarse shod, and coarser greaved, awaits you there:
By antique law proceeds the cassocked sage,
And rules prescribed in old Camillus' age;
_To wit_, ~Let soldiers seek no foreign bench,~
~Nor plead to any charge without the trench~. 20
O nicely do Centurions sift the cause,
When buff-and-belt-men violate the laws!
And ample, if with reason we complain,
Is, doubtless, the redress our injuries gain!
Even so:--but the whole legion are our foes, 25
And, with determined aim, the award oppose.
"These sniveling rogues take special pleasure still
To make the punishment outweigh the ill. "
So runs the cry; and he must be possest
Of more, Vagellius, than thy iron breast, 30
Who braves their anger, and, with ten poor toes,
Defies such countless hosts of hobnailed shoes.
Who so untutored in the ways of Rome,
Say, who so true a Pylades, to come
Within the camp? --no; let thy tears be dried, 35
Nor ask that kindness, which must be denied,
For, when the Court exclaims, "Your witness, here! "
Let that firm friend, that man of men, appear,
And testify but what he saw and heard;
And I pronounce him worthy of the beard 40
And hair of our forefathers! You may find
False witnesses against an honest hind,
Easier than true (and who their fears can blame? ),
Against a soldier's purse, a soldier's fame!
But there are other benefits, my friend, 45
And greater, which the sons of war attend:
Should a litigious neighbor bid me yield
My vale irriguous, and paternal field;
Or from my bounds the sacred landmark tear,
To which, with each revolving spring, I bear, 50
In pious duty to the grateful soil,
My humble offerings, honey, meal, and oil;
Or a vile debtor my just claims withstand,
Deny his signet, and abjure his hand;
Term after Term I wait, till months be past, 55
And scarce obtain a hearing at the last.
Even when the hour is fixed, a thousand stays
Retard my suit, a thousand vague delays:
The cause is called, the witnesses attend,
Chairs brought, and cushions laid--and there an end: 60
Cæditius finds his cloak or gown too hot,
And Fuscus slips aside to seek the pot;
Thus, with our dearest hopes the judges sport,
And when we rise to speak, dismiss the Court!
But spear-and-shield-men may command the hour; 65
The time to plead is always in their power;
Nor are their wealth and patience worn away,
By the slow drag-chain of the law's delay.
Add that the soldier, while his father lives,
And he alone, his wealth bequeaths or gives; 70
For what by pay is earned, by plunder won,
The law declares, vests solely in the son.
Coranus therefore sees his hoary sire,
To gain his Will, by every art, aspire! --
He rose by service; rank in fields obtained, 75
And well deserved the fortune which he gained.
And every prudent chief must, sure, desire,
That still the worthiest should the most acquire;
That those who merit, their rewards should have,
Trappings, and chains, and all that decks the brave. 80
PERSIUS.
PROLOGUE.
'Twas never yet my luck, I ween,
To drench my lips in Hippocrene;
Nor, if I recollect aright,
On the forked Hill to sleep a night,
That I, like others of the trade, 5
Might wake--a poet ready made!
Thee, Helicon, with all the Nine,
And pale Pyrene, I resign,
Unenvied, to the tuneful race,
Whose busts (of many a fane the grace) 10
Sequacious ivy climbs, and spreads
Unfading verdure round their heads.
Enough for me, too mean for praise,
To bear my rude, uncultured lays
To Phœbus and the Muses' shrine, 15
And place them near their gifts divine.
Who bade the parrot χαῖρε cry;
And forced our language on the pie?
The BELLY: Master, he, of Arts,
Bestower of ingenious parts; 20
Powerful the creatures to endue
With sounds their natures never knew!
For, let the wily hand unfold
The glittering bait of tempting gold,
And straight the choir of daws and pies, 25
To such poetic heights shall rise,
That, lost in wonder, you will swear
Apollo and the Nine are there!
SATIRE I.
Alas, for man! how vain are all his cares!
And oh! what bubbles, his most grave affairs!
Tush! who will read such trite--Heavens! this to me?
Not one, by Jove. Not one? Well, two, or three;
Or rather--none: a piteous case, in truth! 5
Why piteous? _lest Polydamas_, forsooth,
_And Troy's proud dames_, pronounce my merits fall
Beneath their Labeo's! I can bear it all.
Nor should my friend, though still, as fashion sways,
The purblind town conspire to sink or raise, 10
Determine, as her wavering beam prevails,
And trust his judgment to her coarser scales.
O not abroad for vague opinion roam;
The wise man's bosom is his proper home:
And Rome is--What? Ah, might the truth be told! -- 15
And, sure it may, it must. --When I behold
What fond pursuits have formed our prime employ,
Since first we dropped the playthings of the boy,
To gray maturity, to this late hour,
When every brow frowns with censorial power, 20
Then, then--O yet suppress this carping mood.
Impossible! I could not if I would;
For nature framed me of satiric mould,
And spleen, too petulant to be controlled.
Immured within our studies, we compose; 25
Some, shackled metre; some, free-footed prose;
But all, bombast; stuff, which the breast may strain,
And the huge lungs puff forth with awkward pain.
'Tis done! and now the bard, elate and proud,
Prepares a grand rehearsal for the crowd. 30
Lo! he steps forth in birthday splendor bright,
Combed and perfumed, and robed in dazzling white;
And mounts the desk; his pliant throat he clears,
And deals, insidious, round his wanton leers;
While Rome's first nobles, by the prelude wrought, 35
Watch, with indecent glee, each prurient thought,
And squeal with rapture, as the luscious line
Thrills through the marrow, and inflames the chine.
Vile dotard! Canst thou thus consent to please!
To pander for such itching fools as these! 40
Fools--whose applause must shoot beyond thy aim,
And tinge thy cheek, bronzed as it is, with shame!
But wherefore have I learned, if, thus represt,
The leaven still must swell within my breast?
If the wild fig-tree, deeply rooted there, 45
Must never burst its bounds, and shoot in air?
Are these the fruits of study! these of age!
O times, O manners--Thou misjudging sage,
Is science only useful as 'tis shown,
And is thy knowledge nothing, if not known? 50
"But, sure, 'tis pleasant, as we walk, to see
The pointed finger, hear the loud _That's he_,
On every side:--and seems it, in your sight,
So poor a trifle, that whate'er we write
Is introduced to every school of note, 55
And taught the youth of quality by rote?
--Nay, more! Our nobles, gorged, and swilled with wine,
Call, o'er the banquet, for a lay divine.
Here one, on whom the princely purple glows,
Snuffles some musty legend through his nose; 60
Slowly distills Hypsipyle's sad fate,
And love-lorn Phillis, dying for her mate,
With what of woeful else is said or sung;
And trips up every word, with lisping tongue.
The maudlin audience, from the couches round, 65
Hum their assent, responsive to the sound. --
And are not now the poet's ashes blest!
Now lies the turf not lightly on his breast!
They pause a moment--and again, the room
Rings with his praise: now will not roses bloom, 70
Now, from his relics, will not violets spring,
And o'er his hallowed urn their fragrance fling!
"You laugh ('tis answered), and too freely here
Indulge that vile propensity to sneer.
Lives there, who would not at applause rejoice, 75
And merit, if he could, the public voice?
Who would not leave posterity such rhymes,
As cedar oil might keep to latest times;
Rhymes, which should fear no desperate grocer's hand,
Nor fly with fish and spices through the land! 80
Thou, my kind monitor, whoe'er thou art,
Whom I suppose to play the opponent's part,
Know--when I write, if chance some happier strain
(And chance it needs must be) rewards my pain,
Know, I can relish praise with genuine zest; 85
Not mine the torpid, mine the unfeeling breast:
But that I merely toil for this acclaim,
And make these eulogies my end and aim,
I must not, can not grant: for--sift them all,
Mark well their value, and on what they fall: 90
Are they not showered (to pass these trifles o'er)
On Labeo's Iliad, drunk with hellebore?
On princely love-lays driveled without thought,
And the crude trash on citron couches wrought?
You spread the table--'tis a master-stroke, 95
And give the shivering guest a threadbare cloak,
Then, while his heart with gratitude dilates
At the glad vest and the delicious cates,
Tell me, you cry--for truth is my delight,
What says the Town of me, and what I write? 100
He can not:--he has neither ears nor eyes.
But shall I tell you, who your bribes despise?
--Bald trifler! cease at once your thriftless trade;
That mountain paunch for verse was never made.
O Janus, happiest of thy happy kind! -- 105
No waggish stork can peck at thee behind:
No tongue thrust forth, expose to passing jeers;
No twinkling fingers, perked like ass's ears,
Point to the vulgar mirth:--but you, ye Great,
To a blind occiput condemned by fate, 110
Prevent, while yet you may, the rabble's glee,
And tremble at the scoff you can not see! --
"What says the Town"--precisely what it ought:
All you produce, sir, with such skill is wrought,
That o'er the polished surface, far and wide, 115
The critic nail without a jar must glide;
Since every verse is drawn as straight and fine
As if one eye had fixed the ruddled line.
--Whate'er the subject of his varied rhymes,
The humors, passions, vices of the times; 120
The pomp of nobles, barbarous pride of kings,
All, all is great, and all inspired he sings!
Lo! striplings, scarcely from the ferule freed,
And smarting yet from Greek, with headlong speed
Rush on heroics; though devoid of skill 125
To paint the rustling grove, or purling rill;
Or praise the country, robed in cheerful green,
Where hogs, and hearths, and osier frails are seen,
And happy hinds, who leap o'er smouldering hay,
In honor, Pales, of thy sacred day. 130
_--Scenes of delight! --there Remus lived, and there,_
_In grassy furrows Quinctius tired his share;_
_Quinctius, on whom his wife, with trembling haste,_
_The dictatorial robes, exulting, placed,_
_Before his team; while homeward, with his plow, 135_
_The lictors hurried_--Good! a Homer, thou!
There are, who hunt out antiquated lore;
And never, but on musty authors, pore;
These, Accius' jagged and knotty lines engage,
And those, Pacuvius' hard and horny page; 140
Where, in quaint tropes, Antiopa is seen
To--_prop her dolorific heart with teen_!
O, when you mark the sire, to judgment blind,
Commend such models to the infant mind,
Forbear to wonder whence this olio sprung, 145
This sputtering jargon which infests our tongue;
This scandal of the times, which shocks my ear,
And which our knights bound from their seats to hear!
How monstrous seems it, that we can not plead,
When called to answer for some felon deed, 150
Nor danger from the trembling head repel,
Without a wish for--_Bravo! Vastly well! _
This Pedius is a thief, the accusers cry.
You hear them, Pedius; now, for your reply?
In terse antitheses he weighs the crime, 155
Equals the pause, and balances the chime;
And with such skill his flowery tropes employs,
That the rapt audience scarce contain their joys.
_O charming! charming! he must sure prevail.
_
THIS, _charming_! Can a Roman wag the tail? 160
Were the wrecked mariner to chant his woe,
Should I or sympathy or alms bestow?
Sing you, when, in that tablet on your breast,
I see your story to the life exprest;
A shattered bark, dashed madly on the shore, 165
And you, scarce floating, on a broken oar! --
No, he must feel that would my pity share,
And drop a natural, not a studied tear.
But yet our numbers boast a grace unknown
To our rough sires, a smoothness all our own. 170
True: the spruce metre in sweet cadence flows,
And answering sounds a tuneful chime compose:
Blue Nereus here, the Dolphin swift divides;
And Idè there, sees Attin climb her sides:
Nor this alone--for, in some happier line, 175
We win the chine of the long Apennine!
_Arms and the man_--Here, too, perhaps, you find
A pithless branch beneath a fungous rind?
Not so;--a seasoned trunk of many a day,
Whose gross and watery parts are drawn away. 180
But what, in fine (for still you jeer me), call
For the moist eye, bowed head, and lengthened drawl,
What strains of genuine pathos? --_O'er the hill_
_The dismal slug-horn sounded, loud and shrill,_
_A Mimallonian blast: fired at the sound, 185_
_In maddening groups the Bacchants pour around,_
_Mangle the haughty calf with gory hands,_
_And scourge the indocile lynx with ivy wands;_
_While Echo lengthens out the barbarous yell,_
_And propagates the din from cell to cell! _ 190
O were not every spark of manly sense,
Of pristine vigor quenched, or banished hence,
Could this be borne! this cuckoo-spit of Rome,
Which gathers round the lips in froth and foam!
--The _haughty calf_, and _Attin's_ jangling strain, 195
Dropped, without effort, from the rheumy brain;
No savor they of bleeding nails afford,
Or desk, oft smitten for the happy word.
But why must you, alone, displeased appear,
And with harsh truths thus grate the tender ear? 200
O yet beware! think of the closing gate!
And dread the cold reception of the great:
This currish humor you extend too far,
While every word growls with that hateful gnar!
Right! From this hour (for now my fault I see) 205
All shall be charming--charming all, for me:
What late seemed base, already looks divine,
And wonders start to view in every line!
Tis well, you cry: this spot let none defile,
Or turn to purposes obscene and vile. 210
Paint, then, two snakes entwined; and write around,
URINE NOT, CHILDREN, HERE; 'TIS HOLY GROUND.
Awed, I retire: and yet--when vice appeared,
Lucilius o'er the town his falchion reared;
On Lupus, Mutius, poured his rage by name, 215
And broke his grinders on their bleeding fame.
And yet--arch Horace, while he strove to mend,
Probed all the foibles of his smiling friend;
Played lightly round and round the peccant part,
And won, unfelt, an entrance to his heart. 220
Well skilled the follies of the crowd to trace,
And sneer, with gay good humor in his face.
And I! --I must not mutter? No; nor dare--
Not to myself? No. To a ditch? Nowhere.
Yes, here I'll dig--here, to sure trust confide 225
The secret which I would, but can not, hide.
My darling book, a word;--"King Midas wears
(These eyes beheld them, these! ) such ass's ears! "--
This quip of mine, which none must hear, or know,
This fond conceit, which takes my fancy so, 230
This nothing, if you will; you should not buy
With all those Iliads that you prize so high.
But thou, whom Eupolis' impassioned page,
Hostile to vice, inflames with kindred rage,
Whom bold Cratinus, and that awful sire, 235
Force, as thou readest, to tremble and admire;
O, view my humbler labors:--there, if aught
More highly finished, more maturely wrought,
Detain thy ear, and give thy breast to glow
With warmth, responsive to the inspiring flow-- 240
I seek no farther:--Far from me the rest,
Yes, far the wretch, who, with a low-born jest,
Can mock the blind for blindness, and pursue
With vulgar ribaldry the Grecian shoe:
Bursting with self-conceit, with pride elate, 245
Because, forsooth, in magisterial state,
His worship (ædile of some paltry town)
Broke scanty weights, and put false measures down.
Far too be he--the monstrous witty fool,
Who turns the numeral scale to ridicule; 250
Derides the problems traced in dust or sand,
And treads out all Geometry has planned--
Who roars outright to see Nonaria seize,
And tug the cynic's beard--To such as these
I recommend, at morn, the Prætor's bill, 255
At eve, Calirrhoë, or--what they will.
SATIRE II.
TO PLOTIUS MACRINUS (ON HIS BIRTHDAY).
Health to my friend! and while my vows I pay,
O mark, Macrinus, this auspicious day,
Which, to your sum of years already flown,
Adds yet another--with a whiter stone.
Indulge your Genius, drench in wine your cares:-- 5
It is not yours, with mercenary prayers
To ask of Heaven what you would die with shame,
Unless you drew the gods aside, to name;
While other great ones stand, with down-cast eyes,
And with a silent censer tempt the skies! -- 10
Hard, hard the task, from the low, muttered prayer,
To free the fanes; or find one suppliant there,
Who dares to ask but what his state requires,
And live to heaven and earth with known desires!
Sound sense, integrity, a conscience clear, 15
Are begged aloud, that all at hand may hear:
But prayers like these (half whispered, half supprest)
The tongue scarce hazards from the conscious breast:
_O that I could my rich old uncle see,_
_In funeral pomp! --O that some deity 20_
_To pots of buried gold would guide my share! _
_O that my ward, whom I succeed as heir,_
_Were once at rest! poor child, he lives in pain,_
_And death to him must be accounted gain. --_
_By wedlock, thrice has Nerius swelled his store, 25_
_And now--is he a widower once more! _
These blessings, with due sanctity, to crave,
Once, twice, and thrice in Tiber's eddying wave
He dips each morn, and bids the stream convey
The gathered evils of the night, away! 30
One question, friend:--an easy one, in fine--
What are thy thoughts of Jove? My thoughts! Yes; thine.
Wouldst thou prefer him to the herd of Rome?
To any individual? --But, to whom?
To Staius, for example. Heavens! a pause? 35
Which of the two would best dispense the laws?
Best shield the unfriended orphan? Good! Now move
The suit to Staius, late preferred to Jove:--
"O Jove! good Jove! " he cries, o'erwhelmed with shame,
And must not Jove himself, _O Jove! _ exclaim? 40
Or dost thou think the impious wish forgiven,
Because, when thunder shakes the vault of heaven,
The bolt innoxious flies o'er thee and thine,
To rend the forest oak and mountain pine?
--Because, yet livid from the lightning's seath, 45
Thy mouldering corpse (a monument of wrath)
Lies in no blasted grove, for public care
To expiate with sacrifice and prayer;
Must, therefore, Jove, unsceptred and unfeared,
Give to thy ruder mirth his foolish beard? 50
What bribe hast thou to win the Powers divine,
Thus, to thy nod? The lungs and lights of swine.
Lo! from his little crib, the grandam hoar,
Or aunt, well versed in superstitious lore,
Snatches the babe; in lustral spittle dips 55
Her middle finger, and anoints his lips
And forehead:--"Charms of potency," she cries,
"To break the influence of evil eyes! "
The spell complete, she dandles high in air
Her starveling hope; and breathes a humble prayer, 60
That heaven would only tender to his hands
All Crassus' houses, all Licinius' lands! --
"Let every gazer by his charms be won,
And kings and queens aspire to call him son:
Contending virgins fly his smiles to meet, 65
And roses spring where'er he sets his feet! "
Insane of soul--but I, O Jove, am free.
Thou knowest, I trust no nurse with prayers for me:
In mercy, then, reject each fond demand,
Though, robed in white, she at thy altar stand. 70
This begs for nerves to pain and sickness steeled,
A frame of body that shall slowly yield
To late old age:--'Tis well, enjoy thy wish. --
But the huge platter, and high-seasoned dish,
Day after day the willing gods withstand, 75
And dash the blessing from their opening hand.
That sues for wealth: the laboring ox is slain,
And frequent victims woo the "god of gain. "
"O crown my hearth with plenty and with peace,
And give my flocks and herds a large increase! " 80
Madman! how can he, when, from day to day,
Steer after steer in offerings melt away? --
Still he persists; and still new hopes arise,
With harslet and with tripe, to storm the skies.
"Now swell my harvests! now my fields! now, now, 85
It comes--it comes--auspicious to my vow! "
While thus, poor wretch, he hangs 'twixt hope and fear,
He starts, in dreadful certainty, to hear
His chest reverberate the hollow groan
Of his last piece, to find itself alone? 90
If from my sideboard I should bid you take
Goblets of gold or silver, you would shake
With eager rapture; drops of joy would start,
And your left breast scarce hold your fluttering heart:
Hence, you presume the gods are bought and sold; 95
And overlay their busts with captured gold.
For, of the brazen brotherhood, the Power
Who sends you dreams, at morning's truer hour,
Most purged from phlegm, enjoys your best regards,
And a gold beard his prescient skill rewards! 100
Now, from the temples, GOLD has chased the plain
And frugal ware of Numa's pious reign;.
The ritual pots of brass are seen no more,
And Vesta's pitchers blaze in burnished ore.
O groveling souls! and void of things divine! 105
Why bring our passions to the Immortals' shrine,
And judge, from what this CARNAL SENSE delights,
Of what is pleasing in their purer sights?
THIS, the Calabrian fleece with purple soils,
And mingles cassia with our native oils; 110
Tears from the rocky conch its pearly store,
And strains the metal from the glowing ore.
This, this, indeed, is vicious; yet it tends
To gladden life, perhaps; and boasts its ends;
But you, ye priests (for, sure, ye can), unfold-- 115
In heavenly things, what boots this pomp of gold?
No more, in truth, than dolls to Venus paid
(The toys of childhood), by the riper maid!
No; let me bring the Immortals, what the race
Of great Messala, now depraved and base, 120
On their huge charger, can not;--bring a mind,
Where legal and where moral sense are joined
With the pure essence; holy thoughts, that dwell
In the soul's most retired and sacred cell;
A bosom dyed in honor's noblest grain, 125
Deep-dyed:--with these let me approach the fane,
And Heaven will hear the humble prayer I make,
Though all my offering be a barley cake.
SATIRE III.
What! ever thus? See! while the beams of day
In broad effulgence o'er the shutters play,
Stream through the crevice, widen on the walls,
On the fifth line the gnomon's shadow falls!
Yet still you sleep, like one that, stretched supine, 5
Snores off the fumes of strong Falernian wine.
Up! up! mad Sirius parches every blade,
And flocks and herds lie panting in the shade.
Here my youth rouses, rubs his heavy eyes,
"Is it _so_ late? so _very_ late? " he cries; 10
"Shame, shame! Who waits? Who waits there? quick, my page!
Why, when! " His bile overflows; he foams with rage,
And brays so loudly, that you start in fear,
And fancy all Arcadia at your ear.
Behold him, with his bedgown and his books, 15
His pens and paper, and his studious looks,
Intent and earnest! What arrests his speed,
Alas! the viscous liquid clogs the reed.
Dilute it. Pish! now every word I write
Sinks through the paper, and eludes the sight; 20
Now the pen leaves no mark, the point's too fine;
Now 'tis too blunt, and doubles every line!
O wretch! whom every day more wretched sees--
Are these the fruits of all your studies? these!
Give o'er at once: and like same callow dove, 25
Some prince's heir, some lady's infant love,
Call for chewed pap; and, pouting at the breast,
Scream at the lullaby that woos to rest!
"But why such warmth? See what a pen! nay, see! "--
And is this subterfuge employed on me? 30
Fond boy! your time, with your pretext, is lost;
And all your arts are at your proper cost.
While with occasion thus you madly play,
Your best of life unheeded leaks away,
And scorn flows in apace: the ill-baked ware, 35
Rung by the potter, will its fault declare;
Thus--But you yet are moist and yielding clay:
Call for some plastic hand without delay,
Nor cease the labor, till the wheel produce
A vessel nicely formed, and fit for use. 40
"But wherefore this? My father, thanks to fate,
Left me a fair, if not a large, estate:--
A salt unsullied on my table shines,
And due oblations, in their little shrines,
My household gods receive; my hearth is pure, 45
And all my means of life confirmed and sure:
What need I more? " Nay, nothing; it is well.
--And it becomes you, too, with pride to swell,
Because, the thousandth in descent, you trace
Your blood, unmixed, from some high Tuscan race; 50
Or, when the knights march by the censor's chair,
In annual pomp, can greet a kinsman there!
Away! these trappings to the rabble show:
Me they deceive not; for your soul I know,
Within, without. --And blush you not to see 55
Loose Natta's life and yours so well agree?
--But Natta's is not _life_: the sleep of sin
Has seized his powers, and palsied all within;
Huge cawls of fat envelope every part,
And torpor weighs on his insensate heart: 60
Absolved from blame by ignorance so gross,
He neither sees nor comprehends his loss;
Content in guilt's profound abyss to drop,
Nor, struggling, send one bubble to the top!
Dread sire of gods! when lust's envenomed stings 65
Stir the fierce natures of tyrannic kings;
When storms of rage within their bosoms roll,
And call, in thunder, for thy just control,
O, then relax the bolt, suspend the blow,
And thus, and thus alone, thy vengeance show, 70
In all her charms, set Virtue in their eye,
And let them see their loss, despair, and--die!
Say, could the wretch severer tortures feel,
Closed in the brazen bull? --Could the bright steel,
That, while the board with regal pomp was spread, 75
Gleamed o'er the guest, suspended by a thread,
Worse pangs inflict than he endures, who cries
(As on the rack of conscious guilt he lies,
In mental agony), "Alas! I fall,
Down, down the unfathomed steep, without recall! " 80
And withers at the heart, and dares not show
His bosom wife the secret of his woe!
Oft (I remember yet), my sight to spoil.
Oft, when a boy, I bleared my eyes with oil,
What time I wished my studies to decline, 85
Nor make great Cato's dying speeches mine;
Speeches my master to the skies had raised,
Poor pedagogue! unknowing what he praised;
And which my sire, suspense 'twixt hope and fear,
With venial pride, had brought his friends to hear. 90
For then, alas! 'twas my supreme delight
To study chances, and compute aright,
What sum the lucky sice would yield in play,
And what the fatal aces sweep away:
Anxious no rival candidate for fame 95
Should hit the long-necked jar with nicer aim;
Nor, while the whirling top beguiled the eye,
With happier skill the sounding scourge apply.
But you have passed the schools; have studied long,
And learned the eternal bounds of Right and Wrong, 100
And what the Porch (by Mycon limned, of yore,
With trowsered Medes), unfolds of ethic lore,
Where the shorn youth, on herbs and pottage fed,
Bend, o'er the midnight page, the sleepless head:
And, sure, the letter where, divergent wide, 105
The Samian branches shoot on either side,
Has to your view, with no obscure display,
Marked, on the right, the strait but better way.
And yet you slumber still! and still opprest
With last night's revels, knock your head and breast! 110
And stretching o'er your drowsy couch, produce
Yawn after yawn, as if your jaws were loose!
Is there no certain mark at which to aim? --
Still must your bow be bent at casual game?
With clods, and potsherds, must you still pursue 115
Each wandering crow that chance presents to view;
And, careless of your life's contracted span,
Live from the moment, and without a plan?
When bloated dropsies every limb invade.
In vain to hellebore you fly for aid: 120
Meet with preventive skill the young disease,
And Craterus will boast no golden fees.
Mount, hapless youths, on Contemplation's wings,
And mark the Causes and the End of things:--
Learn what we are, and for what purpose born, 125
What station here 'tis given us to adorn;
How best to blend security with ease,
And win our way through life's tempestuous seas;
What bounds the love of property requires,
And what to wish, with unreproved desires; 130
How far the genuine use of wealth extends;
And the just claims of country, kindred, friends
What Heaven would have us be, and where our stand,
In this GREAT WHOLE, is fixed by high command.
Learn these--and envy not the sordid gains 135
Which recompense the well-tongued lawyer's pains;
Though Umbrian rustics, for his sage advice,
Pour in their jars of fish, and oil, and spice,
So thick and fast, that, ere the first be o'er,
A second, and a third, are at the door. 140
"But here, some brother of the blade, some coarse
And shag-haired captain, bellows loud and hoarse;
Away with this cramp, philosophic stuff!
My learning serves my turn, and that's enough.
I laugh at all your dismal Solons, I; 145
Who stalk with downcast looks, and heads awry,
Muttering within themselves, where'er they roam,
And churning their mad silence till it foam!
Who mope o'er sick men's dreams, howe'er absurd,
And on protruded lips poise every word; 150
_Nothing can come from nothing. _ Apt and plain!
_Nothing return to nothing. _ Good, again!
And this it is for which they peak and pine,
This precious stuff, for which they never dine! "
Jove, how he laughs! the brawny youths around 155
Catch the contagion, and return the sound;
Convulsive mirth on every cheek appears,
And every nose is wrinkled into sneers!
"Doctor, a patient said, employ your art,
I feel a strange wild fluttering at the heart; 160
My breast seems tightened, and a fetid smell
sets my breath--feel here; all is not well,"
Medicine and rest the fever's rage compose,
And the third day his blood more calmly flows.
The fourth, unable to contain, he sends 165
A hasty message to his wealthier friends,
And _just about to bathe_--requests, in fine,
A moderate flask of old Surrentin wine.
"Good heavens! my friend, what sallow looks are here? "
Pshaw! nonsense! nothing! "Yet 'tis worth your fear, 170
Whate'er it be: the waters rise within,
And, though unfelt, distend your sickly skin. "
--And yours still more! Whence springs this freedom, tro'?
Are you, forsooth, my guardian? Long ago
I buried him; and thought my nonage o'er: 175
But you remain to school me! "Sir, no more. "--
Now to the bath, full gorged with luscious fare,
See the pale wretch his bloated carcass bear;
While from his lungs, that faintly play by fits,
His gasping throat sulphureous steam emits! -- 180
Cold shiverings seize him, as for wine he calls,
His grasp betrays him, and the goblet falls!
From his loose teeth the lip, convulsed, withdraws,
And the rich cates drop through his listless jaws.
Then trumpets, torches come, in solemn state; 185
And my fine youth, so confident of late,
Stretched on a splendid bier, and essenced o'er,
Lies, a stiff corpse, heels foremost at the door.
Romans of yesterday, with covered head,
Shoulder him to the pyre, and--all is said! -- 190
"But why to me? Examine every part;
My pulse:--and lay your finger on my heart;
You'll find no fever: touch my hands and feet,
A natural warmth, and nothing more, you'll meet. "
'Tis well! But if you light on gold by chance, 195
If a fair neighbor cast a sidelong glance,
Still will that pulse with equal calmness flow,
And still that heart no fiercer throbbings know?
Try yet again. In a brown dish behold,
Coarse gritty bread, and coleworts stale and old: 200
Now, prove your taste. Why those averted eyes?
Hah! I perceive:--a secret ulcer lies
Within that pampered mouth, too sore to bear
The untender grating of plebeian fare!
Where dwells this _natural warmth_, when danger's near, 205
And "each particular hair" starts up with fear?
Or where resides it, when vindictive ire
Inflames the bosom; when the veins run fire,
The reddening eye-balls glare; and all you say,
And all you do, a mind so warped betray, 210
That mad Orestes, if the freaks he saw,
Would give you up at once to chains and straw!
SATIRE IV.
