No More Learning

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.

What! you, my Alcibiades, aspire
To sway the state! --(Suppose that bearded sire,
Whom hemlock from a guilty world removed,
Thus to address the stripling that he loved. )
On what apt talents for a charge so high, 5
Ward of great Pericles, do you rely?
Forecast on others by gray hairs conferred,
Haply, with you, anticipates the beard!
And prompts you, prescient of the public weal,
Now to disclose your thoughts, and now conceal! 10
Hence, when the rabble form some daring plan,
And factious murmurs spread from man to man,
Mute and attentive you can bid them stand,
By the majestic wafture of your hand!
Lo! all is hushed: what now, what will he speak, 15
What floods of sense from his charged bosom break!
"Romans! I think--I fear--I think, I say,
This is not well:--perhaps, the better way. "--
O power of eloquence! But you, forsooth,
In the nice, trembling scale can poise the truth, 20
With even hand; can with intentive view,
Amid deflecting curves, the right pursue;
Or, where the rule deceives the vulgar eye
With its warped foot, the unerring line apply:
And, while your sentence strikes with doom precise, 25
Stamp the black Theta on the front of vice!
Rash youth! relying on a specious skin,
While all is dark deformity within,
Check the fond thought; nor, like the peacock proud,
Spread your gay plumage to the applauding crowd, 30
Before your hour arrive:--Ah, rather drain
Whole isles of hellebore, to cool your brain!
For, what is YOUR chief good? "To heap my board
With every dainty earth and sea afford;
To bathe, and bask me in the sunny ray, 35
And doze the careless hours of life away. "
Hold, hold! you tattered beldame, hobbling by,
If haply asked, would make the same reply.
"But I am nobly born. " Agreed. "And fair. "
'Tis granted too: yet goody Baucis there, 40
Who, to the looser slaves, her pot-herbs cries,
Is just as philosophic, just as wise. --
How few, alas! their proper faults explore!
While, on his loaded back, who walks before,
Each eye is fixed. --You touch a stranger's arm, 45
And ask him if he knows Vectidius' farm?
"Whose," he replies? That rich old chuff's, whose ground
Would tire a hawk to wheel it fairly round.
"O ho! that wretch, on whose devoted head
Ill stars and angry gods their rage have shed! 50
Who on high festivals, when all is glee,
And the loose yoke hangs on the cross-way tree,
As, from the jar, he scrapes the incrusted clay,
Groans o'er the revels of so dear a day;
Champs on a coated onion dipt in brine; 55
And while his hungry hinds exulting dine
On barley broth, sucks up, with thrifty care,
The mothery dregs of his palled vinegar! "
But, if "YOU bask you in the sunny ray,
And doze the careless hours of youth away," 60
There are, who at such gross delights will spurn,
And spit their venom on your life in turn;
Expose, with eager hate, your low desires,
Your secret passions, and unhallowed fires. --
"Why, while the beard is nursed with every art, 65
Those anxious pains to bare the shameful part?
In vain:--should five athletic knaves essay
To pluck, with ceaseless care, the weeds away,
Still the rank fern, congenial to the soil,
Would spread luxuriant, and defeat their toil! " 70
Misled by rage, our bodies we expose,
And while we give, forget to ward, the blows;
This, this is life! and thus our faults are shown,
By mutual spleen: we know--and we are known!
But your defects elude inquiring eyes! -- 75
Beneath the groin the ulcerous evil lies,
Impervious to the view; and o'er the wound
The broad effulgence of the zone is bound!
But can you, thus, the inward pang restrain,
Thus cheat the sense of languor and of pain? 80
"But if the people call me wise and just,
Sure I may take the general voice on trust! "--
No:--If you tremble at the sight of gold;
Indulge lust's wildest sallies uncontrolled;
Or, bent on outrage, at the midnight hour, 85
Girt with a ruffian band, the Forum scour;
Then, wretch! in vain the voice of praise you hear,
And drink the vulgar shout with greedy ear.
Hence, with your spurious claims! Rejudge your cause
And fling the rabble back their vile applause; 90
To your own breast, in quest of worth, repair,
And blush to find how poor a stock is there!


SATIRE V.

TO ANNÆUS CORNUTUS.

PERSIUS. Poets are wont a hundred mouths to ask,
A hundred tongues--whate'er the purposed task;
Whether a tragic tale of Pelops' line
For the sad actor, with deep mouth, to whine;
Or Epic lay;--the Parthian winged with fear, 5
And wrenching from his groin the Roman spear.
CORNUTUS. Heavens! to what purpose (sure I heard thee wrong),
Tend those huge gobbets of robustious song,
Which, struggling into day, distend thy lungs,
And need a hundred mouths, a hundred tongues? 10
Let fustian bards to Helicon repair,
And suck the spongy fogs that hover there,
Bards, in whose fervid brains, while sense recoils,
The pot of Progne, or Thyestes boils,
Dull Glyco's feast! --But what canst thou propose? 15
Puffed by thy heaving lungs no metal glows;
Nor dost thou, mumbling o'er some close-spent strain,
Croak the grave nothings of an idle brain;
Nor swell, until thy cheeks, with thundering sound,
Displode, and spurt their airy froth around. 20
Confined to common life, thy numbers flow,
And neither soar too high, nor sink too low;
There strength and ease in graceful union meet,
Though polished, subtle, and though poignant, sweet;
Yet powerful to abash the front of crime, 25
And crimson error's cheek with sportive rhyme.
O still be this thy study, this thy care:
Leave to Mycenæ's prince his horrid fare,
His head and feet; and seek, with Roman taste,
For Roman food--a plain but pure repast. 30
PERSIUS. Mistake me not. Far other thoughts engage
My mind, Cornutus, than to swell my page
With air-blown trifles, impotent and vain,
And grace, with noisy pomp, an empty strain.
Oh, no: the world shut out, 'tis my design, 35
To open (prompted by the inspiring Nine)
The close recesses of my breast, and bare
To your keen eye each thought, each feeling, there;
Yes, best of friends! 'tis now my wish to prove
How much you fill my heart, engross my love. 40
Ring then--for, to your practiced ear, the sound
Will show the solid, and where guile is found
Beneath the varnished tongue: for THIS, in fine,
I dared to wish a hundred voices mine;
Proud to declare, in language void of art, 45
How deep your form is rooted in my heart,
And paint, in words--ah! could they paint the whole--
The ineffable sensations of my soul.
When first I laid the purple by, and free,
Yet trembling at my new-felt liberty, 50
Approached the hearth, and on the Lares hung
The bulla, from my willing neck unstrung;
When gay associates, sporting at my side.
And the white boss, displayed with conscious pride,
Gave me, unchecked, the haunts of vice to trace, 55
And throw my wandering eyes on every face,
When life's perplexing maze before me lay,
And error, heedless of the better way,
To straggling paths, far from the route of truth,
Woo'd, with blind confidence, my timorous youth, 60
I fled to you, Cornutus, pleased to rest
My hopes and fears on your Socratic breast,
Nor did you, gentle Sage, the charge decline:
Then, dextrous to beguile, your steady line
Reclaimed, I know not by what winning force, 65
My morals, warped from virtue's straighter course;
While reason pressed incumbent on my soul,
That struggled to receive the strong control,
And took like wax, tempered by plastic skill;
The form your hand imposed; and bears it still! 70
Can I forget how many a summer's day,
Spent in your converse, stole, unmarked, away?
Or how, while listening with increased delight,
I snatched from feasts the earlier hours of night?
--One time (for to your bosom still I grew), 75
One time of study, and of rest, we knew;
One frugal board where, every care resigned,
An hour of blameless mirth relaxed the mind.
And sure our lives, which thus accordant move
(Indulge me here, Cornutus), clearly prove 80
That both are subject to the self-same law,
And from one horoscope their fortunes draw;
And whether Destiny's unerring doom
In equal Libra poised our days to come;
Or friendship's holy hour our fates combined, 85
And to the Twins a sacred charge assigned;
Or Jove, benignant, broke the gloomy spell
By angry Saturn wove;--I know not well--
But sure some star there is, whose bland control
Subdues, to yours, the temper of my soul! 90
Countless the various species of mankind,
Countless the shades which separate mind from mind;
No general object of desire is known;
Each has his will, and each pursues his own;
With Latian wares, one roams the Eastern main, 95
To purchase spice, and cummin's blanching grain;
Another, gorged with dainties, swilled with wine,
Fattens in sloth, and snores out life, supine;
This loves the Campus; that, destructive play;
And those, in wanton dalliance melt away:-- 100
But when the knotty gout their strength has broke,
And their dry joints crack like some withered oak,
Then they look back, confounded and aghast,
On the gross days in fogs and vapors past;
With late regret the waste of life deplore, 105
No purpose gained, and time, alas! no more.
But you, my friend, whom nobler views delight,
To pallid vigils give the studious night;
Cleanse youthful breasts from every noxious weed,
And sow the tilth with Cleanthean seed. 110
There seek, ye young, ye old, secure to find
That certain end which stays the wavering mind;
Stores, which endure, when other means decay,
Through life's last stage, a sad and cheerless way.
"Right; and to-morrow this shall be our care. " 115
Alas! to-morrow, like to-day, will fare.
"What! is one day, forsooth, so great a boon? "
But when it comes (and come it will too soon),
Reflect, that yesterday's to-morrow's o'er. --
Thus "one to-morrow! one to-morrow! more," 120
Have seen long years before them fade away;
And still appear no nearer than to-day!
So while the wheels on different axles roll,
In vain (though governed by the self-same pole)
The hindmost to o'ertake the foremost tries: 125
Fast as the one pursues the other flies!
FREEDOM, in truth, it steads us much to have:
Not that by which each manumitted slave,
Each Publius, with his tally, may obtain
A casual dole of coarse and damaged grain. 130
--O souls! involved in Error's thickest shade,
Who think a Roman with one turn is made!
Look on this paltry groom, this Dama here,
Who at three farthings would be prized too dear;
This blear-eyed scoundrel, who your husks would steal, 135
And outface truth to hide the starving meal;
Yet--let his master twirl this knave about,
And MARCUS DAMA in a trice steps out!
Amazing! MARCUS surety? --yet distrust!
MARCUS your judge? --yet fear a doom unjust! 140
MARCUS avouch it? --then the fact is clear.
The writings! --set your hand, good MARCUS, here. "
This is mere liberty--a name, alone:
Yet this is all the cap can make our own.
"Sure, there's no other. All mankind agree 145
That those who live without control are free:
_I_ live without control; and _therefore_ hold
Myself more free than Brutus was of old. "
Absurdly put; a Stoic cries, whose ear,
Rinsed with sharp vinegar, is quick to hear: 150
True;--all who live without control are free;
But that YOU live so, I can ne'er agree.
"No? From the Prætor's wand when I withdrew,
Lord of myself, why, might I not pursue
My pleasure unrestrained, respect still had 155
To what the rubric of the law forbad? "
Listen--but first your brows from anger clear,
And bid your nose dismiss that rising sneer;
Listen, while I the genuine truth impart,
And root those old wives' fables from your heart. 160
It was not, is not in the "Prætor's wand,"
To gift a fool with power, to understand
The nicer shades of duty, and educe,
From short and rapid life, its end and use;
The laboring hind shall sooner seize the quill, 165
And strike the lyre with all a master's skill.
Reason condemns the thought, with mien severe,
And drops this maxim in the secret ear,
"Forbear to venture, with preposterous toil,
On what, in venturing, you are sure to spoil. " 170
In this plain sense of what is just and right
The laws of nature and of man unite;
That Inexperience should some caution show,
And spare to reach at what she does not know.
Prescribe you hellebore! without the skill 175
To weigh the ingredients, or compound the pill? --
Physic, alarmed, the rash attempt withstands,
And wrests the dangerous mixture from your hands.
Should the rude clown, skilled in no star to guide
His dubious course, rush on the trackless tide, 180
Would not Palemon at the fact exclaim,
And swear the world had lost all sense of shame!
Say, is it yours, by wisdom's steady rays,
To walk secure through life's entangled maze?
Yours to discern the specious from the true, 185
And where the gilt conceals the brass from view?
Speak, can you mark, with some appropriate sign,
What to pursue, and what, in turn, decline?
Does moderation all your wishes guide,
And temperance at your cheerful board preside? 190
Do friends your love experience? are your stores
Now dealt with closed and now with open doors,
As fit occasion calls? Can you restrain
The eager appetite of sordid gain?
Nor feel, when in the mire a doit, you note, 195
Mercurial spittle gurgle in your throat?
If you can say, and truly, "THESE ARE MINE,
And THIS I CAN:"--suffice it. I decline
All farther question; you are wise and free,
No less by Jove's than by the law's decree. 200
But if, good Marcus, you who formed so late
One of our batch, of our enslaved estate,
Beneath a specious outside, still retain
The foul contagion of your ancient strain;
If the sly fox still burrow in some part, 205
Some secret corner, of your tainted heart;
I straight retract the freedom which I gave,
And hold your Dama still, and still a slave!
Reason concedes you nothing. Let us try.
Thrust forth your finger. "See. " O, heavens, awry! 210
Yet what so trifling? --But, though altars smoke,
Though clouds of incense every god invoke,
In vain you sue, one drachm of RIGHT to find,
One scruple, lurking in the foolish mind.
Nature abhors the mixture; the rude clown 215
As well may lay his spade and mattock down,
And with light foot and agile limbs prepare
To dance three steps with soft Bathyllus' air!
"Still I am free. " You! subject to the sway
Of countless masters, FREE! What _datum_, pray, 220
Supports your claim? Is there no other yoke
Than that which, from your neck, the Prætor broke!
"Go, bear these scrapers to the bath with speed;
What! loitering, knave? "--Here's servitude indeed!
Yet you unmoved the angry sounds would hear; 225
You owe no duty, and can know no fear.
But if within you feel the strong control--
If stormy passions lord it o'er your soul,
Are you more free than he whom threatenings urge
To bear the strigils and escape the scourge? 230
'Tis morn; yet sunk in sloth you snoring lie.
"Up! up! " cries Avarice, "and to business hie;
Nay, stir. " I will not. Still she presses, "Rise! "
I can not. "But you must and shall," she cries.
And to what purpose? "This a question! Go, 235
Bear fish to Pontus, and bring wines from Co;
Bring ebon, flax, whate'er the East supplies,
Musk for perfumes, and gums for sacrifice:
Prevent the mart, and the first pepper take
From the tired camel ere his thirst he slake. 240
Traffic forswear, if interest intervene"--
But Jove will overhear me. --"Hold, my spleen!
O dolt; but, mark--that thumb will bore and bore
The empty salt (scraped to the quick before)
For one poor grain, a vapid meal to mend, 245
If you aspire to thrive with Jove your friend! "
You rouse (for who can truths like these withstand? ),
Victual your slaves, and urge them to the strand.
Prepared in haste to follow; and, ere now,
Had to the Ægean turned your vent'rous prow, 250
But that sly Luxury the process eyed,
Waylaid your desperate steps, and, taunting, cried,
"Ho, madman, whither, in this hasty plight?
What passion drives you forth?