Specimens of the Poets and Poetry of Greece and Rome

Book II.

Spite of herself even Envy must confess

FROM SATIRE I.-LUCILIUS; AND HORACE'S DE- That I the friendship of the great possess,

SIRE TO WRITE LIKE HIM.

H. Tell me, Trebatius, are not all mankind To different pleasures, different whims inclined? Millonius dances when his head grows light, And the dim lamp shines double to his sight. The twin-born brothers in their sports divide; Pollux loves boxing; Castor joys to ride. Indulge me then in this my sole delight, Like great and good Lucilius, let me write, Behold him frankly to his book impart As to a friend, the secrets of his heart: To write was all his aim; too heedless bard, And well or ill, unworthy his regard. Hence the old man stands open to your view, Though with a careless hand the piece he drew. His steps I follow in pursuit of fame, Whether Lucania or Apulia claim The honour of my birth; for on the lands, By Samnites once possess'd, Venusium stands, A forward barrier, as old tales relate, To stop the course of war, and guard the state. Let this digression, as it may, succeed— No honest man shall by my satire bleed; It guards me like a sword, and safe it lies Within the sheath, till villains round me rise. Dread king and father of the mortal race, Behold me, harmless bard, how fond of peace! And may all kinds of mischief-making steel In rust, eternal rust, thy vengeance feel! But who provokes me, or attacks my fame, "Better not touch me, friend,"—I loud exclaim; His eyes shall weep the folly of his tongue, By laughing crowds in rueful ballad sung.

Then, whether age my peaceful hours attend, Or Death his sable pinions round me bend; Or rich, or poor; at Rome; to exile driven; Whatever lot by powerful Fate is given, Yet write I will.

Were cover'd o'er with infamy and rhymes?
The factious demagogue he made his prize,
And durst the people tribe by tribe chastise;
Yet true to virtue, and to virtue's friends,
To them alone with reverence he bends.
When Scipio's virtue, and, of milder vein,
When Lælius' wisdom, from the busy scene,
And crowd of life, the vulgar and the great,
Could with their favourite satirist retreat,
Lightly they laugh'd at many an idle jest,
Until their frugal feast of herbs was dress'd.
What though with great Lucilius I disclaim
All saucy rivalship of birth or fame,

And, if she dare attempt my honest fame,
Shall break her teeth against my solid name.
This is my plea; on this I rest my cause.—

FROM SATIRE III.-MADMEN.

For all are fools or mad, as well as you,
At least, if what Stertinius says be true,

Whom vicious follies, or whom falsehood, blind,
Are by the stoics held of maddening kind.
And they, who call you fool, with equal claim
May plead an ample title to the name.

When in a wood we leave the certain way, One error fools us, though we various stray, Some to the left, some turn to t'other side; So he, who dares thy madness to deride, Though you may frankly own yourself a fool,

Behind him trails his mark of ridicule.

Come all, whose breasts with bad ambition rise

Or the pale passion, that for money dies,
With luxury, or superstition's gloom,
Whate'er disease your health of mind consume,
Compose your robes; in decent ranks draw near,
And, that ye all are mad, with reverence hear.
If a man fill'd his cabinet with lyres,
Whom neither music charms, nor muse inspires;
Should he buy lasts and knives, who never made
A shoe; or if a wight, who hated trade,
The sails and tackle for a vessel bought,
Madman or fool he might be justly thought.
But, prithee, where's the difference to behold
A wretch, who heaps and hides his darling gold;
Who knows not how to use the massy store,
Yet dreads to violate the sacred ore?

With a long club, and ever-open eyes,
To guard his corn its wretched master lies,
Nor dares, though hungry, touch the hoarded
grain,

While bitter herbs his frugal life sustain;
If in his cellar lie a thousand flasks
of old Falernian, or the Chian vine,
(Nay, let them rise to thrice a thousand casks)
Yet if he drink mere vinegar for wine;
If, at fourscore, of straw he made his bed,
While moths upon his rotting carpet fed,
By few, forsooth, a madman he is thought,
For half mankind the same disease have caught.

FROM SATIRE VI.-COUNTRY LIFE.

I OFTEN Wish'd I had a farm,
A decent dwelling, snug and warm,
A garden, and a spring as pure
As crystal, running by my door;
Besides a little ancient grove,
Where at my leisure I might rove.

The gracious gods, to crown my bliss,
Have granted this, and more than this:
I have enough in my possessing,
'Tis well: I ask no other blessing,
Oh Hermes! than remote from strife
To have and hold them for my life.
If I was never known to raise
My fortune by dishonest ways;
Nor, like the spendthrifts of the times,
Shall ever sink it by my crimes:

If thus I neither pray nor ponder,-
Oh! might I have that angle yonder,
Which disproportions now my field,
What satisfaction it would yield!
Oh that some lucky chance but threw
A pot of silver to my view,
As lately to the man, who bought
The very land on which he wrought!
If I am pleased with my condition,
Oh hear, and grant this last petition:
Indulgent, let my cattle batten;
Let all things, but my fancy, fatten;
And thou continue still to guard,
As thou art wont, thy suppliant bard!

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As night seems tedious to th' expecting youth
Whose fair one breaks her assignation-truth;
As to a slave appears the lengthen'd day,
Who owes his task-for he received his pay;
As, when the guardian mother's too severe,
Impatient minors waste their last long year;
So sadly slow the time ungrateful flows
Which breaks th' important systems I propose;
Systems, whose useful precepts might engage
Both rich and poor; both infancy and age;
But meaner precepts now my life must rule,
These, the first rudiments of Wisdom's school.
You cannot hope for Lynceus' piercing eyes:
But will you then a strengthening salve des-
pise?

You wish for matchless Glycon's limbs, in vain,
Yet why not cure the gout's decrepit pain?
Though of exact perfection you despair,
Yet every step to virtue's worth your care.
Even while you fear to use your present
store,

Yet glows your bosom with a lust of more?
The power of words, and soothing sounds can

ease

The raging pain, and lessen your disease.
Is fame your passion? Wisdom's powerful charm,
If thrice read over, shall its force disarm.
The slave to envy, anger, wine, or love,
The wretch of sloth, its excellence shall prove:
Fierceness itself shall hear its rage away,
When listening calmly to th' instructive lay.
Even in our flight from vice some virtue lies;
And, free from folly, we to wisdom rise.

Silver to gold, we own, should yield the prize, And gold to virtue; but loud Folly cries, "Ye sons of Rome, let money first be sought; Virtue is only worth a second thought." This maxim echoes through the banker's street, While young and old the pleasing strain repeat: For though you boast a larger fund of sense, Untainted morals, honour, eloquence, Yet want a little of the sum that buys The titled honour, and you ne'er shall rise; Yet if you want the qualifying right Of such a fortune to be made a knight, You're a plebeian still. Yet children sing, Amid their sports, "Do right, and be a king." Be this thy brazen bulwark of defence, Still to preserve thy conscious innocence, Nor e'er turn pale with guilt. But, prithee, tell, Shall Otho's law the children's song excel? The sons of ancient Rome first sung the strain That bids the wise, the brave, the virtuous reign. My friend, get money; get a large estate, By honest means; but get, at any rate, That you with knights and senators may sit, And view the weeping scenes that Pupius writ. But is he not a friend of nobler kind Who wisely fashions, and informs thy mind, To answer, with a soul erect and brave, To Fortune's pride, and scorn to be her slave? But should the people ask me, while I choose The public converse, wherefore I refuse To join the public judgment, and approve, Or fly whatever they dislike, or love;

Mine be the answer prudent reynard made
To the sick lion-" Truly, I'm afraid,
When I behold the steps, that to thy den
Look forward all, but none return agen."

FROM EPISTLE II.

DANGER OF PROCRASTINATION.

BEGIN; be bold; and venture to be wise; He who defers the work from day to day, Does on a river's bank expecting stay,

'Till the whole stream that stopp'd him, shall be gone,

That runs, and, as it runs, for ever will run on.

FROM EPISTLE III.-TO A PLAGIARIST.

LET Celsus be admonish'd, o'er and o'er, To search the treasures of his native store, Nor touch what Phoebus consecrates to fame, Lest, when the birds their various plumage claim, Stripp'd of his stolen pride, the crow forlorn Shall stand ridiculous,-the public scorn!

FROM EPISTLE V.-WINE.

SAY, what are Fortune's gifts, if I'm denied
Their cheerful use? for nearly are allied
The madman, and the fool, whose sordid care
Makes himself poor, to enrich a worthless heir.
Give me to drink, and, crown'd with flowers,
despise

The grave disgrace of being thought unwise.

What cannot wine perform? It brings to light The secret soul; it bids the coward fight; Gives being to our hopes, and from our hearts Drives out dull sorrow, and inspires new arts. Is there a wretch, whom bumpers have not taught A flow of words, and loftiness of thought? Even in th' oppressive grasp of poverty It can enlarge, and bid the soul be free.

FROM EPISTLE VI.-VIRTUE OR WEALTH?

WOULD you not wish to cure th' acuter pains, That rack your tortured side, or vex your reins? Would you, and who would not, with pleasure live? If Virtue can alone the blessing give, With ardent spirit her alone pursue, And with contempt all other pleasures view. Yet if you think that virtue's but a name; That groves are groves, nor from religion claim A sacred awe; sail to the distant coast, Nor let the rich Bithynian trade be lost. A thousand talents be the rounded sum You first design'd; then raise a second plumb; A third successive be your earnest care, And add a fourth to make the mass a square; For gold, the sovereign queen of all below, Friend, honour, birth, and beauty can bestow; The goddess of persuasion forms a train, And Venus decks the well-bemonied swain.

THE MOUSE AND THE WEASEL.

INTO a wicker cask where corn was kept, Perchance of meagre corse, a field-mouse crept; But when she fill'd her paunch, and sleek'd her hide,

How to get out again, in vain she tried.

A weasel, who beheld her thus distress'd,
In friendly sort the luckless mouse address'd:
Would you escape, you must be lean and thin;
Then try the cranny where you first got in.”

EPISTLE VIII-TO CELSUS ALBINOVANUS.
COMPLAINING OF ILL HEALTH.

To Celsus, Muse, my warmest wishes bear,
And if he kindly ask you how I fare,
Say, though I threaten many a fair design,
Nor happiness, nor wisdom, yet are mine.
Not that the driving hail my vineyards beat;
Not that my olives are destroy'd with heat;
Not that my cattle pine in distant plains—
More in my mind than body lie my pains.
Reading I hate, and with unwilling ear
The voice of comfort, or of health I hear;
Friends or physicians I with pain endure,
Who strive this languor of my soul to cure.
Whate'er may hurt me, I with joy pursue;
Whate'er may do me good, with horror view.
Inconstant as the wind, I various rove;
At Tibur, Rome; at Rome, I Tibur love.

Ask how he does; what happy arts support
His prince's favour, nor offend the court;
If all be well, say first, that we rejoice,
And then, remember, with a gentle voice
Instil this precept on his listening ear,
"As you your fortune, we shall Celsus bear."

EPISTLE X.-TO FUSCUS ARISTUS.

HEALTH from the lover of the country, me,
Health to the lover of the city, thee.
A difference in our souls this only proves;
In all things else, we pair like married doves.
But the warm nest and crowded dove-house

thou

Dost like I loosely fly from bough to bough,
And rivers drink, and all the shining day
Upon fair trees or mossy rocks I play;
In fine, I live and reign, when I retire
From all that you equal with heaven admire;
Like one at last from the priest's service fled,
Loathing the honied cakes, I long for bread.
Would I a house for happiness erect,

Nature alone should be the architect;
She'd build it more convenient than great,
And doubtless in the country choose her seat:
Is there a place doth better helps supply
Against the wounds of winter's cruelty?
Is there an aid that gentlier does assuage
The mad celestial dog's, or lion's rage?
Is it not there that sleep (and only there)
Nor noise without, nor cares within does fear?
Does art through pipes a purer water bring
Than that which Nature strains into a spring?
Can all your tap'stries, or your pictures, show
More beauties than in herbs and flowers do
grow?

Fountains and trees our wearied pride do please, The flagrant lash."-"No human blood I shed”-
Ev'n in the midst of gilded palaces;

And in your towns that prospect gives delight
Which opens round the country to our sight.
Men to the good from which they rashly fly,
Return at last; and their wild luxury
Does but in vain with those true joys contend,
Which Nature did to mankind recommend.
The man who changes gold for burnish'd brass,
Or small right gems for larger ones of glass,
Is not at length more certain to be made
Ridiculous, and wretched by the trade,
Than he who sells a solid good to buy
The painted goods of pride and vanity.
If thou be wise, no glorious fortune choose,
Which 'tis but pain to keep, yet grief to lose;
For, when we place ev'n trifles in the heart,
With trifles, too, unwillingly we part.
An humble roof, plain bed, and homely board,
More clear untainted pleasures do afford
Than all the tumult of vain greatness brings
To kings, or to the favourites of kings.
The horned deer by Nature arm'd so well,
Did with the horse in common pasture dwell;
And when they fought, the field it always
won;

Till the ambitious horse begg'd help of man,
And took the bridle, and thenceforth did reign
Bravely alone, as lord of all the plain.
But never after could he the rider get
From off his back, or from his mouth the bit.
So they, who poverty too much do fear,
T'avoid that weight, a greater burden bear;
That they might power above their equals have,
To cruel masters they themselves enslave.
For gold, their liberty exchang`d we see,
That fairest flower which crowns humanity.
And all this mischief does upon them light,
Only, because they know not how, aright,
That great, but secret, happiness to prize,
That's laid up in a little, for the wise:
That is the best and easiest estate
Which to a man sits close, but not too straight;
'Tis like a shoe, it pinches and it burns,
Too narrow; and too large, it overturns.
My dearest friend! stop thy desires at last,
And cheerfully enjoy the wealth thou hast:
And, if me seeking still for more you see,
Chide and reproach, despise and laugh at me.
Money was made, not to command our will,
But all our lawful pleasures to fulfil:
Shame! woe to us, if we our wealth obey:
The horse doth with the horseman run away.

FROM EPISTLE XVI. THE GOOD.

FALSE praise can charm, unreal shame control-
Whom, but a vicious or a sickly soul?
Who then is good?-Who carefully observes
The senate's wise decrees, nor ever swerves
From the known rules of justice and the laws:
Whose bail secures, whose oath decides a cause.—

Nor on the cross the ravening crows have fed."-
Your honest man, on whom with awful praise
The forum and the courts of justice gaze,
If e'er he made a public sacrifice,

Dread Janus, Phœbus, clear and loud he cries;
But when his pray'r in earnest is preferr'd,
Scarce moves his lips, afraid of being heard:
"Beauteous Laverna, my petition hear;
Let me with truth and sanctity appear:
Oh! give me to deceive, and with a veil
Of darkness and of night my crimes conceal."
Behold the miser bending down to earth
For a poor farthing, which the boys in mirth
Fix'd to the ground; and shall the caitiff dare
In honest freedom with a slave compare?

Whoever wishes, is with fear possess'd;
And he, who holds that passion in his breast
Is in my sense a slave; hath left the post
Where Virtue placed him, and his arms hath
lost.

The good, the wise, like Bacchus in the play,
Dare, to the king of Thebes, undaunted say,
"What can thy power? Thy threatenings I dis-
dain."

King. I'll take away thy goods.
Bac.
Perhaps you mean
My cattle, money, moveables, or land.
Well, take them all.

But, slave, if I command,
A cruel jailor shall thy freedom seize.
B. A god shall set me free whene'er I please."
Death is that god the poet here intends,
That utmost bound, where human sorrow ends.

Book II.

FROM EPISTLES I, II.-POETS.

Now the light people bend to other aims;
A lust of scribbling every breast inflames;
Our youth, our senators, with bays are crown'd,
And rhymes eternal at our feasts go round.
Even I, who verse and all its works deny,
Can faithless Parthia's lying sons outlie;
And, ere the rising sun displays his light,
I call for tablets, papers, pens, and-write.
A pilot only dares a vessel steer;
A doubtful drug unlicensed doctors fear;
Musicians are to sounds alone confined,
And each mechanic hath his trade assigned;
But every desperate blockhead dares to write;
Verse is the trade of every living wight.

And yet this wandering frenzy of the brain
No cares of wealth a poet's heart control;
Hath many a gentle virtue in its train.
Verse is the only passion of his soul.
He laughs at losses, flight of slaves, or fires;
No wicked scheme his honest breast inspires
To hurt his pupil, or his friend betray.
Brown bread and roots his appetite allay;

Yet his own house, his neighbours, through his And though unfit for war's tumultuous trade,

art

Behold an inward baseness in his heart.
Suppose a slave should say, "I never steal;
I never ran away"-"Nor do you feel

In peace his gentle talents are display'd,

The whole passage is almost an exact translation from a scene in the Bacchantes of Euripides.

If you allow that things of trivial weight
May yet support the grandeur of a state.
He forms the infant's tongue to firmer sound,
Nor suffers vile obscenity to wound

Though yet enshrined within his desk they stand,
And claim a sanction from his parent hand.

As from the treasure of a latent mine,
Long darken'd words he shall with art refine;
Bring into light, to dignify his page,
The nervous language of a former age,
Used by the Catos, and Cethegus old,
Though now deform'd with dust, and cover'd
o'er with mould.

His tender ears. Then with the words of truth
Corrects the passions, and the pride of youth.
Th' illustrious dead, who fill his sacred page,
Shine forth examples to each rising age;
The languid hour of poverty he cheers,
And the sick wretch his voice of comfort hears.
Did not the muse inspire the poet's lays,
How could our youthful choir their voices raise
In prayer harmonious, while the gods attend,
And gracious bid the fruitful shower descend;
Avert their plagues, dispel each hostile fear,
And with glad harvests crown the wealthy year?
Thus can the sound of all-melodious lays
Th' offended powers of heaven and hell ap- Yet hard he labours for this seeming ease;

pease.

Our ancient swains, of vigorous, frugal kind,
At harvest-home used to unbend the mind
With festal sports; those sports, that bade them
bear,

With cheerful hopes, the labours of the year.
Their wives and children shared their hours of
mirth,

New words he shall endenizen, which use
Shall authorize, and currently produce;
Then, brightly smooth, and yet sublimely strong,
Like a pure river, through his flowing song
Shall pour the riches of his fancy wide,
And bless his Latium with a vocal tide;
Prune the luxuriant phrase; the rude refine,
Or blot the languid, and unsinew'd line.

As art, not nature, makes our dancers please.
A stupid scribbler let me rather seem,
While of my faults with dear delight I deem,
Or not perceive, than sing no mortal strain,
And bear this toil, this torture of the brain.
At Argos lived a citizen, well known,
Who long imagined that he heard the tone
Of deep tragedians on an empty stage,

Who shared their toils; when to the goddess And sat applauding in extatic rage:

Earth

Grateful they sacrificed a teeming swine,

And pour'd the milky bowl at Sylvan's shrine.
Then to the genius of their fleeting hours,

In other points a person, who maintain'd
A due decorum, and a life unstain'd,
A worthy neighbour, and a friend sincere,
Kind to his wife, nor to his slaves severe,

Mindful of life's short date, they offer'd wine and Nor prone to madness, though the felon's fork

flowers.

Here, in alternate verse, with rustic jest
The clowns their awkward raillery express'd;
And as the year brought round the jovial day,
Freely they sported, innocently gay,
Till cruel wit was turn'd to open rage,
And dared the noblest families engage.
When some, who by its tooth envenom'd bled,
Complain'd aloud, and others struck with dread,
Though yet untouch'd, as in a public cause,
Implor'd the just protection of the laws,
Which from injurious libels wisely guard
Our neighbour's fame; and now the prudent
bard,

Whom the just terrors of the lash restrain,
To pleasure and instruction turns his vein.
When conquer'd Greece brought in her captive

arts

She triumph'd o'er her savage conqueror's hearts;
Taught our rough verse its numbers to refine,
And our rude style with elegance to shine.

Bad poets ever are a standing jest,
But they rejoice, and, in their folly bless'd,
Admire themselves; nay, though you silent sit,
They bless themselves in wonder at their wit.
But he who studies masterly to frame
A finish'd piece, and build an honest fame,
Acts to himself the friendly critic's part,
And proves his genius by the rules of art,
Boldly blots out whatever seems obscure,
Or lightly mean, unworthy to procure
Immortal honour, though the words give way
With warm reluctance, and by force obey;

OTHER VICES BESIDES COVETOUSNESS.
You are not covetous: be satisfied.
But are you tainted with no vice beside?
From vain ambition, dread of death's decree,
And fell resentment, is thy bosom free?
Say, can you laugh indignant at the schemes
Of magic terrors, visionary dreams,
Portentous wonders, witching imps of hell,
The nightly goblin, and enchanting spell?
Can you recount with gratitude and mirth
The day revolved that gave thy being birth,
Indulge the failings of thy friends, and grow
More mild and virtuous, as thy seasons flow?

FROM THE ART OF POETRY.

NEW words, and lately made, shall credit claim,
If from a Grecian source they gently stream;
For Virgil, sure, and Varius may receive
That kind indulgence, which the Romans give

*The Romans generally sealed a full bottle, to prevent their slaves from stealing the wine.

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