'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,5Might 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)10Sequacious ivy climbs, and spreadsUnfading verdure round their heads.Enough for me, too mean for praise,To bear my rude, uncultured laysTo Phœbus and the Muses' shrine,15And place them near their gifts divine.Who bade the parrot χαῖρε cry;And forced our language on the pie?TheBelly: Master, he, of Arts,Bestower of ingenious parts;20Powerful the creatures to endueWith sounds their natures never knew!For, let the wily hand unfoldThe glittering bait of tempting gold,And straight the choir of daws and pies,25To such poetic heights shall rise,That, lost in wonder, you will swearApollo and the Nine are there!
'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,5Might 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)10Sequacious ivy climbs, and spreadsUnfading verdure round their heads.Enough for me, too mean for praise,To bear my rude, uncultured laysTo Phœbus and the Muses' shrine,15And place them near their gifts divine.Who bade the parrot χαῖρε cry;And forced our language on the pie?TheBelly: Master, he, of Arts,Bestower of ingenious parts;20Powerful the creatures to endueWith sounds their natures never knew!For, let the wily hand unfoldThe glittering bait of tempting gold,And straight the choir of daws and pies,25To such poetic heights shall rise,That, lost in wonder, you will swearApollo and the Nine are there!
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!5Why piteous?lest Polydamas, forsooth,And Troy's proud dames, pronounce my merits fallBeneath 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,10Determine, 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!—15And, sure it may, it must.—When I beholdWhat 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,20Then, 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;25Some, 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.30Lo! 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,35Watch, with indecent glee, each prurient thought,And squeal with rapture, as the luscious lineThrills through the marrow, and inflames the chine.Vile dotard! Canst thou thus consent to please!To pander for such itching fools as these!40Fools—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,45Must 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 seeThe pointed finger, hear the loudThat's he,On every side:—and seems it, in your sight,So poor a trifle, that whate'er we writeIs introduced to every school of note,55And 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;60Slowly 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,65Hum 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 roomRings with his praise: now will not roses bloom,70Now, from his relics, will not violets spring,And o'er his hallowed urn their fragrance fling!"You laugh ('tis answered), and too freely hereIndulge that vile propensity to sneer.Lives there, who would not at applause rejoice,75And 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!80Thou, 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;85Not 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:90Are 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,95And give the shivering guest a threadbare cloak,Then, while his heart with gratitude dilatesAt 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?100He 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!—105No 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,110Prevent, 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,115The critic nail without a jar must glide;Since every verse is drawn as straight and fineAs if one eye had fixed the ruddled line.—Whate'er the subject of his varied rhymes,The humors, passions, vices of the times;120The 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 speedRush on heroics; though devoid of skill125To 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, 135The 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;140Where, in quaint tropes, Antiopa is seenTo—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,145This 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,150Nor 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,155Equals 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?160Were 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,165And 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 unknownTo our rough sires, a smoothness all our own.170True: 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,175We win the chine of the long Apennine!Arms and the man—Here, too, perhaps, you findA pithless branch beneath a fungous rind?Not so;—a seasoned trunk of many a day,Whose gross and watery parts are drawn away.180But what, in fine (for still you jeer me), callFor the moist eye, bowed head, and lengthened drawl,What strains of genuine pathos?—O'er the hillThe dismal slug-horn sounded, loud and shrill,A Mimallonian blast: fired at the sound, 185In 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!190O 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!—Thehaughty calf, andAttin'sjangling strain,195Dropped, 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?200O 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)205All 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.210Paint, 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,215And 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.220Well 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 confide225The 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,230This nothing, if you will; you should not buyWith 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,235Force, as thou readest, to tremble and admire;O, view my humbler labors:—there, if aughtMore highly finished, more maturely wrought,Detain thy ear, and give thy breast to glowWith warmth, responsive to the inspiring flow—240I 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 pursueWith vulgar ribaldry the Grecian shoe:Bursting with self-conceit, with pride elate,245Because, 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;250Derides 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 theseI recommend, at morn, the Prætor's bill,255At eve, Calirrhoë, or—what they will.
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!5Why piteous?lest Polydamas, forsooth,And Troy's proud dames, pronounce my merits fallBeneath 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,10Determine, 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!—15And, sure it may, it must.—When I beholdWhat 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,20Then, 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;25Some, 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.30Lo! 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,35Watch, with indecent glee, each prurient thought,And squeal with rapture, as the luscious lineThrills through the marrow, and inflames the chine.Vile dotard! Canst thou thus consent to please!To pander for such itching fools as these!40Fools—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,45Must 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 seeThe pointed finger, hear the loudThat's he,On every side:—and seems it, in your sight,So poor a trifle, that whate'er we writeIs introduced to every school of note,55And 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;60Slowly 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,65Hum 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 roomRings with his praise: now will not roses bloom,70Now, from his relics, will not violets spring,And o'er his hallowed urn their fragrance fling!"You laugh ('tis answered), and too freely hereIndulge that vile propensity to sneer.Lives there, who would not at applause rejoice,75And 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!80Thou, 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;85Not 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:90Are 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,95And give the shivering guest a threadbare cloak,Then, while his heart with gratitude dilatesAt 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?100He 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!—105No 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,110Prevent, 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,115The critic nail without a jar must glide;Since every verse is drawn as straight and fineAs if one eye had fixed the ruddled line.—Whate'er the subject of his varied rhymes,The humors, passions, vices of the times;120The 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 speedRush on heroics; though devoid of skill125To 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, 135The 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;140Where, in quaint tropes, Antiopa is seenTo—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,145This 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,150Nor 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,155Equals 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?160Were 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,165And 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 unknownTo our rough sires, a smoothness all our own.170True: 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,175We win the chine of the long Apennine!Arms and the man—Here, too, perhaps, you findA pithless branch beneath a fungous rind?Not so;—a seasoned trunk of many a day,Whose gross and watery parts are drawn away.180But what, in fine (for still you jeer me), callFor the moist eye, bowed head, and lengthened drawl,What strains of genuine pathos?—O'er the hillThe dismal slug-horn sounded, loud and shrill,A Mimallonian blast: fired at the sound, 185In 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!190O 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!—Thehaughty calf, andAttin'sjangling strain,195Dropped, 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?200O 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)205All 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.210Paint, 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,215And 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.220Well 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 confide225The 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,230This nothing, if you will; you should not buyWith 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,235Force, as thou readest, to tremble and admire;O, view my humbler labors:—there, if aughtMore highly finished, more maturely wrought,Detain thy ear, and give thy breast to glowWith warmth, responsive to the inspiring flow—240I 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 pursueWith vulgar ribaldry the Grecian shoe:Bursting with self-conceit, with pride elate,245Because, 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;250Derides 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 theseI recommend, at morn, the Prætor's bill,255At eve, Calirrhoë, or—what they will.
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:—5It is not yours, with mercenary prayersTo 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!—10Hard, 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,15Are 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 20To 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, 25And now—is he a widower once more!These blessings, with due sanctity, to crave,Once, twice, and thrice in Tiber's eddying waveHe dips each morn, and bids the stream conveyThe gathered evils of the night, away!30One 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?35Which of the two would best dispense the laws?Best shield the unfriended orphan? Good! Now moveThe 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?40Or 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,45Thy mouldering corpse (a monument of wrath)Lies in no blasted grove, for public careTo expiate with sacrifice and prayer;Must, therefore, Jove, unsceptred and unfeared,Give to thy ruder mirth his foolish beard?50What 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 dips55Her middle finger, and anoints his lipsAnd forehead:—"Charms of potency," she cries,"To break the influence of evil eyes!"The spell complete, she dandles high in airHer starveling hope; and breathes a humble prayer,60That heaven would only tender to his handsAll 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,65And 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.70This begs for nerves to pain and sickness steeled,A frame of body that shall slowly yieldTo late old age:—'Tis well, enjoy thy wish.—But the huge platter, and high-seasoned dish,Day after day the willing gods withstand,75And 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!"80Madman! 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,85It comes—it comes—auspicious to my vow!"While thus, poor wretch, he hangs 'twixt hope and fear,He starts, in dreadful certainty, to hearHis chest reverberate the hollow groanOf his last piece, to find itself alone?90If from my sideboard I should bid you takeGoblets of gold or silver, you would shakeWith 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;95And overlay their busts with captured gold.For, of the brazen brotherhood, the PowerWho sends you dreams, at morning's truer hour,Most purged from phlegm, enjoys your best regards,And a gold beard his prescient skill rewards!100Now, from the temples,Goldhas chased the plainAnd 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!105Why bring our passions to the Immortals' shrine,And judge, from what thisCARNAL SENSEdelights,Of what is pleasing in their purer sights?This, the Calabrian fleece with purple soils,And mingles cassia with our native oils;110Tears from the rocky conch its pearly store,And strains the metal from the glowing ore.This, this, indeed, is vicious; yet it tendsTo gladden life, perhaps; and boasts its ends;But you, ye priests (for, sure, ye can), unfold—115In 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 raceOf great Messala, now depraved and base,120On their huge charger, can not;—bring a mind,Where legal and where moral sense are joinedWith the pure essence; holy thoughts, that dwellIn the soul's most retired and sacred cell;A bosom dyed in honor's noblest grain,125Deep-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.
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:—5It is not yours, with mercenary prayersTo 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!—10Hard, 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,15Are 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 20To 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, 25And now—is he a widower once more!These blessings, with due sanctity, to crave,Once, twice, and thrice in Tiber's eddying waveHe dips each morn, and bids the stream conveyThe gathered evils of the night, away!30One 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?35Which of the two would best dispense the laws?Best shield the unfriended orphan? Good! Now moveThe 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?40Or 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,45Thy mouldering corpse (a monument of wrath)Lies in no blasted grove, for public careTo expiate with sacrifice and prayer;Must, therefore, Jove, unsceptred and unfeared,Give to thy ruder mirth his foolish beard?50What 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 dips55Her middle finger, and anoints his lipsAnd forehead:—"Charms of potency," she cries,"To break the influence of evil eyes!"The spell complete, she dandles high in airHer starveling hope; and breathes a humble prayer,60That heaven would only tender to his handsAll 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,65And 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.70This begs for nerves to pain and sickness steeled,A frame of body that shall slowly yieldTo late old age:—'Tis well, enjoy thy wish.—But the huge platter, and high-seasoned dish,Day after day the willing gods withstand,75And 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!"80Madman! 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,85It comes—it comes—auspicious to my vow!"While thus, poor wretch, he hangs 'twixt hope and fear,He starts, in dreadful certainty, to hearHis chest reverberate the hollow groanOf his last piece, to find itself alone?90If from my sideboard I should bid you takeGoblets of gold or silver, you would shakeWith 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;95And overlay their busts with captured gold.For, of the brazen brotherhood, the PowerWho sends you dreams, at morning's truer hour,Most purged from phlegm, enjoys your best regards,And a gold beard his prescient skill rewards!100Now, from the temples,Goldhas chased the plainAnd 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!105Why bring our passions to the Immortals' shrine,And judge, from what thisCARNAL SENSEdelights,Of what is pleasing in their purer sights?This, the Calabrian fleece with purple soils,And mingles cassia with our native oils;110Tears from the rocky conch its pearly store,And strains the metal from the glowing ore.This, this, indeed, is vicious; yet it tendsTo gladden life, perhaps; and boasts its ends;But you, ye priests (for, sure, ye can), unfold—115In 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 raceOf great Messala, now depraved and base,120On their huge charger, can not;—bring a mind,Where legal and where moral sense are joinedWith the pure essence; holy thoughts, that dwellIn the soul's most retired and sacred cell;A bosom dyed in honor's noblest grain,125Deep-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.
What! ever thus? See! while the beams of dayIn 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,5Snores 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 itsolate? soverylate?" 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,15His 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 writeSinks through the paper, and eludes the sight;20Now 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,25Some 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?30Fond 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,35Rung 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 produceA 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,45And 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 traceYour blood, unmixed, from some high Tuscan race;50Or, 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 see55Loose Natta's life and yours so well agree?—But Natta's is notlife: the sleep of sinHas seized his powers, and palsied all within;Huge cawls of fat envelope every part,And torpor weighs on his insensate heart:60Absolved 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 stings65Stir 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,70In 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,75Gleamed 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!"80And withers at the heart, and dares not showHis 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,85Nor 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.90For then, alas! 'twas my supreme delightTo 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 fame95Should 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,100And 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,105The 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 opprestWith last night's revels, knock your head and breast!110And stretching o'er your drowsy couch, produceYawn 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 pursue115Each 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:120Meet 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,125What 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;130How far the genuine use of wealth extends;And the just claims of country, kindred, friendsWhat Heaven would have us be, and where our stand,In thisGreat whole, is fixed by high command.Learn these—and envy not the sordid gains135Which 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 coarseAnd 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;145Who 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;150Nothing 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 around155Catch 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;160My breast seems tightened, and a fetid smellsets 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 sends165A hasty message to his wealthier friends,Andjust 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,170Whate'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 agoI buried him; and thought my nonage o'er:175But 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!—180Cold 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;185And 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,195If 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:200Now, prove your taste. Why those averted eyes?Hah! I perceive:—a secret ulcer liesWithin that pampered mouth, too sore to bearThe untender grating of plebeian fare!Where dwells thisnatural warmth, when danger's near,205And "each particular hair" starts up with fear?Or where resides it, when vindictive ireInflames 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,210That mad Orestes, if the freaks he saw,Would give you up at once to chains and straw!
What! ever thus? See! while the beams of dayIn 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,5Snores 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 itsolate? soverylate?" 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,15His 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 writeSinks through the paper, and eludes the sight;20Now 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,25Some 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?30Fond 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,35Rung 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 produceA 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,45And 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 traceYour blood, unmixed, from some high Tuscan race;50Or, 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 see55Loose Natta's life and yours so well agree?—But Natta's is notlife: the sleep of sinHas seized his powers, and palsied all within;Huge cawls of fat envelope every part,And torpor weighs on his insensate heart:60Absolved 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 stings65Stir 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,70In 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,75Gleamed 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!"80And withers at the heart, and dares not showHis 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,85Nor 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.90For then, alas! 'twas my supreme delightTo 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 fame95Should 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,100And 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,105The 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 opprestWith last night's revels, knock your head and breast!110And stretching o'er your drowsy couch, produceYawn 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 pursue115Each 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:120Meet 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,125What 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;130How far the genuine use of wealth extends;And the just claims of country, kindred, friendsWhat Heaven would have us be, and where our stand,In thisGreat whole, is fixed by high command.Learn these—and envy not the sordid gains135Which 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 coarseAnd 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;145Who 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;150Nothing 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 around155Catch 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;160My breast seems tightened, and a fetid smellsets 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 sends165A hasty message to his wealthier friends,Andjust 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,170Whate'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 agoI buried him; and thought my nonage o'er:175But 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!—180Cold 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;185And 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,195If 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:200Now, prove your taste. Why those averted eyes?Hah! I perceive:—a secret ulcer liesWithin that pampered mouth, too sore to bearThe untender grating of plebeian fare!Where dwells thisnatural warmth, when danger's near,205And "each particular hair" starts up with fear?Or where resides it, when vindictive ireInflames 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,210That mad Orestes, if the freaks he saw,Would give you up at once to chains and straw!