Juv.Stilldrooping, Nævolus! What, prithee, say,Portends this show of grief from day to day,This copy of flayed Marsyas? what dost thouWith such a rueful face, and such a brow,As Ravola wore, when caught—Not so cast down5Looked Pollio, when, of late, he scoured the town,And, proffering treble rate, from friend to friend,Found none so foolish, none so mad, to lend!But, seriously, for thine's a serious case,Whence came those sudden wrinkles in thy face?10I knew thee once, a gay, light-hearted slave,Contented with the little fortune gave;A sprightly guest, of every table free,And famed for modish wit and repartee.Now all's reversed: dejected is thy mien,15Thy locks are like a tangled thicket seen;And every limb, once smoothed with nicest care,Rank with neglect, a shrubbery of hair!What dost thou with that dull, dead, withered look,Like some old debauchee, long ague-shook?20All is not well within; for, still we findThe face the unerring index of the mind,And asTHISfeels or fancies joys or woes,Thatpales with sorrow, or with rapture glows.What should I think? Too sure the scene is changed,25And thou from thy old course of life estranged:For late, as I remember, at all haunts,Where dames of fashion flock to hire gallants,At Isis and at Ganymede's abodes,At Cybele's, dread mother of the gods,30Nay, at chaste Ceres' (for at shame they spurn,And even her temples now to brothels turn),None was so famed: the favorites of the town,Baffled alike in business and renown,Murmuring retired; wives, daughters, were thy own,35And—if the truthMUSTcome—notTHEYalone.Næv.Right: and to some this trade has answered yet;But not to me: for what is all I get?A drugget cloak, to save my gown from rain,}Coarse in its texture, dingy in its grain,}40And a few pieces of the "second vein!"}Fate governs all.Fate, with full sway, presidesEven o'er those parts, which modest nature hides;And little, if her genial influence fail,Will vigor stead, or boundless powers avail:45Though Virro, gloating on your naked charms,Foam with desire, and woo you to his arms,With many a soothing, many a flattering phrase—For your cursed pathics have such winning ways!Hear now this prodigy, this mass impure,50Of lust and avarice! "Let us, friend, be sure:I've given thee this, and this;—now count the sums:"(He counts, and woos the while), "behold! it comesTo five sestertia, five!—now, look again,And see how much it overpays thy pain:"55What! "overpays?"—but you are formed for love,And worthy of the cup and couch of Jove!—Will those relieve a client!—those, who grudgeA wretched pittance to the painful drudgeThat toils in their disease?—O mark, my friend,60The blooming youth, to whom we presents send,Or on the Female Calends, or the dayWhich gave him birth! in what a lady-wayHe takes our favors as he sits in state,And sees adoring crowds besiege his gate!65Insatiate sparrow! whom do your domains,Your numerous hills await, your numerous plains?Regions, that such a tract of land embrace,That kites are tired within the unmeasured space!For you the purple vine luxuriant glows,70On Trifoline's plain, and on Misenus' brows;And hollow Gaurus, from his fruitful hills,Your spacious vaults with generous nectar fills:What were it, then, a few poor roods to grantTo one so worn with lechery and want?75Sure yonder female, with the child she bred,The dog their playmate, and their little shed,Had, with more justice, been conferred on me,Than on a cymbal-beating debauchee!"I'm troublesome," you say, when I apply,80"And give! give! give! is my eternal cry."—But house-rent due solicits to be sped,And my sole slave, importunate for bread,Follows me, clamoring in as loud a toneAs Polyphemus, when his prey was flown.85Nor will this one suffice, the toil's so great!Another must be bought; and both must eat.What shall I say, when cold December blows,And their bare limbs shrink at the driving snows,What shall I say, their drooping hearts to cheer?90"Be merry, boys, the spring will soon be here!"But though my other merits you deny,One yet must be allowed—that had not I,I, your devoted client, lent my aid,Your wife had to this hour remained a maid.95You know what motives urged me to the deed,And what was promised, could I but succeed:—Oft in my arms the flying fair I caught,And back to your cold bed, reluctant, brought,Even when she'd canceled all her former vows,100And now was signing to another spouse.What pains it cost to set these matters right,While you stood whimpering at the door all night,I spare to tell:—a friend like me has tiedFull many a knot, when ready to divide.105Where will you turn you now, sir? whither fly?What, to my charges, first, or last, reply?Is it no merit, speak, ungrateful! none,To give you thus a daughter, or a son,Whom you may breed with credit at your board,110And prove yourself a man upon record?—Haste, with triumphal wreaths your gates adorn,You're now a father, now no theme for scorn;My toils have ta'en the opprobrium from your name,And stopp'd the babbling of malicious fame.115A parent's rights you now may proudly share,Now, thank my industry, be named an heir;Take now the whole bequest, with what beside,From lucky windfalls, may in time betide;And other blessings, if I but repeat120My pains, and make the numberTHREEcomplete.Juv.Nay, thou hast reason to complain, I feel:But, what says Virro?Næv.Not a syllable;But, while my wrongs and I unnoticed pass,Hunts out some other drudge, some two-legged ass.125Enough;—and never, on your life, unfoldThe secret thus to you, in friendship told;But let my injuries, undivulged, still restWithin the closest chamber of your breast:How the discovery might be borne, none knows—130And your smooth pathics are such fatal foes!Virro, who trusts me yet, may soon repent,And hate me for the confidence he lent;With fire and sword my wretched life pursue,As if I'd blabbed already all I knew.135Sad situation mine! for, in your ear,The rich can never buy revenge too dear;And—but enough: be cautious, I entreat,And secret as the Athenian judgment-seat.Juv.And dost thou seriously believe, fond swain,140The actions of the great unknown remain?Poor Corydon! even beasts would silence break,And stocks and stones, if servants did not, speak.Bolt every door, stop every cranny tight,Close every window, put out every light;145Let not a whisper reach the listening ear,No noise, no motion; let no soul be near;Yet all that passed at the cock's second crow,The neighboring vintner shall, ere daybreak, know;With what besides the cook and carver's brain,150Subtly malicious, can in vengeance feign!For thus they glory, with licentious tongue,To quit the harsh command and galling thong.Should these be mute, some drunkard in the streetsWill pour out all he knows to all he meets,155Force them, unwilling, the long tale to hear,And with his stories drench their hapless ear.Go now, and earnestly of those request,To lock, like me, the secret in their breast:Alas! they hear thee not; and will not sell160The dear, dear privilege—to see and tell,For more stolen wine than late Saufeia boused,When, for the people's welfare, she—caroused!Live virtuously:—thus many a reason cries,But chiefly this, that so thou may'st despise165Thy servant's tongue; for, lay this truth to heart,The tongue is the vile servant's vilest part:Yet viler he, who lives in constant dreadOf the domestic spies that—eat his bread.Næv.Well have you taught, how we may best disdain170The envenomed babbling of our household train;But this is general, and to all applies:—What, in my proper case, would you advise?After such flattering expectations cross'd,And so much time in vain dependence lost?175For youth, too transient flower! of life's short dayThe shortest part, but blossoms—to decay.Lo! while we give the unregarded hourTo revelry and joy, in Pleasure's bower,While now for rosy wreaths our brows to twine,180And now for nymphs we call, and now for wine,The noiseless foot of Time steals swiftly by,And ere we dream of manhood, age is nigh!Juv.Oh, fear not: thou canst never seek in vainA pathic friend, while these seven hills remain.185Hither in crowds the master-misses come,From every point, as to their proper home:One hope has failed, another may succeed;Meanwhile do thou on hot eringo feed.Næv.Tell this to happier men; the Fates ne'er meant190Such luck for me: my Clotho is content,When all my oil a bare subsistence gains,And fills my belly, by my back and reins.O, my poor Lares! dear, domestic Powers!To whom I come with incense, cakes, and flowers,195When shall my prayers, so long preferred in vain,Acceptance find? O, when shall I obtainEnough to free me from the constant dreadOf life's worst ill, gray hairs and want of bread?On mortgage, six-score pounds a year, or eight,200A little sideboard, which, for overweight,Fabricius would have censured; a stout pairOf hireling Mæsians, to support my chair,In the thronged Circus: add to these, one slaveWell skilled to paint, another to engrave;205And I—but let me give these day-dreams o'er—Wish as I may, I ever shall be poor;For when to Fortune I prefer my prayers,The obdurate goddess stops at once her ears;Stops with that wax which saved Ulysses' crew,}210When by the Syrens' rocks and songs they flew,}False songs and treacherous rocks, that all to ruin drew.}
Juv.Stilldrooping, Nævolus! What, prithee, say,Portends this show of grief from day to day,This copy of flayed Marsyas? what dost thouWith such a rueful face, and such a brow,As Ravola wore, when caught—Not so cast down5Looked Pollio, when, of late, he scoured the town,And, proffering treble rate, from friend to friend,Found none so foolish, none so mad, to lend!But, seriously, for thine's a serious case,Whence came those sudden wrinkles in thy face?10I knew thee once, a gay, light-hearted slave,Contented with the little fortune gave;A sprightly guest, of every table free,And famed for modish wit and repartee.Now all's reversed: dejected is thy mien,15Thy locks are like a tangled thicket seen;And every limb, once smoothed with nicest care,Rank with neglect, a shrubbery of hair!What dost thou with that dull, dead, withered look,Like some old debauchee, long ague-shook?20All is not well within; for, still we findThe face the unerring index of the mind,And asTHISfeels or fancies joys or woes,Thatpales with sorrow, or with rapture glows.What should I think? Too sure the scene is changed,25And thou from thy old course of life estranged:For late, as I remember, at all haunts,Where dames of fashion flock to hire gallants,At Isis and at Ganymede's abodes,At Cybele's, dread mother of the gods,30Nay, at chaste Ceres' (for at shame they spurn,And even her temples now to brothels turn),None was so famed: the favorites of the town,Baffled alike in business and renown,Murmuring retired; wives, daughters, were thy own,35And—if the truthMUSTcome—notTHEYalone.Næv.Right: and to some this trade has answered yet;But not to me: for what is all I get?A drugget cloak, to save my gown from rain,}Coarse in its texture, dingy in its grain,}40And a few pieces of the "second vein!"}Fate governs all.Fate, with full sway, presidesEven o'er those parts, which modest nature hides;And little, if her genial influence fail,Will vigor stead, or boundless powers avail:45Though Virro, gloating on your naked charms,Foam with desire, and woo you to his arms,With many a soothing, many a flattering phrase—For your cursed pathics have such winning ways!Hear now this prodigy, this mass impure,50Of lust and avarice! "Let us, friend, be sure:I've given thee this, and this;—now count the sums:"(He counts, and woos the while), "behold! it comesTo five sestertia, five!—now, look again,And see how much it overpays thy pain:"55What! "overpays?"—but you are formed for love,And worthy of the cup and couch of Jove!—Will those relieve a client!—those, who grudgeA wretched pittance to the painful drudgeThat toils in their disease?—O mark, my friend,60The blooming youth, to whom we presents send,Or on the Female Calends, or the dayWhich gave him birth! in what a lady-wayHe takes our favors as he sits in state,And sees adoring crowds besiege his gate!65Insatiate sparrow! whom do your domains,Your numerous hills await, your numerous plains?Regions, that such a tract of land embrace,That kites are tired within the unmeasured space!For you the purple vine luxuriant glows,70On Trifoline's plain, and on Misenus' brows;And hollow Gaurus, from his fruitful hills,Your spacious vaults with generous nectar fills:What were it, then, a few poor roods to grantTo one so worn with lechery and want?75Sure yonder female, with the child she bred,The dog their playmate, and their little shed,Had, with more justice, been conferred on me,Than on a cymbal-beating debauchee!"I'm troublesome," you say, when I apply,80"And give! give! give! is my eternal cry."—But house-rent due solicits to be sped,And my sole slave, importunate for bread,Follows me, clamoring in as loud a toneAs Polyphemus, when his prey was flown.85Nor will this one suffice, the toil's so great!Another must be bought; and both must eat.What shall I say, when cold December blows,And their bare limbs shrink at the driving snows,What shall I say, their drooping hearts to cheer?90"Be merry, boys, the spring will soon be here!"But though my other merits you deny,One yet must be allowed—that had not I,I, your devoted client, lent my aid,Your wife had to this hour remained a maid.95You know what motives urged me to the deed,And what was promised, could I but succeed:—Oft in my arms the flying fair I caught,And back to your cold bed, reluctant, brought,Even when she'd canceled all her former vows,100And now was signing to another spouse.What pains it cost to set these matters right,While you stood whimpering at the door all night,I spare to tell:—a friend like me has tiedFull many a knot, when ready to divide.105Where will you turn you now, sir? whither fly?What, to my charges, first, or last, reply?Is it no merit, speak, ungrateful! none,To give you thus a daughter, or a son,Whom you may breed with credit at your board,110And prove yourself a man upon record?—Haste, with triumphal wreaths your gates adorn,You're now a father, now no theme for scorn;My toils have ta'en the opprobrium from your name,And stopp'd the babbling of malicious fame.115A parent's rights you now may proudly share,Now, thank my industry, be named an heir;Take now the whole bequest, with what beside,From lucky windfalls, may in time betide;And other blessings, if I but repeat120My pains, and make the numberTHREEcomplete.Juv.Nay, thou hast reason to complain, I feel:But, what says Virro?Næv.Not a syllable;But, while my wrongs and I unnoticed pass,Hunts out some other drudge, some two-legged ass.125Enough;—and never, on your life, unfoldThe secret thus to you, in friendship told;But let my injuries, undivulged, still restWithin the closest chamber of your breast:How the discovery might be borne, none knows—130And your smooth pathics are such fatal foes!Virro, who trusts me yet, may soon repent,And hate me for the confidence he lent;With fire and sword my wretched life pursue,As if I'd blabbed already all I knew.135Sad situation mine! for, in your ear,The rich can never buy revenge too dear;And—but enough: be cautious, I entreat,And secret as the Athenian judgment-seat.Juv.And dost thou seriously believe, fond swain,140The actions of the great unknown remain?Poor Corydon! even beasts would silence break,And stocks and stones, if servants did not, speak.Bolt every door, stop every cranny tight,Close every window, put out every light;145Let not a whisper reach the listening ear,No noise, no motion; let no soul be near;Yet all that passed at the cock's second crow,The neighboring vintner shall, ere daybreak, know;With what besides the cook and carver's brain,150Subtly malicious, can in vengeance feign!For thus they glory, with licentious tongue,To quit the harsh command and galling thong.Should these be mute, some drunkard in the streetsWill pour out all he knows to all he meets,155Force them, unwilling, the long tale to hear,And with his stories drench their hapless ear.Go now, and earnestly of those request,To lock, like me, the secret in their breast:Alas! they hear thee not; and will not sell160The dear, dear privilege—to see and tell,For more stolen wine than late Saufeia boused,When, for the people's welfare, she—caroused!Live virtuously:—thus many a reason cries,But chiefly this, that so thou may'st despise165Thy servant's tongue; for, lay this truth to heart,The tongue is the vile servant's vilest part:Yet viler he, who lives in constant dreadOf the domestic spies that—eat his bread.Næv.Well have you taught, how we may best disdain170The envenomed babbling of our household train;But this is general, and to all applies:—What, in my proper case, would you advise?After such flattering expectations cross'd,And so much time in vain dependence lost?175For youth, too transient flower! of life's short dayThe shortest part, but blossoms—to decay.Lo! while we give the unregarded hourTo revelry and joy, in Pleasure's bower,While now for rosy wreaths our brows to twine,180And now for nymphs we call, and now for wine,The noiseless foot of Time steals swiftly by,And ere we dream of manhood, age is nigh!Juv.Oh, fear not: thou canst never seek in vainA pathic friend, while these seven hills remain.185Hither in crowds the master-misses come,From every point, as to their proper home:One hope has failed, another may succeed;Meanwhile do thou on hot eringo feed.Næv.Tell this to happier men; the Fates ne'er meant190Such luck for me: my Clotho is content,When all my oil a bare subsistence gains,And fills my belly, by my back and reins.O, my poor Lares! dear, domestic Powers!To whom I come with incense, cakes, and flowers,195When shall my prayers, so long preferred in vain,Acceptance find? O, when shall I obtainEnough to free me from the constant dreadOf life's worst ill, gray hairs and want of bread?On mortgage, six-score pounds a year, or eight,200A little sideboard, which, for overweight,Fabricius would have censured; a stout pairOf hireling Mæsians, to support my chair,In the thronged Circus: add to these, one slaveWell skilled to paint, another to engrave;205And I—but let me give these day-dreams o'er—Wish as I may, I ever shall be poor;For when to Fortune I prefer my prayers,The obdurate goddess stops at once her ears;Stops with that wax which saved Ulysses' crew,}210When by the Syrens' rocks and songs they flew,}False songs and treacherous rocks, that all to ruin drew.}
In every clime, from Ganges' distant streamTo Gades, gilded by the western beam,Few, from the clouds of mental error free,In its true light or good or evil see.For what, with reason, do we seek or shun?5What plan, how happily soe'er begun,But, finished, we our own success lament,And rue the pains, so fatally misspent?—To headlong ruin see whole houses driven,Cursed with their prayers, by too indulgent heaven!10Bewildered thus by folly or by fate,We beg pernicious gifts in every state,In peace, in war. A full and rapid flowOf eloquence, lays many a speaker low:Even strength itself is fatal; Milo tries15His wondrous arms, and—in the trial dies!But avarice wider spreads her deadly snare,And hoards amassed with too successful care,Hoards, which o'er all paternal fortunes rise,As o'er the dolphin towers the whale in size.20For this, in other times, at Nero's word,The ruffian bands unsheathed the murderous sword,Rushed to the swelling coffers of the great,Chased Lateranus from his lordly seat,Besieged too-wealthy Seneca's wide walls,25And closed, terrific, round Longinus' halls:While sweetly in their cocklofts slept the poor,And heard no soldier thundering at their door.The traveler, freighted with a little wealth,Sets forth at night, and wins his way by stealth:30Even then, he fears the bludgeon and the blade,And starts and trembles at a rush's shade;While, void of care, the beggar trips along,And, in the spoiler's presence, trolls his song.The first great wish, that all with rapture own,35The general cry, to every temple known,Is, gold, gold, gold!—"and let, all-gracious Powers,The largest chest the Forum boasts be ours!"Yet none from earthen bowls destruction sip:Dread then the draught, when, mantling, at your lip,40The goblet sparkles, radiant from the mine,And the broad gold inflames the ruby wine.And do we, now, admire the stories toldOf the two Sages, so renowned of old;How this forever laughed, whene'er he stepp'd45Beyond the threshold; that, forever wept?But all can laugh:—the wonder yet appears,What fount supplied the eternal stream of tears!Democritus, at every step he took,His sides with unextinguished laughter shook,50Though, in his days, Abdera's simple townsNo fasces knew, chairs, litters, purple gowns.—What! had he seen, in his triumphal car,Amid the dusty Cirque, conspicuous far,The Prætor perched aloft, superbly dress'd55In Jove's proud tunic, with a trailing vestOf Tyrian tapestry, and o'er him spreadA crown, too bulky for a mortal head,Borne by a sweating slave, maintained to rideIn the same car, and mortify his pride!60Add now the bird, that, with expanded wing,From the raised sceptre seems prepared to spring;And trumpets here; and there the long paradeOf duteous friends, who head the cavalcade;Add, too, the zeal of clients robed in white,}65Who hang upon his reins, and grace the sight,}Unbribed, unbought—save by the dole, at night!}Yes, in those days, in every varied scene,The good old man found matter for his spleen:A wondrous sage! whose story makes it clear70That men may rise in folly's atmosphere,Beneath Bœotian fogs, of soul sublime,And great examples to the coming time.—He laughed aloud to see the vulgar fears,Laughed at their joys, and sometimes at their tears:75Secure the while, he mocked at Fortune's frown,And when she threatened, bade her hang or drown!Superfluous then, or fatal, is the prayer,Which, to the Immortals' knees, we fondly bear.Some,Powerhurls headlong from her envied height,80Some, the broad tablet, flashing on the sight,With titles, names: the statues, tumbled down,Are dragged by hooting thousands through the town;The brazen cars torn rudely from the yoke,And, with the blameless steeds, to shivers broke—85Then roar the flames! the sooty artist blows,And all Sejanus in the furnace glows;Sejanus, once so honored, so adored,And only second to the world's great lord,Runs glittering from the mould, in cups and cans,90Basins and ewers, plates, pitchers, pots, and pans."Crown all your doors with bay, triumphant bay!Sacred to Jove, the milk-white victim slay,For lo! where great Sejanus by the throng,A joyful spectacle! is dragged along.95What lips! what cheeks! ha, traitor!—for my part,I never loved the fellow—in my heart.""But tell me; Why was he adjudged to bleed?And who discovered? and who proved the deed?""Proved!—a huge, wordy letter came to-day100From Capreæ." Good! what think the people? They!They follow fortune, as of old, and hate,With their whole souls, the victim of the state.Yet would the herd, thus zealous, thus on fire,Had Nurscia met the Tuscan's fond desire,105And crushed the unwary prince, have all combined,And hailed Sejanus,Master of Mankind!For since their votes have been no longer bought,All public care has vanished from their thought;And those who once, with unresisted sway,110Gave armies, empire, every thing, away,For two poor claims have long renounced the whole,And only ask—the Circus and the Dole."But there are more to suffer." "So I find;A fire so fierce for one was ne'er designed.115I met my friend Brutidius, and I fear,From his pale looks, he thinks there's danger near.What if this Ajax, in his phrensy, strike,Suspicious of our zeal, at all alike!""True: fly we then, our loyalty to show;120And trample on the carcass of his foe,While yet exposed on Tiber's banks it lies"—"But let our slaves be there," another cries:"Yes; let them (lest our ardor they forswear,And drag us, pinioned, to the Bar) be there."125Thus of the favorite's fall the converse ran,And thus the whisper passed from man to man.Lured by the splendor of his happier hour,Would'st thou possess Sejanus' wealth and power;See crowds of suppliants at thy levee wait,130Give this to sway the army, that the state;And keep a prince in ward, retired to reignO'er Capreæ's crags, with his Chaldean train?Yes, yes, thou would'st (for I can read thy breast)Enjoy that favor which he once possess'd,135Assume all offices, grasp all commands,The Imperial Horse, and the Prætorian Bands.'Tis nature, this; even those who want the will,Pant for the dreadful privilege to kill:Yet what delight can rank and power bestow,140Since every joy is balanced by its woe!—Stillwould'st thou choose the favorite's purple, say?Or, thus forewarned, some paltry hamlet sway?At Gabii, or Fidenæ, rules propound,For faulty measures, and for wares unsound;145And take the tarnished robe, and petty state,Of poor Ulubræ's ragged magistrate?—You grant me then, Sejanus grossly erred,Nor knew what prayer his folly had preferred:For when he begged for too much wealth and power,150Stage above stage, he raised a tottering tower,And higher still, and higher; to be thrown,With louder crash, and wider ruin down!What wrought the Crassi, what the Pompeys' doom,And his, who bowed the stubborn neck of Rome?155What but the wild, the unbounded wish to rise,Heard, in malignant kindness, by the skies!Few kings, few tyrants, find a bloodless end,Or to the grave, without a wound, descend.The child, with whom a trusty slave is sent,160Charged with his little scrip, has scarcely spentHis mite at school, ere all his bosom glowsWith the fond hope he never more foregoes,To reach Demosthenes' or Tully's name,Rival of both in eloquence and fame!—165Yet by this eloquence, alas! expiredEach orator, so envied, so admired!Yet by the rapid and resistless swayOf torrent genius, each was swept away!Genius, for that, the baneful potion sped,170And lopp'd, from this, the hands and gory head:While meaner pleaders unmolested stood,Nor stained the rostrum with their wretched blood."How fortuNATE A NATALday was thine,In thatLATEconSULATE, O Rome, of mine!"175Oh, soul of eloquence! had all been foundAn empty vaunt, like this, a jingling sound,Thou might'st, in peace, thy humble fame have borne,And laughed the swords of Antony to scorn!Yet this would I prefer, the common jest,180To that which fired the fierce triumvir's breast,That second scroll, where eloquence divineBurst on the ear from every glowing line.And he too fell, whom Athens, wondering, sawHer fierce democracy, at will, o'erawe,185And "fulmine over Greece!" some angry PowerScowled, with dire influence, on his natal hour.—Bleared with the glowing mass, the ambitious sire,From anvils, sledges, bellows, tongs, and fire,From tempting swords, his own more safe employ,190To studyRHETORIC, sent his hopeful boy.The spoils ofWAR; the trunk in triumph placedWith all the trophies of the battle graced,Crushed helms, and battered shields; and streamers borneFrom vanquished fleets, and beams from chariots torn;195And arcs of triumph, where the captive foeBends, in mute anguish, o'er the pomp below,Are blessings, which the slaves of glory rateBeyond a mortal's hope, a mortal's fate!Fired with the love of these, what countless swarms,200Barbarians, Romans, Greeks, have rushed to arms,All danger slighted, and all toil defied,And madly conquered, or as madly died!So much the raging thirst of fame exceedsThe generous warmth, which prompts to worthy deeds,205That none confess fair virtue's genuine power,Or woo her to their breast, without a dower.Yet has this wild desire, in other days,This boundless avarice of a few for praise,This frantic rage for names to grace a tomb,210Involved whole countries in one general doom;Vain "rage!" the roots of the wild fig-tree rise,Strike through the marble, and their memory dies!For, like their mouldering tenants, tombs decay,And, with the dust they hide, are swept away.215Produce the urn that Hannibal contains,And weigh the mighty dust, which yet remains:And is this all! YetTHISwas once the bold,The aspiring chief, whom Afric could not hold,Though stretched in breadth from where the Atlantic roars,220To distant Nilus, and his sun-burnt shores;In length, from Carthage to the burning zone,Where other moors, and elephants are known.—Spain conquered, o'er the Pyrenees he bounds:Nature opposed her everlasting mounds,225Her Alps, and snows; o'er these, with torrent force,He pours, and rends through rocks his dreadful course.Already at his feet, Italia lies;—Yet thundering on, "Think nothing done," he cries,"Till Rome, proud Rome, beneath my fury falls,230And Afric's standards float along her walls!"Big words!—but view his figure! view his face!O, for some master-hand the lines to trace,As through the Etrurian swamps, by floods increas'd,The one-eyed chief urged his Getulian beast!235But what ensued? Illusive Glory, say.Subdued on Zama's memorable day,He flies in exile to a petty state,With headlong haste! and, at a despot's gate,Sits, mighty suppliant! of his life in doubt,240Till the Bithynian's morning nap be out.No swords, nor spears, nor stones from engines hurled,Shall quell the man whose frown alarmed the world:The vengeance due to Cannæ's fatal field,And floods of human gore, a ring shall yield!—245Fly, madman, fly! at toil and danger mock,Pierce the deep snow, and scale the eternal rock,To please the rhetoricians, and becomeADECLAMATIONfor the boys of Rome!One world, the ambitious youth of Pella found250Too small; and tossed his feverish limbs around,And gasped for breath, as if immured the whileIn Gyaræ, or Seripho's rocky isle:But entering Babylon, found ample roomWithin the narrow limits of a tomb!255Death, the great teacher, Death alone proclaimsThe true dimensions of our puny frames.The daring tales, in Grecian story found,Were once believed:—of Athos sailed around,Of fleets, that bridges o'er the waves supplied,260Of chariots, rolling on the steadfast tide,Of lakes exhausted, and of rivers quaff'd,By countless nations, at a morning's draught,And all that Sostratus so wildly sings,Besotted poet, of the king of kings.265But how returned he, say? this soul of fire,This proud barbarian, whose impatient ireChastised the winds, that disobeyed his nod,With stripes, ne'er suffered from the Æolian god;Fettered the Shaker of the sea and land—270But, in pure clemency, forbode to brand!And sure, if aught can touch the Powers above,This calls for all their service, all their love!But how returned he? say;—His navy lost,In a small bark he fled the hostile coast,275And, urged by terror, drove his laboring prore,Through floating carcasses, and floods of gore.So Xerxes sped, so speed the conquering race;They catch at glory, and they clasp disgrace!"Life! length of life!" For this, with earnest cries,280Or sick or well, we supplicate the skies.Pernicious prayer! for mark what ills attend,Still, on the old, as to the grave they bend:A ghastly visage, to themselves unknown,For a smooth skin, a hide with scurf o'ergrown,285And such a cheek, as many a grandam ape,In Tabraca's thick woods, is seen to scrape.Strength, beauty, and a thousand charms beside,With sweet distinction, youth from youth divide;While age presents one universal face:290A faltering voice, a weak and trembling pace,An ever-dropping nose, a forehead bare,And toothless gums to mumble o'er its fare.Poor wretch, behold him, tottering to his fall,So loathsome to himself, wife, children, all,295That those who hoped the legacy to share,And flattered long—disgusted, disappear.The sluggish palate dulled, the feast no moreExcites the same sensations as of yore;Taste, feeling, all, a universal blot,300And e'en the rites of love remembered not:Or if—through the long night he feebly strivesTo raise a flame where not a spark survives;While Venus marks the effort with distrust,And hates the gray decrepitude of lust.305Another loss!—no joy can song inspire,Though famed Seleucus lead the warbling quire:The sweetest airs escape him; and the lute,Which thrills the general ear, to him is mute.—He sits, perhaps, too distant: bring him near;310Alas! 'tis still the same: he scarce can hearThe deep-toned horn, the trumpet's clanging sound,And the loud blast which shakes the benches round.Even at his ear, his slave must bawl the hour,And shout the comer's name, with all his power!315Add that a fever only warms his veins,And thaws the little blood which yet remains;That ills of every kind, and every name,Rush in, and seize the unresisting frame.Ask you how many? I could sooner say320How many drudges Hippia kept in pay,How many orphans Basilus beguiled,How many pupils Hæmolus defiled,How many men long Maura overmatched,How many patients Themison dispatched325In one short autumn; nay, perhaps, record,How many villas call my quondam barber lord!These their shrunk shoulders, those their hams bemoan;This hath no eyes, and envies that with one:This takes, as helpless at the board he stands,330His food, with bloodless lips, from others' hands;While that, whose eager jaws, instinctive, spreadAt every feast, gapes feebly to be fed,Like Progne's brood, when, laden with supplies,From bill to bill, the fasting mother flies.335But other ills, and worse, succeed to those:His limbs long since were gone; his memory goes.Poor driveler! he forgets his servants quite,Forgets, at morn, with whom he supped at night;Forgets the children he begot and bred;340And makes a strumpet heiress in their stead.—So much avails it the rank arts to use,Gained, by long practice, in the loathsome stews!But grant his senses unimpaired remain;Still woes on woes succeed, a mournful train!345He sees his sons, his daughters, all expire,His faithful consort on the funeral pyre,Sees brothers, sisters, friends, to ashes turn,And all he loved, or loved him, in their urn.Lo here, the dreadful fine we ever pay350For life protracted to a distant day!To see our house by sickness, pain pursued,And scenes of death incessantly renewed:In sable weeds to waste the joyless years,And drop, at last, mid solitude and tears!355The Pylian's (if we credit Homer's page)Was only second to the raven's age."O happy, sure, beyond the common rate,Who warded off, so long, the stroke of fate!Who told his years by centuries, who so oft360Quaffed the new must! O happy, sure"—But, soft.This "happy" man of destiny complained,Cursed his gray hairs, and every god arraigned;What time he lit the pyre, with streaming eyes,And, in dark volumes, saw the flames arise365Round his Antilochus:—"Tell me," he cried,To every friend who lingered at his side,"Tell me what crimes have roused the Immortals' hate,That thus, in vengeance, they protract my date?"So questioned heaven Laertes—Peleus so—370(Their hoary heads bowed to the grave with woe)While this bewailed his son, at Ilium slain;That his, long wandering o'er the faithless main.While Troy yet flourished, had her Priam died,With what solemnity, what funeral pride,375Had he descended, every duty paid,To old Assaracus, illustrious shade!—Hector himself, bedewed with many a tear,Had joined his brothers to support the bier;While Troy's dejected dames, a numerous train,380Followed, in sable pomp, and wept amain,As sad Polyxena her pall had rent,And wild Cassandra raised the loud lament:Had he but fallen, ere his adulterous boySpread his bold sails, and left the shores of Troy.385But what did lengthened life avail the sire?To see his realm laid waste by sword and fire.Then too, too late, the feeble soldier triedUnequal arms, and flung his crown aside;Tottered, his children's murderer to repel,390With trembling haste, and at Jove's altar fell,Fell without effort; like the steer, that, now,Time-worn and weak, and, by the ungrateful plow,Spurned forth to slaughter, to the master's knifeYields his shrunk veins and miserable life.395His end, howe'er, was human; while his mate,Doomed, in a brute, to drain the dregs of fate,Pursued the foes of Troy from shore to shore,And barked and howled at those she cursed before.I pass, while hastening to the Roman page,400The Pontic king, and Crœsus, whom the SageWisely forbade in fortune to confide,Or take the name ofHAPPY, till he died.That Marius, exiled from his native plains,Was hid in fens, discovered, bound in chains;405That, bursting these, to Africa he fled,And, through the realms he conquered, begged his bread,Arose from age, from treacherous age alone:For what had Rome, or earth, so happy known,Had he, in that bless'd moment, ceased to live,410When, graced with all that Victory could give,"Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war,"He first alighted from his Cimbrian car!Campania, prescient of her Pompey's fate,Send a kind fever to arrest his date:415When lo! a thousand suppliant altars rise,And public prayers obtain him of the skies.Ill done! that head, thus rescued from the grave,His Evil Fate and ours, by Nilus' wave,Lopp'd from the trunk:—such mutilation dire}420Cornelius 'scaped; Cethegus fell entire;}And Catiline pressed, whole, the funeral pyre.}Whene'er the fane of Venus meets her eye,The anxious mother breathes a secret sighFor handsome boys; but asks, with bolder prayer,425That all her girls be exquisitely fair!"And wherefore not? Latona, in the sightOf Dian's beauty, took unblamed delight."True; but Lucretia cursed her fatal charms,When spent with struggling in a Tarquin's arms;430And poor Virginia would have changed her graceFor Rutila's crooked back and homely face."But boys may still be fair?" No; they destroyTheir parents' peace, and murder all their joy;For rarely do we meet, in one combined,435A beauteous body and a virtuous mind,Though, through the rugged line, there still has runA Sabine sanctity, from sire to son.—Besides, should Nature, in her kindest mood,Confer the ingenuous flush of modest blood,440The disposition chaste as unsunned snow—(And what can Nature more than these bestow,These, which no art, no care can give)?—even then,They can not hope, they must not, to be men!Smit with their charms, the imps of hell appear,445And pour their proffers in a parent's ear,For prostitution!—infamously bold,And trusting to the almighty power of gold:While youths in shape and air less formed to pleaseNo tyrants mutilate, no Neros seize.450Go now, and triumph in your beauteous boy,Your Ganymede! whom other ills annoy,And other dangers wait: his graces known,He stands professed, the favorite of the town;And dreads, incessant dreads, on every hand,455The vengeance which a husband's wrongs demand:For sure detection follows soon or late;Born under Mars, he can not scape his fate.Oft on the adulterer, too, the furious spouseInflicts worse evils than the law allows;460By blows, stripes, gashes some are robbed of breathAnd others, by the mullet, racked to death."But my Endymion will more lucky prove,And serve a beauteous mistress, all for love."No; he will soon to ugliness be sold,465And serve a toothless grandam, all for gold.Servilia will not lose him; jewels, clothes,All, all she sells, and all on him bestows;For women naught to the dear youth deny,Or think his labors can be bought too high:470When love's the word, the naked sex appear,And every niggard is a spendthrift here."But if my boy with virtue be endued,What harm will beauty do him?" Nay, what good?Say, what availed, of old, to Theseus' son,475The stern resolve? what to Bellerophon?—O, then did Phædra redden, then her prideTook fire, to be so steadfastly denied!Then, too, did Sthenobœa glow with shame,And both burst forth with unextinguished flame!480A woman scorned is pitiless as fate,For, there, the dread of shame adds stings to hate.But Silius comes.—Now, be thy judgment tried:Shall he accept, or not, the proffered bride,And marry Cæsar's wife? hard point, in truth:485Lo! this most noble, this most beauteous youth,Is hurried off, a helpless sacrificeTo the lewd glance of Messalina's eyes!—Haste, bring the victim: in the nuptial vestAlready see the impatient Empress dress'd;490The genial couch prepared, the accustomed sumTold out, the augurs and the notaries come."But why all these?" You think, perhaps, the riteWere better, known to few, and kept from sight;Not so the lady; she abhors a flaw,495And wisely calls for every form of law.But what shall Silius do? refuse to wed?A moment sees him numbered with the dead.Consent, and gratify the eager dame?He gains a respite, till the tale of shame,500Through town and country, reach the Emperor's ear,Still sure the last—his own disgrace to hear.Then let him, if a day's precarious lifeBe worth his study, make the fair his wife;For wed or not, poor youth, 'tis still the same,505And still the axe must mangle that fine frame!Say then, shall man, deprived all power of choice,Ne'er raise to heaven the supplicating voice?Not so; but to the gods his fortunes trust:Their thoughts are wise, their dispensations just.510What best may profit or delight they know,And real good for fancied bliss bestow:With eyes of pity they our frailties scan;More dear to them, than to himself, is man.By blind desire, by headlong passion driven,515For wife and heirs we daily weary Heaven:Yet still 'tis Heaven's prerogative to know,If heirs, or wife, will bring us weal or woe.But (for 'tis good our humble hope to prove),That thou may'st, still, ask something from above,520Thy pious offerings to the temple bear,And, while the altars blaze, be this thy prayer.OTHOU, who know'st the wants of human kind,Vouchsafe me health of body, health of mind;A soul prepared to meet the frowns of fate,525And look undaunted on a future state;That reckons death a blessing, yet can bearExistence nobly, with its weight of care;That anger and desire alike restrains,And counts Alcides' toils, and cruel pains,530Superior far to banquets, wanton nights,And all the Assyrian monarch's soft delights!Here bound, at length, thy wishes. I but teachWhat blessings man, by his own powers, may reach.The path to peace is virtue.We should see,535If wise, O Fortune, naught divine in thee:But we have deified a name alone,And fixed in heaven thy visionary throne!
In every clime, from Ganges' distant streamTo Gades, gilded by the western beam,Few, from the clouds of mental error free,In its true light or good or evil see.For what, with reason, do we seek or shun?5What plan, how happily soe'er begun,But, finished, we our own success lament,And rue the pains, so fatally misspent?—To headlong ruin see whole houses driven,Cursed with their prayers, by too indulgent heaven!10Bewildered thus by folly or by fate,We beg pernicious gifts in every state,In peace, in war. A full and rapid flowOf eloquence, lays many a speaker low:Even strength itself is fatal; Milo tries15His wondrous arms, and—in the trial dies!But avarice wider spreads her deadly snare,And hoards amassed with too successful care,Hoards, which o'er all paternal fortunes rise,As o'er the dolphin towers the whale in size.20For this, in other times, at Nero's word,The ruffian bands unsheathed the murderous sword,Rushed to the swelling coffers of the great,Chased Lateranus from his lordly seat,Besieged too-wealthy Seneca's wide walls,25And closed, terrific, round Longinus' halls:While sweetly in their cocklofts slept the poor,And heard no soldier thundering at their door.The traveler, freighted with a little wealth,Sets forth at night, and wins his way by stealth:30Even then, he fears the bludgeon and the blade,And starts and trembles at a rush's shade;While, void of care, the beggar trips along,And, in the spoiler's presence, trolls his song.The first great wish, that all with rapture own,35The general cry, to every temple known,Is, gold, gold, gold!—"and let, all-gracious Powers,The largest chest the Forum boasts be ours!"Yet none from earthen bowls destruction sip:Dread then the draught, when, mantling, at your lip,40The goblet sparkles, radiant from the mine,And the broad gold inflames the ruby wine.And do we, now, admire the stories toldOf the two Sages, so renowned of old;How this forever laughed, whene'er he stepp'd45Beyond the threshold; that, forever wept?But all can laugh:—the wonder yet appears,What fount supplied the eternal stream of tears!Democritus, at every step he took,His sides with unextinguished laughter shook,50Though, in his days, Abdera's simple townsNo fasces knew, chairs, litters, purple gowns.—What! had he seen, in his triumphal car,Amid the dusty Cirque, conspicuous far,The Prætor perched aloft, superbly dress'd55In Jove's proud tunic, with a trailing vestOf Tyrian tapestry, and o'er him spreadA crown, too bulky for a mortal head,Borne by a sweating slave, maintained to rideIn the same car, and mortify his pride!60Add now the bird, that, with expanded wing,From the raised sceptre seems prepared to spring;And trumpets here; and there the long paradeOf duteous friends, who head the cavalcade;Add, too, the zeal of clients robed in white,}65Who hang upon his reins, and grace the sight,}Unbribed, unbought—save by the dole, at night!}Yes, in those days, in every varied scene,The good old man found matter for his spleen:A wondrous sage! whose story makes it clear70That men may rise in folly's atmosphere,Beneath Bœotian fogs, of soul sublime,And great examples to the coming time.—He laughed aloud to see the vulgar fears,Laughed at their joys, and sometimes at their tears:75Secure the while, he mocked at Fortune's frown,And when she threatened, bade her hang or drown!Superfluous then, or fatal, is the prayer,Which, to the Immortals' knees, we fondly bear.Some,Powerhurls headlong from her envied height,80Some, the broad tablet, flashing on the sight,With titles, names: the statues, tumbled down,Are dragged by hooting thousands through the town;The brazen cars torn rudely from the yoke,And, with the blameless steeds, to shivers broke—85Then roar the flames! the sooty artist blows,And all Sejanus in the furnace glows;Sejanus, once so honored, so adored,And only second to the world's great lord,Runs glittering from the mould, in cups and cans,90Basins and ewers, plates, pitchers, pots, and pans."Crown all your doors with bay, triumphant bay!Sacred to Jove, the milk-white victim slay,For lo! where great Sejanus by the throng,A joyful spectacle! is dragged along.95What lips! what cheeks! ha, traitor!—for my part,I never loved the fellow—in my heart.""But tell me; Why was he adjudged to bleed?And who discovered? and who proved the deed?""Proved!—a huge, wordy letter came to-day100From Capreæ." Good! what think the people? They!They follow fortune, as of old, and hate,With their whole souls, the victim of the state.Yet would the herd, thus zealous, thus on fire,Had Nurscia met the Tuscan's fond desire,105And crushed the unwary prince, have all combined,And hailed Sejanus,Master of Mankind!For since their votes have been no longer bought,All public care has vanished from their thought;And those who once, with unresisted sway,110Gave armies, empire, every thing, away,For two poor claims have long renounced the whole,And only ask—the Circus and the Dole."But there are more to suffer." "So I find;A fire so fierce for one was ne'er designed.115I met my friend Brutidius, and I fear,From his pale looks, he thinks there's danger near.What if this Ajax, in his phrensy, strike,Suspicious of our zeal, at all alike!""True: fly we then, our loyalty to show;120And trample on the carcass of his foe,While yet exposed on Tiber's banks it lies"—"But let our slaves be there," another cries:"Yes; let them (lest our ardor they forswear,And drag us, pinioned, to the Bar) be there."125Thus of the favorite's fall the converse ran,And thus the whisper passed from man to man.Lured by the splendor of his happier hour,Would'st thou possess Sejanus' wealth and power;See crowds of suppliants at thy levee wait,130Give this to sway the army, that the state;And keep a prince in ward, retired to reignO'er Capreæ's crags, with his Chaldean train?Yes, yes, thou would'st (for I can read thy breast)Enjoy that favor which he once possess'd,135Assume all offices, grasp all commands,The Imperial Horse, and the Prætorian Bands.'Tis nature, this; even those who want the will,Pant for the dreadful privilege to kill:Yet what delight can rank and power bestow,140Since every joy is balanced by its woe!—Stillwould'st thou choose the favorite's purple, say?Or, thus forewarned, some paltry hamlet sway?At Gabii, or Fidenæ, rules propound,For faulty measures, and for wares unsound;145And take the tarnished robe, and petty state,Of poor Ulubræ's ragged magistrate?—You grant me then, Sejanus grossly erred,Nor knew what prayer his folly had preferred:For when he begged for too much wealth and power,150Stage above stage, he raised a tottering tower,And higher still, and higher; to be thrown,With louder crash, and wider ruin down!What wrought the Crassi, what the Pompeys' doom,And his, who bowed the stubborn neck of Rome?155What but the wild, the unbounded wish to rise,Heard, in malignant kindness, by the skies!Few kings, few tyrants, find a bloodless end,Or to the grave, without a wound, descend.The child, with whom a trusty slave is sent,160Charged with his little scrip, has scarcely spentHis mite at school, ere all his bosom glowsWith the fond hope he never more foregoes,To reach Demosthenes' or Tully's name,Rival of both in eloquence and fame!—165Yet by this eloquence, alas! expiredEach orator, so envied, so admired!Yet by the rapid and resistless swayOf torrent genius, each was swept away!Genius, for that, the baneful potion sped,170And lopp'd, from this, the hands and gory head:While meaner pleaders unmolested stood,Nor stained the rostrum with their wretched blood."How fortuNATE A NATALday was thine,In thatLATEconSULATE, O Rome, of mine!"175Oh, soul of eloquence! had all been foundAn empty vaunt, like this, a jingling sound,Thou might'st, in peace, thy humble fame have borne,And laughed the swords of Antony to scorn!Yet this would I prefer, the common jest,180To that which fired the fierce triumvir's breast,That second scroll, where eloquence divineBurst on the ear from every glowing line.And he too fell, whom Athens, wondering, sawHer fierce democracy, at will, o'erawe,185And "fulmine over Greece!" some angry PowerScowled, with dire influence, on his natal hour.—Bleared with the glowing mass, the ambitious sire,From anvils, sledges, bellows, tongs, and fire,From tempting swords, his own more safe employ,190To studyRHETORIC, sent his hopeful boy.The spoils ofWAR; the trunk in triumph placedWith all the trophies of the battle graced,Crushed helms, and battered shields; and streamers borneFrom vanquished fleets, and beams from chariots torn;195And arcs of triumph, where the captive foeBends, in mute anguish, o'er the pomp below,Are blessings, which the slaves of glory rateBeyond a mortal's hope, a mortal's fate!Fired with the love of these, what countless swarms,200Barbarians, Romans, Greeks, have rushed to arms,All danger slighted, and all toil defied,And madly conquered, or as madly died!So much the raging thirst of fame exceedsThe generous warmth, which prompts to worthy deeds,205That none confess fair virtue's genuine power,Or woo her to their breast, without a dower.Yet has this wild desire, in other days,This boundless avarice of a few for praise,This frantic rage for names to grace a tomb,210Involved whole countries in one general doom;Vain "rage!" the roots of the wild fig-tree rise,Strike through the marble, and their memory dies!For, like their mouldering tenants, tombs decay,And, with the dust they hide, are swept away.215Produce the urn that Hannibal contains,And weigh the mighty dust, which yet remains:And is this all! YetTHISwas once the bold,The aspiring chief, whom Afric could not hold,Though stretched in breadth from where the Atlantic roars,220To distant Nilus, and his sun-burnt shores;In length, from Carthage to the burning zone,Where other moors, and elephants are known.—Spain conquered, o'er the Pyrenees he bounds:Nature opposed her everlasting mounds,225Her Alps, and snows; o'er these, with torrent force,He pours, and rends through rocks his dreadful course.Already at his feet, Italia lies;—Yet thundering on, "Think nothing done," he cries,"Till Rome, proud Rome, beneath my fury falls,230And Afric's standards float along her walls!"Big words!—but view his figure! view his face!O, for some master-hand the lines to trace,As through the Etrurian swamps, by floods increas'd,The one-eyed chief urged his Getulian beast!235But what ensued? Illusive Glory, say.Subdued on Zama's memorable day,He flies in exile to a petty state,With headlong haste! and, at a despot's gate,Sits, mighty suppliant! of his life in doubt,240Till the Bithynian's morning nap be out.No swords, nor spears, nor stones from engines hurled,Shall quell the man whose frown alarmed the world:The vengeance due to Cannæ's fatal field,And floods of human gore, a ring shall yield!—245Fly, madman, fly! at toil and danger mock,Pierce the deep snow, and scale the eternal rock,To please the rhetoricians, and becomeADECLAMATIONfor the boys of Rome!One world, the ambitious youth of Pella found250Too small; and tossed his feverish limbs around,And gasped for breath, as if immured the whileIn Gyaræ, or Seripho's rocky isle:But entering Babylon, found ample roomWithin the narrow limits of a tomb!255Death, the great teacher, Death alone proclaimsThe true dimensions of our puny frames.The daring tales, in Grecian story found,Were once believed:—of Athos sailed around,Of fleets, that bridges o'er the waves supplied,260Of chariots, rolling on the steadfast tide,Of lakes exhausted, and of rivers quaff'd,By countless nations, at a morning's draught,And all that Sostratus so wildly sings,Besotted poet, of the king of kings.265But how returned he, say? this soul of fire,This proud barbarian, whose impatient ireChastised the winds, that disobeyed his nod,With stripes, ne'er suffered from the Æolian god;Fettered the Shaker of the sea and land—270But, in pure clemency, forbode to brand!And sure, if aught can touch the Powers above,This calls for all their service, all their love!But how returned he? say;—His navy lost,In a small bark he fled the hostile coast,275And, urged by terror, drove his laboring prore,Through floating carcasses, and floods of gore.So Xerxes sped, so speed the conquering race;They catch at glory, and they clasp disgrace!"Life! length of life!" For this, with earnest cries,280Or sick or well, we supplicate the skies.Pernicious prayer! for mark what ills attend,Still, on the old, as to the grave they bend:A ghastly visage, to themselves unknown,For a smooth skin, a hide with scurf o'ergrown,285And such a cheek, as many a grandam ape,In Tabraca's thick woods, is seen to scrape.Strength, beauty, and a thousand charms beside,With sweet distinction, youth from youth divide;While age presents one universal face:290A faltering voice, a weak and trembling pace,An ever-dropping nose, a forehead bare,And toothless gums to mumble o'er its fare.Poor wretch, behold him, tottering to his fall,So loathsome to himself, wife, children, all,295That those who hoped the legacy to share,And flattered long—disgusted, disappear.The sluggish palate dulled, the feast no moreExcites the same sensations as of yore;Taste, feeling, all, a universal blot,300And e'en the rites of love remembered not:Or if—through the long night he feebly strivesTo raise a flame where not a spark survives;While Venus marks the effort with distrust,And hates the gray decrepitude of lust.305Another loss!—no joy can song inspire,Though famed Seleucus lead the warbling quire:The sweetest airs escape him; and the lute,Which thrills the general ear, to him is mute.—He sits, perhaps, too distant: bring him near;310Alas! 'tis still the same: he scarce can hearThe deep-toned horn, the trumpet's clanging sound,And the loud blast which shakes the benches round.Even at his ear, his slave must bawl the hour,And shout the comer's name, with all his power!315Add that a fever only warms his veins,And thaws the little blood which yet remains;That ills of every kind, and every name,Rush in, and seize the unresisting frame.Ask you how many? I could sooner say320How many drudges Hippia kept in pay,How many orphans Basilus beguiled,How many pupils Hæmolus defiled,How many men long Maura overmatched,How many patients Themison dispatched325In one short autumn; nay, perhaps, record,How many villas call my quondam barber lord!These their shrunk shoulders, those their hams bemoan;This hath no eyes, and envies that with one:This takes, as helpless at the board he stands,330His food, with bloodless lips, from others' hands;While that, whose eager jaws, instinctive, spreadAt every feast, gapes feebly to be fed,Like Progne's brood, when, laden with supplies,From bill to bill, the fasting mother flies.335But other ills, and worse, succeed to those:His limbs long since were gone; his memory goes.Poor driveler! he forgets his servants quite,Forgets, at morn, with whom he supped at night;Forgets the children he begot and bred;340And makes a strumpet heiress in their stead.—So much avails it the rank arts to use,Gained, by long practice, in the loathsome stews!But grant his senses unimpaired remain;Still woes on woes succeed, a mournful train!345He sees his sons, his daughters, all expire,His faithful consort on the funeral pyre,Sees brothers, sisters, friends, to ashes turn,And all he loved, or loved him, in their urn.Lo here, the dreadful fine we ever pay350For life protracted to a distant day!To see our house by sickness, pain pursued,And scenes of death incessantly renewed:In sable weeds to waste the joyless years,And drop, at last, mid solitude and tears!355The Pylian's (if we credit Homer's page)Was only second to the raven's age."O happy, sure, beyond the common rate,Who warded off, so long, the stroke of fate!Who told his years by centuries, who so oft360Quaffed the new must! O happy, sure"—But, soft.This "happy" man of destiny complained,Cursed his gray hairs, and every god arraigned;What time he lit the pyre, with streaming eyes,And, in dark volumes, saw the flames arise365Round his Antilochus:—"Tell me," he cried,To every friend who lingered at his side,"Tell me what crimes have roused the Immortals' hate,That thus, in vengeance, they protract my date?"So questioned heaven Laertes—Peleus so—370(Their hoary heads bowed to the grave with woe)While this bewailed his son, at Ilium slain;That his, long wandering o'er the faithless main.While Troy yet flourished, had her Priam died,With what solemnity, what funeral pride,375Had he descended, every duty paid,To old Assaracus, illustrious shade!—Hector himself, bedewed with many a tear,Had joined his brothers to support the bier;While Troy's dejected dames, a numerous train,380Followed, in sable pomp, and wept amain,As sad Polyxena her pall had rent,And wild Cassandra raised the loud lament:Had he but fallen, ere his adulterous boySpread his bold sails, and left the shores of Troy.385But what did lengthened life avail the sire?To see his realm laid waste by sword and fire.Then too, too late, the feeble soldier triedUnequal arms, and flung his crown aside;Tottered, his children's murderer to repel,390With trembling haste, and at Jove's altar fell,Fell without effort; like the steer, that, now,Time-worn and weak, and, by the ungrateful plow,Spurned forth to slaughter, to the master's knifeYields his shrunk veins and miserable life.395His end, howe'er, was human; while his mate,Doomed, in a brute, to drain the dregs of fate,Pursued the foes of Troy from shore to shore,And barked and howled at those she cursed before.I pass, while hastening to the Roman page,400The Pontic king, and Crœsus, whom the SageWisely forbade in fortune to confide,Or take the name ofHAPPY, till he died.That Marius, exiled from his native plains,Was hid in fens, discovered, bound in chains;405That, bursting these, to Africa he fled,And, through the realms he conquered, begged his bread,Arose from age, from treacherous age alone:For what had Rome, or earth, so happy known,Had he, in that bless'd moment, ceased to live,410When, graced with all that Victory could give,"Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war,"He first alighted from his Cimbrian car!Campania, prescient of her Pompey's fate,Send a kind fever to arrest his date:415When lo! a thousand suppliant altars rise,And public prayers obtain him of the skies.Ill done! that head, thus rescued from the grave,His Evil Fate and ours, by Nilus' wave,Lopp'd from the trunk:—such mutilation dire}420Cornelius 'scaped; Cethegus fell entire;}And Catiline pressed, whole, the funeral pyre.}Whene'er the fane of Venus meets her eye,The anxious mother breathes a secret sighFor handsome boys; but asks, with bolder prayer,425That all her girls be exquisitely fair!"And wherefore not? Latona, in the sightOf Dian's beauty, took unblamed delight."True; but Lucretia cursed her fatal charms,When spent with struggling in a Tarquin's arms;430And poor Virginia would have changed her graceFor Rutila's crooked back and homely face."But boys may still be fair?" No; they destroyTheir parents' peace, and murder all their joy;For rarely do we meet, in one combined,435A beauteous body and a virtuous mind,Though, through the rugged line, there still has runA Sabine sanctity, from sire to son.—Besides, should Nature, in her kindest mood,Confer the ingenuous flush of modest blood,440The disposition chaste as unsunned snow—(And what can Nature more than these bestow,These, which no art, no care can give)?—even then,They can not hope, they must not, to be men!Smit with their charms, the imps of hell appear,445And pour their proffers in a parent's ear,For prostitution!—infamously bold,And trusting to the almighty power of gold:While youths in shape and air less formed to pleaseNo tyrants mutilate, no Neros seize.450Go now, and triumph in your beauteous boy,Your Ganymede! whom other ills annoy,And other dangers wait: his graces known,He stands professed, the favorite of the town;And dreads, incessant dreads, on every hand,455The vengeance which a husband's wrongs demand:For sure detection follows soon or late;Born under Mars, he can not scape his fate.Oft on the adulterer, too, the furious spouseInflicts worse evils than the law allows;460By blows, stripes, gashes some are robbed of breathAnd others, by the mullet, racked to death."But my Endymion will more lucky prove,And serve a beauteous mistress, all for love."No; he will soon to ugliness be sold,465And serve a toothless grandam, all for gold.Servilia will not lose him; jewels, clothes,All, all she sells, and all on him bestows;For women naught to the dear youth deny,Or think his labors can be bought too high:470When love's the word, the naked sex appear,And every niggard is a spendthrift here."But if my boy with virtue be endued,What harm will beauty do him?" Nay, what good?Say, what availed, of old, to Theseus' son,475The stern resolve? what to Bellerophon?—O, then did Phædra redden, then her prideTook fire, to be so steadfastly denied!Then, too, did Sthenobœa glow with shame,And both burst forth with unextinguished flame!480A woman scorned is pitiless as fate,For, there, the dread of shame adds stings to hate.But Silius comes.—Now, be thy judgment tried:Shall he accept, or not, the proffered bride,And marry Cæsar's wife? hard point, in truth:485Lo! this most noble, this most beauteous youth,Is hurried off, a helpless sacrificeTo the lewd glance of Messalina's eyes!—Haste, bring the victim: in the nuptial vestAlready see the impatient Empress dress'd;490The genial couch prepared, the accustomed sumTold out, the augurs and the notaries come."But why all these?" You think, perhaps, the riteWere better, known to few, and kept from sight;Not so the lady; she abhors a flaw,495And wisely calls for every form of law.But what shall Silius do? refuse to wed?A moment sees him numbered with the dead.Consent, and gratify the eager dame?He gains a respite, till the tale of shame,500Through town and country, reach the Emperor's ear,Still sure the last—his own disgrace to hear.Then let him, if a day's precarious lifeBe worth his study, make the fair his wife;For wed or not, poor youth, 'tis still the same,505And still the axe must mangle that fine frame!Say then, shall man, deprived all power of choice,Ne'er raise to heaven the supplicating voice?Not so; but to the gods his fortunes trust:Their thoughts are wise, their dispensations just.510What best may profit or delight they know,And real good for fancied bliss bestow:With eyes of pity they our frailties scan;More dear to them, than to himself, is man.By blind desire, by headlong passion driven,515For wife and heirs we daily weary Heaven:Yet still 'tis Heaven's prerogative to know,If heirs, or wife, will bring us weal or woe.But (for 'tis good our humble hope to prove),That thou may'st, still, ask something from above,520Thy pious offerings to the temple bear,And, while the altars blaze, be this thy prayer.OTHOU, who know'st the wants of human kind,Vouchsafe me health of body, health of mind;A soul prepared to meet the frowns of fate,525And look undaunted on a future state;That reckons death a blessing, yet can bearExistence nobly, with its weight of care;That anger and desire alike restrains,And counts Alcides' toils, and cruel pains,530Superior far to banquets, wanton nights,And all the Assyrian monarch's soft delights!Here bound, at length, thy wishes. I but teachWhat blessings man, by his own powers, may reach.The path to peace is virtue.We should see,535If wise, O Fortune, naught divine in thee:But we have deified a name alone,And fixed in heaven thy visionary throne!