The Satires of Juvenal, Persius, Sulpicia, and Lucilius
Your baseless pile be hurled, in fragments, round.--
Stretched on the plain, the vine's weak tendrils try
To clasp the elm they drop from; fail--and die!
Be brave, be just; and when your country's laws
Call you to witness in a dubious cause, 120
Though Phalaris plant his bull before your eye,
And, frowning, dictate to your lips the lie,
Think it a crime no tears can e'er efface,
To purchase safety with compliance base,
At honor's cost a feverish span extend, 125
AND SACRIFICE FOR LIFE, LIFE'S ONLY END!
LIFE! 'tis not life--who merits death is dead;
Though Gauran oysters for his feasts be spread,
Though his limbs drip with exquisite perfume,
And the late rose around his temples bloom! 130
O, when the province, long desired, you gain,
Your boiling rage, your lust of wealth, restrain,
And pity our allies: all Asia grieves--
Her blood, her marrow, drained by legal thieves.
Revere the laws, obey the parent state; 135
Observe what rich rewards the good await.
What punishments the bad: how Tutor sped,
While Rome's whole thunder rattled round his head!
And yet what boots it, that one spoiler bleed,
If still a worse, and still a worse succeed; 140
If neither fear nor shame control their theft,
And Pansa seize the little Natta left?
Haste then, Chærippus, ere thy rags be known,
And sell the few thou yet canst call thine own,
And O, conceal the price! 'tis honest craft; 145
Thou could'st not keep the hatchet--save the haft.
Not such the cries of old, nor such the stroke,
When first the nations bowed beneath our yoke.
Wealth, then, was theirs, wealth without fear possess'd,
Full every house, and bursting every chest-- 150
Crimson, in looms of Sparta taught to glow,
And purple, deeply dyed in grain of Co;
Busts, to which Myro's touch did motion give,
And ivory, taught by Phidias' skill to live;
On every side a Polyclete you viewed, 155
And scarce a board without a Mentor stood.
These, these, the lust of rapine first inspired,
These, Antony and Dolabella fired.
And sacrilegious Verres:--so, for Rome
They shipped their secret plunder; and brought home 160
More treasures from our friends, in peace obtained,
Than from our foes, in war, were ever gained!
Now all is gone! the stallion made a prey,
The few brood mares and oxen swept away,
The Lares--if the sacred hearth possess'd } 165
One little god, that pleased above the rest-- }
Mean spoils, indeed! but such were now their best }
Perhaps you scorn (and may securely scorn)
The essenced Greek, whom arts, not arms, adorn:
Soft limbs, and spirits by refinement broke, 170
Would feebly struggle with the oppressive yoke.
But spare the Gaul, the fierce Illyrian spare,
And the rough Spaniard, terrible in war;
Spare too the Afric hind, whose ceaseless pain
Fills our wide granaries with autumnal grain, 175
And pampers Rome, while weightier cares engage
Her precious hours--the Circus and the Stage!
For, should you rifle them, O think in time,
What spoil would pay the execrable crime,
When greedy Marius fleeced them all so late, 180
And bare and bleeding left the hapless state!
But chief the brave, and wretched--tremble there;
Nor tempt too far the madness of despair:
For, should you all their little treasures drain,
Helmets, and spears, and swords, would still remain; 185
THE PLUNDERED NE'ER WANT ARMS. What I foretell }
Is no trite apophthegm, but--mark me well-- }
True as a Sibyl's leaf! fixed as an oracle! }
If men of worth the posts beneath you hold,
And no spruce favorite barter law for gold; 190
If no inherent stain your wife disgrace,
Nor, harpy-like, she flit from place to place,
A fell Celæno, ever on the watch,
And ever furious, all she sees to snatch;
Then choose what race you will: derive your birth 195
From Picus, or those elder sons of earth,
Who shook the throne of heaven; call him your sire,
Who first informed our clay with living fire;
Or single from the songs of ancient days,
What tale may suit you, and what parent raise. 200
But--if rash pride, and lust, your bosom sway,
If, with stern joy, you ply, from day to day
The ensanguined rods, and head on head demand,
Till the tired axe drop from the lictor's hand;
Then, every honor, by your father won, 205
Indignant to be borne by such a son,
Will, to his blood, oppose your daring claim,
And fire a torch to blaze upon your shame!--
Vice glares more strongly in the public eye,
As he who sins, in power or place is high. 210
SEE! by his great progenitors' remains
Fat Damasippus sweeps, with loosened reins.
Good Consul! he no pride of office feels,
But stoops, himself, to clog his headlong wheels.
"But this is all by night," the hero cries. 215
Yet the MOON sees! yet the STARS stretch their eyes,
Full on your shame!--A few short moments wait,
And Damasippus quits the pomp of state:
Then, proud the experienced driver to display,
He mounts his chariot in the face of day, 220
Whirls, with bold front, his grave associate by,
And jerks his whip, to catch the senior's eye:
Unyokes his weary steeds, and, to requite
Their service, feeds and litters them, at night.
Meanwhile, 'tis all he can, what time he stands 225
At Jove's high altar, as the law commands,
And offers sheep and oxen, he forswears
The Eternal King, and gives his silent prayers
To thee, Hippona, goddess of the stalls,
And gods more vile, daubed on the reeking walls! 230
At night, to his old haunts he scours, elate
(The tavern by the Idumean gate),
Where, while the host, bedrenched with liquid sweets,
With many a courteous phrase his entrance greets,
And many a smile; the hostess nimbly moves, 235
And gets the flagon ready, which he loves.
Here some, perhaps, my growing warmth may blame:
"In youth's wild hours," they urge, "we did the same."
'Tis granted, friends; but then we stopped in time,
Nor hugged our darling faults beyond our prime. 240
Brief let our follies be! and youthful sin
Fall, with the firstlings of the manly chin!--
Boys we may pity, nay, perhaps, excuse:
But Damasippus STILL frequents the stews,
Though now mature in vigor, ripe in age, 245
Of Cæsar's foes to check the headlong rage,
On Tigris' banks, in burnished arms, to shine,
And sternly guard the Danube, or the Rhine.
"The East revolts." Ho! let the troops repair
To Ostium, quick! "But where's the General?" Where! 250
Go, search the taverns; there the chief you'll find,
With cut-throats, plunderers, rogues of every kind,
Bier-jobbers, bargemen, drenched in fumes of wine,
And Cybele's priests, mid their loose drums, supine!
There none are less, none greater than the rest, 255
There my lord gives, and takes the scurvy jest;
There all who can, round the same table sprawl.
And there one greasy tankard serves for all.
Blessings of birth!--but, Ponticus, a word:
Owned you a slave like this degenerate lord, 260
What were his fate? your Lucan farm to till,
Or aid the mules to turn your Tuscan mill.
But Troy's great sons dispense with being good,
And boldly sin by courtesy of blood;
Wink at each other's crimes, and look for fame 265
In what would tinge a cobbler's cheek with shame.
And have I wreaked on such foul deeds my rage,
That worse should yet remain to blot my page!--
See Damasippus, all his fortune lost,
Compelled, for hire, to play a squealing ghost! 270
While Lentulus, his brother in renown,
Performs, with so much art, the perjured clown,
And suffers with such grace, that, for his pains,
I hold him worthy of--the CROSS he feigns.
Nor deem the heedless rabble void of blame:-- 275
Strangers alike to decency and shame,
They sit with brazen front, and calmly see
The hired patrician's low buffoonery;
Laugh at the Fabii's tricks, and grin to hear
The cuffs resound from the Mamerci's ear! 280
Who cares how low their blood is sold, how high?--
No Nero drives them, now, their fate to try:
Freely they come, and freely they expose
Their lives for hire, to grace the public shows!
But grant the worst: suppose the arena here, 285
And there the stage; on which would you appear?
The first: for who of death so much in dread,
As not to tremble more, the stage to tread,
Squat on his hams, in some blind nook to sit,
And watch his mistress, in a jealous fit!-- 290
But 'tis not strange, that, when the Emperor tunes
A scurvy harp, the lords should turn buffoons;
The wonder is, they turn not fencers too,
Secutors, Retiarians--AND THEY DO!
Gracchus steps forth: No sword his thigh invests-- 295
No helmet, shield--such armor he detests,
Detests and spurns; and impudently stands,
With the poised net and trident in his hands.
The foe advances--lo! a cast he tries,
But misses, and in frantic terror flies 300
Round the thronged Cirque; and, anxious to be known,
Lifts his bare face, with many a piteous moan.
"'Tis he! 'tis he!--I know the Salian vest,
With golden fringes, pendent from the breast;
The Salian bonnet, from whose pointed crown 305
The glittering ribbons float redundant down.
O spare him, spare!"--The brave Secutor heard,
And, blushing, stopped the chase; for he preferred
Wounds, death itself, to the contemptuous smile,
Of conquering one so noble, and--so vile! 310
Who, Nero, so depraved, if choice were free,
To hesitate 'twixt Seneca and thee?
Whose crimes, so much have they all crimes outgone,
Deserve more serpents, apes, and sacks, than one.
Not so, thou say'st; there are, whom I could name, 315
As deep in guilt, and as accursed in fame;
Orestes slew HIS mother. True; but know,
The same effects from different causes flow:
A father murdered at the social board,
And heaven's command, unsheathed his righteous sword. 320
Besides, Orestes, in his wildest mood,
Poisoned no cousin, shed no consort's blood,
Buried no poniard in a sister's throat,
Sung on no public stage, NO TROICS WROTE.--
THIS topped his frantic crimes! THIS roused mankind! 325
For what could Galba, what Virginius find,
In the dire annals of that bloody reign,
Which called for vengeance in a louder strain?
Lo here, the arts, the studies that engage
The world's great master! on a foreign stage, 330
To prostitute his voice for base renown,