The Satires of Juvenal, Persius, Sulpicia, and Lucilius
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, 150
Stage 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? 155
What 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, 160
Charged with his little scrip, has scarcely spent
His mite at school, ere all his bosom glows
With the fond hope he never more foregoes,
To reach Demosthenes' or Tully's name,
Rival of both in eloquence and fame!-- 165
Yet by this eloquence, alas! expired
Each orator, so envied, so admired!
Yet by the rapid and resistless sway
Of torrent genius, each was swept away!
Genius, for that, the baneful potion sped, 170
And 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 NATAL day was thine,_
_In that LATE conSULATE, O Rome, of mine!_" 175
Oh, soul of eloquence! had all been found
An 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, 180
To that which fired the fierce triumvir's breast,
That second scroll, where eloquence divine
Burst on the ear from every glowing line.
And he too fell, whom Athens, wondering, saw
Her fierce democracy, at will, o'erawe, 185
And "fulmine over Greece!" some angry Power
Scowled, 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, 190
To study RHETORIC, sent his hopeful boy.
The spoils of WAR; the trunk in triumph placed
With all the trophies of the battle graced,
Crushed helms, and battered shields; and streamers borne
From vanquished fleets, and beams from chariots torn; 195
And arcs of triumph, where the captive foe
Bends, in mute anguish, o'er the pomp below,
Are blessings, which the slaves of glory rate
Beyond a mortal's hope, a mortal's fate!
Fired with the love of these, what countless swarms, 200
Barbarians, 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 exceeds
The generous warmth, which prompts to worthy deeds, 205
That 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, 210
Involved 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. 215
Produce the urn that Hannibal contains,
And weigh the mighty dust, which yet remains:
AND IS THIS ALL! Yet THIS was once the bold,
The aspiring chief, whom Afric could not hold,
Though stretched in breadth from where the Atlantic roars, 220
To 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, 225
Her 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, 230
And 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! 235
But 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, 240
Till 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!-- 245
Fly, madman, fly! at toil and danger mock,
Pierce the deep snow, and scale the eternal rock,
To please the rhetoricians, and become
A DECLAMATION for the boys of Rome!
One world, the ambitious youth of Pella found 250
Too small; and tossed his feverish limbs around,
And gasped for breath, as if immured the while
In Gyaræ, or Seripho's rocky isle:
But entering Babylon, found ample room
Within the narrow limits of a tomb! 255
Death, the great teacher, Death alone proclaims
The 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, 260
Of 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. 265
But how returned he, say? this soul of fire,
This proud barbarian, whose impatient ire
Chastised the winds, that disobeyed his nod,
With stripes, ne'er suffered from the Æolian god;
Fettered the Shaker of the sea and land-- 270
But, 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, 275
And, 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, 280
Or 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, 285
And 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: 290
A 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, 295
That those who hoped the legacy to share,
And flattered long--disgusted, disappear.
The sluggish palate dulled, the feast no more
Excites the same sensations as of yore;
Taste, feeling, all, a universal blot, 300
And e'en the rites of love remembered not:
Or if--through the long night he feebly strives
To raise a flame where not a spark survives;
While Venus marks the effort with distrust,
And hates the gray decrepitude of lust. 305
Another 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; 310
Alas! 'tis still the same: he scarce can hear
The 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! 315
Add 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 say 320
How 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 dispatched 325
In 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, 330
His food, with bloodless lips, from others' hands;
While that, whose eager jaws, instinctive, spread
At every feast, gapes feebly to be fed,
Like Progne's brood, when, laden with supplies,
From bill to bill, the fasting mother flies. 335
But 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; 340
And 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! 345
He 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 pay 350
For 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! 355
The 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 oft 360
Quaffed 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 arise 365
Round his Antilochus:--"Tell me," he cried,