Today | News | Books | Recipes Adventure | Science Fiction | Ghost stories | Poetry | Children | History Bookhalf the city here by shores is staid, And feeble cramps, that lend a treacherous aid: For thus the stewards patch the riven wall, 285 Thus prop the mansion, tottering to its fall; Then bid the tenant court secure repose, While the pile nods to every blast that blows. O! may I live where no such fears molest, No midnight fires burst on my hour of rest! 290 For here 'tis terror all; mid the loud cry Of "water! water!" the scared neighbors fly, With all their haste can seize--the flames aspire, And the third floor is wrapt in smoke and fire, While you, unconscious, doze: Up, ho! and know, 295 The impetuous blaze which spreads dismay below, By swift degrees will reach the aerial cell, Where, crouching, underneath the tiles you dwell, Where your tame doves their golden couplets rear, "And you could no mischance, but drowning, fear!" 300 "Codrus had but one bed, and that too short For his short wife;" his goods, of every sort, Were else but few:--six little pipkins graced His cupboard head, a little can was placed On a snug shelf beneath, and near it lay 305 A Chiron, of the same cheap marble--clay. And was this all? O no: he yet possest A few Greek books, shrined in an ancient chest, Where barbarous mice through many an inlet crept, And fed on heavenly numbers, while he slept.-- 310 "Codrus, in short, had nothing." You say true; And yet poor Codrus lost that nothing too! One curse alone was wanting, to complete His woes: that, cold and hungry, through the street, The wretch should beg, and, in the hour of need, 315 Find none to lodge, to clothe him, or to feed! But should the raging flames on grandeur prey, And low in dust Asturius' palace lay, The squalid matron sighs, the senate mourns, The pleaders cease, the judge the court adjourns; 320 All join to wail the city's hapless fate, And rail at fire with more than common hate. Lo! while it burns, the obsequious courtiers haste, With rich materials, to repair the waste: This, brings him marble, that, a finished piece, 325 The far-famed boast of Polyclete and Greece; This, ornaments, which graced of old the fane Of Asia's gods; that, figured plate and plain; This, cases, books, and busts the shelves to grace, And piles of coin his specie to replace-- 330 So much the childless Persian swells his store, (Though deemed the richest of the rich before,) That all ascribe the flames to thirst of pelf, And swear, Asturius fired his house himself. O, had you, from the Circus, power to fly, 335 In many a halcyon village might you buy Some elegant retreat, for what will, here, Scarce hire a gloomy dungeon through the year! There wells, by nature formed, which need no rope, No laboring arm, to crane their waters up, 340 Around your lawn their facile streams shall shower, And cheer the springing plant and opening flower. There live, delighted with the rustic's lot, And till, with your own hands, the little spot; The little spot shall yield you large amends, 345 And glad, with many a feast, your Samian friends. And, sure,--in any corner we can get, To call one lizard ours, is something yet! Flushed with a mass of indigested food, Which clogs the stomach and inflames the blood, 350 What crowds, with watching wearied and o'erprest, Curse the slow hours, and die for want of rest! For who can hope his languid lids to close, Where brawling taverns banish all repose? Sleep, to the rich alone, "his visits pays:" 355 And hence the seeds of many a dire disease. The carts loud rumbling through the narrow way, The drivers' clamors at each casual stay, From drowsy Drusus would his slumber take, And keep the calves of Proteus broad awake! 360 If business call, obsequious crowds divide. While o'er their heads the rich securely ride, By tall Illyrians borne, and read, or write, } Or (should the early hour to rest invite), } Close the soft litter, and enjoy the night. } 365 Yet reach they first the goal; while, by the throng Elbowed and jostled, scarce we creep along; Sharp strokes from poles, tubs, rafters, doomed to feel; And plastered o'er with mud, from head to heel: While the rude soldier gores us as he goes, 370 Or marks, in blood, his progress on our toes! See, from the Dole, a vast tumultuous throng, Each followed by his kitchen, pours along! Huge pans, which Corbulo could scarce uprear, With steady neck a puny slave must bear, 375 And, lest amid the way the flames expire, Glide nimbly on, and gliding, fan the fire; Through the close press with sinuous efforts wind, And, piece by piece, leave his botched rags behind. Hark! groaning on, the unwieldy wagon spreads 380 Its cumbrous load, tremendous! o'er our heads, Projecting elm or pine, that nods on high, And threatens death to every passer by. Heavens! should the axle crack, which bears a weight Of huge Ligurian stone, and pour the freight 385 On the pale crowd beneath, what would remain, What joint, what bone, what atom of the slain? The body, with the soul, would vanish quite, Invisible as air, to mortal sight!-- Meanwhile, unconscious of their fellow's fate, 390 At home, they heat the water, scour the plate, Arrange the strigils, fill the cruse with oil, And ply their several tasks with fruitless toil: For he who bore the dole, poor mangled ghost, Sits pale and trembling on the Stygian coast, 395 Scared at the horrors of the novel scene, At Charon's threatening voice, and scowling mien; Nor hopes a passage, thus abruptly hurled, Without his farthing, to the nether world. Pass we these fearful dangers, and survey 400 What other evils threat our nightly way. And first, behold the mansion's towering size, Where floors on floors to the tenth story rise; Whence heedless garreteers their potsherds throw, And crush the unwary wretch that walks below! 405 Clattering the storm descends from heights unknown. Plows up the street, and wounds the flinty stone! 'Tis madness, dire improvidence of ill, To sup abroad, before you sign your Will; Since fate in ambush lies, and marks his prey, 410 From every wakeful window in the way: Pray, then--and count your humble prayer well sped, If pots be only--emptied on your head. The drunken bully, ere his man be slain, Frets through the night, and courts repose in vain; 415 And while the thirst of blood his bosom burns, From side to side, in restless anguish, turns, Like Peleus' son, when, quelled by Hector's hand, His loved Patroclus prest the Phrygian strand. There are, who murder as an opiate take, 420 And only when no brawls await them wake: Yet even these heroes, flushed with youth and wine, All contest with the purple robe decline; Securely give the lengthened train to pass, The sun-bright flambeaux, and the lamps of brass.-- 425 Me, whom the moon, or candle's paler gleam, Whose wick I husband to the last extreme, Guides through the gloom, he braves, devoid of fear: The prelude to our doughty quarrel hear, If that be |