Today | News | Books | Recipes Adventure | Science Fiction | Ghost stories | Poetry | Children | History Bookidate, She baffles him e'en there, and has recourse 960 To the old weapon for a last resource. SATIRE VII. TO TELESINUS. Yes, all the hopes of learning, 'tis confess'd, And all the patronage, on CÆSAR rest: For he alone the drooping Nine regards-- When, now, our best, and most illustrious bards, Quit their ungrateful studies, and retire, 5 Bagnios and bakehouses, for bread, to hire; With humbled views, a life of toil embrace, And deem a crier's business no disgrace; Since Clio, driven by hunger from the shade, Mixes in crowds, and bustles for a trade. 10 And truly, if (the bard's too frequent curse) No coin be found in your Pierian purse, 'Twere not ill done to copy, for the nonce, Machæra, and turn auctioneer at once. Hie, my poetic friend; in accents loud, 15 Commend your precious lumber to the crowd, Old tubs, stools, presses, wrecks of many a chest, Paccius' damned plays, Thebes, Tereus, and the rest.-- And better so--than haunt the courts of law, And swear, for hire, to what you never saw: 20 Leave this resource to Cappadocian knights, To Gallogreeks, and such new-fangled wights, As want, or infamy, has chased from home, And driven, in barefoot multitudes, to Rome. Come, my brave youths!--the genuine sons of rhyme, 25 Who, in sweet numbers, couch the true sublime, Shall, from this hour, no more their fate accuse, Or stoop to pains unworthy of the Muse. Come, my brave youths! your tuneful labors ply, Secure of favor; lo! the imperial eye 30 Looks round, attentive, on each rising bard, For worth to praise, for genius to reward! But if for other patronage you look, And therefore write, and therefore swell your book, Quick, call for wood, and let the flames devour 35 The hapless produce of the studious hour; Or lock it up, to moths and worms a prey, And break your pens, and fling your ink away:-- Or pour it rather o'er your epic flights, Your battles, sieges (fruit of sleepless nights), 40 Pour it, mistaken men, who rack your brains In dungeons, cocklofts, for heroic strains; Who toil and sweat to purchase mere renown, A meagre statue, and an ivy crown! Here bound your expectations: for the great, 45 Grown, wisely, covetous, have learned, of late, To praise, and ONLY praise, the high-wrought strain, As boys, the bird of Juno's glittering train. Meanwhile those vigorous years, so fit to bear The toils of agriculture, commerce, war, 50 Spent in this idle trade, decline apace, And age, unthought of, stares you in the face:-- O then, appalled to find your better days Have earned you naught but poverty and praise, At all your barren glories you repine, 55 And curse, too late, the unavailing Nine! Hear, now, what sneaking ways your patrons find, To save their darling gold:--they pay in kind! Verses, composed in every Muse's spite, To the starved bard, they, in their turn, recite; 60 And, if they yield to Homer, let him know, 'Tis--that he lived a thousand years ago! But if, inspired with genuine love of fame, A dry rehearsal only be your aim, The miser's breast with sudden warmth dilates, 65 And lo! he opes his triple-bolted gates; Nay, sends his clients to support your cause, And rouse the tardy audience to applause: But will not spare one farthing to defray The numerous charges of this glorious day, 70 The desk where, throned in conscious pride, you sit, The joists and beams, the orchestra and the pit. Still we persist; plow the light sand, and sow Seed after seed, where none can ever grow: Nay, should we, conscious of our fruitless pain, 75 Strive to escape, we strive, alas! in vain; Long habit and the thirst of praise beset, And close us in the inextricable net. The insatiate itch of scribbling, hateful pest, Creeps like a tetter, through the human breast, 80 Nor knows, nor hopes a cure; since years, which chill All other passions, but inflame the ill! But HE, the bard of every age and clime, Of genius fruitful, ardent and sublime, Who, from the glowing mint of fancy, pours 85 No spurious metal, fused from common ores, But gold, to matchless purity refined, And stamped with all the godhead in his mind; He whom I feel, but want the power to paint, Springs from a soul impatient of restraint, 90 And free from every care; a soul that loves The Muse's haunts, clear founts and shady groves. Never, no never, did He wildly rave, And shake his thyrsus in the Aonian cave, Whom poverty kept sober, and the cries 95 Of a lean stomach, clamorous for supplies: No; the wine circled briskly through the veins, When Horace poured his dithyrambic strains!-- What room for fancy, say, unless the mind, And all its thoughts, to poesy resigned, 100 Be hurried with resistless force along, By the two kindred Powers of Wine and Song! O! 'tis the exclusive business of a breast Impetuous, uncontrolled--not one distress'd With household cares, to view the bright abodes, 105 The steeds, the chariots, and the forms of gods: And the fierce Fury, as her snakes she shook, And withered the Rutulian with a look! Those snakes, had Virgil no Mæcenas found, } Had dropp'd, in listless length, upon the ground; } 110 And the still slumbering trump, groaned with no mortal sound. } Yet we expect, from Lappa's tragic rage, Such scenes as graced, of old, the Athenian stage; Though he, poor man, from hand to mouth be fed, And driven to pawn his furniture for bread! 115 When Numitor is asked to serve a friend, "He can not; he is poor." Yet he can send Rich presents to his mistress! he can buy Tame lions, and find means to keep them high! What then? the beasts are still the lightest charge; 120 For your starved bards have maws so devilish large! Stretched in his marble palace, at his ease, Lucan may write, and only ask to please; But what is this, if this be all you give, To Bassus and Serranus? They must live! 125 When Statius fixed a morning, to recite His Thebaid to the town, with what delight They flocked to hear! with what fond rapture hung On the sweet strains, made sweeter by his tongue! Yet, while the seats rung with a general peal 130 Of boisterous praise, the bard had lacked a meal, Unless with Paris he had better sped, And trucked a virgin tragedy for bread. Mirror of men! he showers, with liberal hands, On needy poets, honors and commands:-- 135 An actor's patronage a peer's outgoes, And what the last withholds, the first bestows! --And will you still on Camerinus wait, And Bareas? will you still frequent the great? Ah, rather to the player your labors take, 140 And at one lucky stroke your fortune make! Yet envy not the man who earns hard bread By tragedy: the Muses' friends are fled!-- Mæcenas, Proculeius, Fabius, gone, And Lentulus, and Cotta--every one! 145 THEN worth was cherished, then the bard might toil, Secure of favor, o'er the midnight oil; Then all December's revelries refuse, And give the festive moments to the Muse. So fare the tuneful r |