Today | News | Books | Recipes Adventure | Science Fiction | Ghost stories | Poetry | Children | History Booke; Be first-rate speakers, pleaders, every thing; And, though they croak like frogs, be thought to sing. O, there's a difference, friend, beneath what sign We spring to light, or kindly or malign! 305 FORTUNE IS ALL: She, as the fancy springs, Makes kings of pedants, and of pedants kings. For, what were Tullius, and Ventidius, say, But great examples of the wondrous sway Of stars, whose mystic influence alone, 310 Bestows, on captives triumphs, slaves a throne? He, then, is lucky; and, amid the clan, Ranks with the milk-white crow, or sable swan: While all his hapless brethren count their gains, And execrate, too late, their fruitless pains. 315 Witness thy end, Thrasymachus! and thine, Unblest Charinas!--Thou beheld'st him pine, Thou, Athens! and would'st naught but bane bestow; The only charity--thou seem'st to know! Shades of our sires! O, sacred be your rest, 320 And lightly lie the turf upon your breast! Flowers round your urns breathe sweets beyond compare, And spring eternal shed its influence there! You honored tutors, now a slighted race, And gave them all a parent's power and place. 325 Achilles, grown a man, the lyre assayed On his paternal hills, and, while he played, With trembling eyed the rod;--and yet, the tail Of the good Centaur, scarcely, then, could fail To force a smile: such reverence now is rare, 330 And boys with bibs strike Rufus on his chair, Fastidious Rufus, who, with critic rage, Arraigned the purity of Tully's page! Enough of these. Let the last wretched band, The poor GRAMMARIANS, say, what liberal hand 335 Rewards their toil: let learned Palæmon tell, Who proffers what his skill deserves so well. Yet from this pittance, whatsoe'er it be (Less, surely, than the rhetorician's fee), The usher snips off something for his pains, 340 And the purveyor nibbles what remains. Courage, Palæmon! be not over-nice, But suffer some abatement in your price; As those who deal in rugs, will ask you high, And sink by pence and half-pence, till you buy. 345 Yes, suffer this; while something's left to pay Your rising hours before the dawn of day, When e'en the laboring poor their slumbers take, And not a weaver, not a smith's awake: While something's left to pay you for the stench 350 Of smouldering lamps, thick spread o'er every bench, Where ropy vapors Virgil's pages soil, And Horace looks one blot, all soot and oil! Even then, the stipend thus reduced, thus small, Without a lawsuit, rarely comes at all. 355 Add yet, ye parents, add to the disgrace, And heap new hardships on this wretched race. Make it a point that all, and every part, Of their own science, be possessed by heart; That general history with our own they blend, 360 And have all authors at their fingers' end: Still ready to inform you, should you meet, And ask them at the bath, or in the street, Who nursed Anchises; from what country came The step-dame of Archemorus, what her name; 365 How long Acestes flourished, and what store Of generous wine the Phrygians from him bore-- Make it a point too, that, like ductile clay, They mould the tender mind, and day by day Bring out the form of Virtue; that they prove 370 A father to the youths, in care and love; And watch that no obscenities prevail-- And trust me, friend, even Argus' self might fail, The busy hands of schoolboys to espy, And the lewd fires which twinkle in their eye. 375 All this, and more, exact; and, having found The man you seek, say--When the year comes round, We'll give thee for thy twelve months' anxious pains, As much--as, IN AN HOUR, A FENCER GAINS! SATIRE VIII. TO PONTICUS. "Your ancient house!" no more.--I can not see The wondrous merits of a pedigree: No, Ponticus;--nor of a proud display Of smoky ancestors, in wax or clay; Æmilius, mounted on his car sublime, 5 Curius, half wasted by the teeth of time, Corvinus, dwindled to a shapeless bust, And high-born Galba, crumbling into dust. What boots it, on the LINEAL TREE to trace, Through many a branch, the founders of our race, 10 Time-honored chiefs; if, in their sight, we give A loose to vice, and like low villains live? Say, what avails it, that, on either hand, The stern Numantii, an illustrious band, Frown from the walls, if their degenerate race 15 Waste the long night at dice, before their face? If, staggering, to a drowsy bed they creep, At that prime hour when, starting from their sleep, Their sires the signal of the fight unfurled, And drew their legions forth, and won the world? 20 Say, why should Fabius, of the Herculean name, To the GREAT ALTAR vaunt his lineal claim, If, softer than Euganean lambs, the youth, His wanton limbs, with Ætna's pumice, smooth, And shame his rough-hewn sires? if greedy, vain, 25 If, a vile trafficker in secret bane, He blast his wretched kindred with a bust, For public vengeance to--reduce to dust! Fond man! though all the heroes of your line Bedeck your halls, and round your galleries shine 30 In proud display; yet, take this truth from me, VIRTUE ALONE IS TRUE NOBILITY. Set Cossus, Drusus, Paulus, then, in view, The bright example of their lives pursue; Let these precede the statues of your race, 35 And these, when Consul, of your rods take place. O give me inborn worth! dare to be just, Firm to your word, and faithful to your trust: These praises hear, at least deserve to hear, I grant your claim, and recognize the peer. 40 Hail! from whatever stock you draw your birth, The son of Cossus, or the son of Earth, All hail! in you, exulting Rome espies Her guardian Power, her great Palladium rise; And shouts like Egypt, when her priests have found, 45 A new Osiris, for the old one drowned! But shall we call those noble, who disgrace Their lineage, proud of an illustrious race? Vain thought!--but thus, with many a taunting smile, The dwarf an Atlas, Moor a swan, we style; 50 The crookbacked wench, Europa; and the hound, With age enfeebled, toothless, and unsound, That listless lies, and licks the lamps for food, Lord of the chase, and tyrant of the wood! You, too, beware, lest Satire's piercing eye 55 The slave of guilt through grandeur's blaze espy, And, drawing from your crime some sounding name, Declare at once your greatness and your shame. Ask you for whom this picture I design? Plautus, thy birth and folly make it thine. 60 Thou vaunt'st thy pedigree, on every side To noble and imperial blood allied; As if thy honors by thyself were won, And thou hadst some illustrious action done, To make the world believe thee Julia's heir, 65 And not the offspring of some easy fair, Who, shivering in the wind, near yon dead wall, Plies her vile labor, and is all to all. "Away, away! ye slaves of humblest birth, Ye dregs of Rome, ye nothings of the earth, 70 Whose fathers who shall tell! my ancient line Descends from Cecrops." Man of blood divine! Live, and enjoy the secret sweets which spring |