Today | News | Books | Recipes Adventure | Science Fiction | Ghost stories | Poetry | Children | History Bookby, 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, And ravish, from the Greeks, a parsley crown! Come then, great prince, great poet! while we throng To greet thee, recent from triumphant song, Come, place the unfading wreath, with reverence meet, 335 On the Domitii's brows! before their feet The mask and pall of old Thyestes lay, And Menalippé; while, in proud display, From the colossal marble of thy sire, Depends, the boast of Rome, thy conquering lyre! 340 Cethegus! Catiline! whose ancestors Were nobler born, were higher ranked, than yours? Yet ye conspired, with more than Gallic hate, To wrap in midnight flames this hapless state; On men and gods your barbarous rage to pour, 345 And deluge Rome with her own children's gore: Horrors, which called, indeed, for vengeance dire, For the pitched coat and stake, and smouldering fire! But Tully watched--your league in silence broke, And crushed your impious arms, without a stroke. 350 Yes he, poor Arpine, of no name at home, And scarcely ranked among the knights at Rome, Secured the trembling town, placed a firm guard In every street, and toiled in every ward:-- And thus, within the walls, the GOWN obtained, 355 More fame, for Tully, than Octavius gained At Actium and Philippi, from a SWORD, Drenched in the eternal stream by patriots poured! For Rome, free Rome, hailed him, with loud acclaim, THE FATHER OF HIS COUNTRY--glorious name! 360 Another Arpine, trained the ground to till, Tired of the plow, forsook his native hill, And joined the camp; where, if his adze was slow, The vine-twig whelked his back with many a blow: And yet, when the fierce Cimbri threatened Rome 365 With swift, and scarcely evitable doom, This man, in the dread hour, to save her rose, And turned the impending ruin on her foes! For which, while ravening birds de |