Today | News | Books | Recipes Adventure | Science Fiction | Ghost stories | Poetry | Children | History Bookhese, 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 3 |