Satire VIII (Gifford)

"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,
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,
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
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?
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,
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
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,
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.
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,
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;
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
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.
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,
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,
Whose fathers who shall tell! my ancient line
Descends from Cecrops." Man of blood divine!
Live, and enjoy the secret sweets which spring
In breasts, affined to so remote a king!--
Yet know, amid these "dregs," low grandeur's scorn,
Will those be found whom arts and arms adorn:
Some, skilled to plead a noble blockhead's cause,
And solve the dark enigmas of the laws;
Some, who the Tigris' hostile banks explore,
And plant our eagles on Batavia's shore:
While thou, in mean, inglorious pleasure lost,
With "Cecrops! Cecrops!" all thou hast to boast,
Art a full brother to the crossway stone,
Which clowns have chipped the head of Hermes on:
For 'tis no bar to kindred, that thy block
Is formed of flesh and blood, and theirs of rock.
Of beasts, great son of Troy, who vaunts the breed,
Unless renowned for courage, strength, or speed?
'Tis thus we praise the horse, who mocks our eyes,
While, to the goal, with lightning's speed, he flies!
Whom many a well-earned palm and trophy grace,
And the Cirque hails, unrivaled in the race!
--Yes, he is noble, spring from whom he will,
Whose footsteps, in the dust, are foremost still;
While Hirpine's stock are to the market led,
If Victory perch but rarely on their head:
For no respect to pedigree is paid,
No honor to a sire's illustrious shade.
Flung cheaply off, they drag the cumbrous wain,
With shoulders bare and bleeding from the chain;
Or take, with some blind ass in concert found,
At Nepo's mill, their everlasting round.
That Rome may, therefore, YOU, not YOURS, admire,
By virtuous actions, first, to praise aspire;
Seek not to shine by borrowed light alone,
But with your father's glories blend your own.
THIS to the youth, whom Rumor brands as vain,
And swelling--full of his Neronian strain;
Perhaps, with truth:--for rarely shall we find
A sense of modesty in that proud kind.
But were my Ponticus content to raise
His honors thus, on a forefather's praise,
Worthless the while--'twould tinge my cheeks with shame--
'Tis dangerous building on another's fame,
Lest the substructure fail, and on the ground
Your baseless pile be hurled, in fragments, round.--
Stretched on the plain, the vine's weak tendrils try
To clasp the elm they drop from; fail--and die!
Be brave, be just; and when your country's laws
Call you to witness in a dubious cause,
Though Phalaris plant his bull before your eye,
And, frowning, dictate to your lips the lie,
Think it a crime no tears can e'er efface,
To purchase safety with compliance base,
At honor's cost a feverish span extend,
AND SACRIFICE FOR LIFE, LIFE'S ONLY END!
LIFE! 'tis not life--who merits death is dead;
Though Gauran oysters for his feasts be spread,
Though his limbs drip with exquisite perfume,
And the late rose around his temples bloom!
O, when the province, long desired, you gain,
Your boiling rage, your lust of wealth, restrain,
And pity our allies: all Asia grieves--
Her blood, her marrow, drained by legal thieves.
Revere the laws, obey the parent state;
Observe what rich rewards the good await.
What punishments the bad: how Tutor sped,
While Rome's whole thunder rattled round his head!
And yet what boots it, that one spoiler bleed,
If still a worse, and still a worse succeed;
If neither fear nor shame control their theft,
And Pansa seize the little Natta left?
Haste then, Chærippus, ere thy rags be known,
And sell the few thou yet canst call thine own,
And O, conceal the price! 'tis honest craft;
Thou could'st not keep the hatchet--save the haft.
Not such the cries of old, nor such the stroke,
When first the nations bowed beneath our yoke.
Wealth, then, was theirs, wealth without fear possess'd,
Full every house, and bursting every chest--
Crimson, in looms of Sparta taught to glow,
And purple, deeply dyed in grain of Co;
Busts, to which Myro's touch did motion give,
And ivory, taught by Phidias' skill to live;
On every side a Polyclete you viewed,
And scarce a board without a Mentor stood.
These, these, the lust of rapine first inspired,
These, Antony and Dolabella fired.
And sacrilegious Verres:--so, for Rome
They shipped their secret plunder; and brought home
More treasures from our friends, in peace obtained,
Than from our foes, in war, were ever gained!
Now all is gone! the stallion made a prey,
The few brood mares and oxen swept away,
The Lares--if the sacred hearth possess'd
One little god, that pleased above the rest--
Mean spoils, indeed! but such were now their best
Perhaps you scorn (and may securely scorn)
The essenced Greek, whom arts, not arms, adorn:
Soft limbs, and spirits by refinement broke,
Would feebly struggle with the oppressive yoke.
But spare the Gaul, the fierce Illyrian spare,
And the rough Spaniard, terrible in war;
Spare too the Afric hind, whose ceaseless pain
Fills our wide granaries with autumnal grain,
And pampers Rome, while weightier cares engage
Her precious hours--the Circus and the Stage!
For, should you rifle them, O think in time,
What spoil would pay the execrable crime,
When greedy Marius fleeced them all so late,
And bare and bleeding left the hapless state!
But chief the brave, and wretched--tremble there;
Nor tempt too far the madness of despair:
For, should you all their little treasures drain,
Helmets, and spears, and swords, would still remain;
THE PLUNDERED NE'ER WANT ARMS. What I foretell
Is no trite apophthegm, but--mark me well--
True as a Sibyl's leaf! fixed as an oracle!
If men of worth the posts beneath you hold,
And no spruce favorite barter law for gold;
If no inherent stain your wife disgrace,
Nor, harpy-like, she flit from place to place,
A fell Celæno, ever on the watch,
And ever furious, all she sees to snatch;
Then choose what race you will: derive your birth
From Picus, or those elder sons of earth,
Who shook the throne of heaven; call him your sire,
Who first informed our clay with living fire;
Or single from the songs of ancient days,
What tale may suit you, and what parent raise.
But--if rash pride, and lust, your bosom sway,
If, with stern joy, you ply, from day to day
The ensanguined rods, and head on head demand,
Till the tired axe drop from the lictor's hand;
Then, every honor, by your father won,
Indignant to be borne by such a son,
Will, to his blood, oppose your daring claim,
And fire a torch to blaze upon your shame!--
Vice glares more strongly in the public eye,
As he who sins, in power or place is high.
SEE! by his great progenitors' remains
Fat Damasippus sweeps, with loosened reins.
Good Consul! he no pride of office feels,
But stoops, himself, to clog his headlong wheels.
"But this is all by night," the hero cries.
Yet the MOON sees! yet the STARS stretch their eyes,
Full on your shame!--A few short moments wait,
And Damasippus quits the pomp of state:
Then, proud the experienced driver to display,
He mounts his chariot in the face of day,
Whirls, with bold front, his grave associate by,
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
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!
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,
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.
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,
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!
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,
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,
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
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!
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:--
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!
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,
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!--
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--
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
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
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!
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,
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.
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!
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,
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,
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!
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,
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.
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,
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!
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
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 devoured the slain,
And their huge bones lay whitening on the plain,
His high-born colleague to his worth gave way,
And took, well pleased, the secondary bay.
The Decii were plebeians! mean their name,
And mean the parent stock from which they came:
Yet they devoted, in the trying hour,
Their heads to Earth, and each infernal Power;
And by that solemn act, redeemed from fate,
Auxiliars, legions, all the Latian state;
More prized than those they saved, in heaven's just estimate!
And him, who graced the purple which he wore
(The last good king of Rome), a bondmaid bore.
The Consul's sons (while storms yet shook the state,
And Tarquin thundered vengeance at the gate),
Who should, to crown the labors of their sire,
Have dared what Cocles, Mutius, might admire,
And she, who mocked the javelins whistling round,
And swam the Tiber, then the empire's bound;
Had to the tyrant's rage the town exposed,
But that a slave their dark designs disclosed.--
For Him, when stretched upon his honored bier,
The grateful matrons shed the pious tear,
While, with stern eye, the patriot and the sire
Saw, by the axe, the high-born pair expire:
They fell--just victims to the offended laws,
And the first sacrifice to FREEDOM'S cause!
For me, who naught but innate worth admire,
I'd rather vile Thersites were thy sire,
So thou wert like Achilles, and could'st wield
Vulcanian arms, the terror of the field,
Than that Achilles should thy father be,
And, in his offspring, vile Thersites see.
And yet, how high soe'er thy pride may trace
The long-forgotten founders of thy race,
Still must the search with that Asylum end,
From whose polluted source we all descend.
Haste then, the inquiry haste; secure to find
Thy sire some vagrant slave, some bankrupt hind,
Some--but I mark the kindling glow of shame,
And will not shock thee with a baser name.