Satire XII (Gifford)

Not with such joy, Corvinus, I survey
My natal hour, as this auspicious day;
This day, on which the festive turf demands
The promised victims, at my willing hands.
A snow-white lamb to Juno I decree,
Another to Minerva; and to thee,
Tarpeian Jove! a steer, which, from afar,
Shakes his long rope, and meditates the war.
'Tis a fierce animal, that proudly scorns
The dug, since first he tried his budding horns
Against an oak; free mettled, and, in fine,
Fit for the knife, and sacrificial wine.
O, were my power but equal to my love,
A nobler victim should my rapture prove!
A bull high fed, and boasting in his veins,
The luscious juices of Clitumnus' plains,
Fatter than fat Hispulla, huge and slow,
Should fall, but fall beneath no common blow--
Fall for my friend, who now, from danger free,
Revolves the recent perils of the sea;
Shrinks at the roaring waves, the howling winds,
And scarcely trusts the safety which he finds!
For not the gods' inevitable fire,
The surging billows that to heaven aspire,
Alone, perdition threat; black clouds arise,
And blot out all the splendor of the skies;
Loud and more loud the thunder's voice is heard,
And sulphurous fires flash dreadful on the yard.--
Trembled the crew, and, fixed in wild amaze,
Saw the rent sails burst into sudden blaze;
While shipwreck, late so dreadful, now appeared
A refuge from the flames, more wished than feared.
Horror on horror! earth, and sea, and skies,
Convulsed, as when POETIC TEMPESTS rise!
From the same source another danger view,
With pitying eye--though dire alas! not new;
But known too well, as Isis' temples show,
By many a pictured scene of votive woe;
Isis, by whom the painters now are fed,
Since our own gods no longer yield them bread!--
And such befell our friend: for now a sea,
Upsurging, poured tremendous o'er the lee,
And filled the hold; while, pressed by wave and wind,
To right and left, by turns, the ship inclined:
Then, while Catullus viewed, with drooping heart,
The storm prevailing o'er the pilot's art,
He wisely hastened to compound the strife,
And gave his treasure to preserve his life.
The beaver thus to scape his hunter tries,
And leaves behind the medicated prize;
Happy to purchase with his dearest blood,
A timely refuge in the well-known flood.
"Away with all that's mine," he cries, "away!"
And plunges in the deep, without delay,
Purples, which soft Mæcenases might wear,
Crimsons, deep-tinctured in the Bætic air,
Where herbs, and springs of secret virtues, stain
The flocks at feed, with Nature's richest grain.
With these, neat baskets from the Britons bought,
Rare silver chargers by Parthenius wrought,
A huge two-handed goblet, which might strain
A Pholus, or a Fuscus' wife, to drain;
Followed by numerous services of plate,
Plain, and enchased; with cups of ancient date,
In which, while at the city's strength he laughed,
The wily chapman of Olynthus quaffed.
Yet show me, in this elemental strife,
Another, who would barter wealth for life!--
Few GAIN TO LIVE, Corvinus, few or none,
But, blind with avarice, LIVE TO GAIN alone.
Now had the deep devoured their richest store;
Nor seems their safety nearer than before:
The last resource alone was unexplored--
To cut the mast and rigging by the board;
Haply the vessel so might steadier ride
O'er the vexed surface of the raging tide.
Dire threats the impending blow, when, thus distress'd,
We sacrifice a part, to save the rest!
Go now, fond man, the faithless ocean brave,
Commit your fortune to the wind and wave;
Trust to a plank, and draw precarious breath,
At most, seven inches from the jaws of death!
Go, but forget not that a storm may rise,
And put up hatchets with your sea supplies.
But now the winds were hushed; the wearied main
Sunk to repose, a calm, unruffled plain;
For fate, superior to the tempest's power,
Averted from my friend the mortal hour:
A whiter thread the cheerful Sisters spun,
And lo, with favoring hands their spindles run!
Mild as the breeze of eve, a rising gale
Rippled the wave, and filled their only sail;
Others the crew supplied, of vests combined,
And spread to catch each vagrant breath of wind:
By aids like these, slow o'er the deep impelled,
The shattered bark her course for Ostia held;
While the glad sun uprose, supremely bright,
And hope returned with the returning light.
At length the heights, where, from Lavinum moved,
Iülus built the city which he loved,
Burst on the view; auspicious heights! whose name
From a white sow and thirty sucklings came.
And now, the port they gain; the tower, whose ray
Guides the poor wanderer o'er the watery way,
And the huge mole, whose arms the waves embrace,
And stretching, an immeasurable space,
Far into Ocean's bosom, leave the coast,
Till, in the distance, Italy is lost!--
Less wonderful the bays which Nature forms,
And less secure against assailing storms:
Here rides the wave-worn bark, devoid of fear;
For Baian skiffs might ply with safety here.
The joyful crew, with shaven crowns, relate
Their timely rescue from the jaws of fate;
On every ill a pomp of words bestow,
And dwell delighted on the tale of woe.
Go then, my boys--but let no boding strain
Break on the sacred silence--dress the fane
With garlands, bind the sod with ribbons gay,
And on the knives the salted offering lay:
This done, I'll speed, myself the rites to share,
And finish what remains, with pious care.
Then, hastening home, where chaplets of sweet flowers
Bedeck my Lares, dear, domestic Powers!
I'll offer incense there, and at the shrine
Of highest Jove, my father's god, and mine;
There will I scatter every bud that blows,
And every tint the various violet knows.
All savors here of joy; luxuriant bay
O'ershades my portal, while the taper's ray
Anticipates the feast, and chides the tardy day:
Nor think, Corvinus, interest fires my breast:
Catullus, for whose sake my house is dress'd,
Has three sweet boys, who all such hopes destroy,
And nobler views excite my boundless joy.
Yet who besides, on such a barren friend,
Would waste a sickly pullet? who would spend
So vast a treasure, where no hopes prevail,
Or, for a FATHER, sacrifice a quail?--
But should the symptoms of a slight disease
The childless Paccius or Gallita seize,
Legions of flatterers to the fanes repair,
And hang in rows their votive tablets there.
Nay, some with vows of hecatombs will come--
For yet no elephants are sold at Rome;
The breed, to Latium and to us unknown,
Is only found beneath the burning zone:
Thence to our shore, by swarthy Moors conveyed,
They roam at large through the Rutulian shade,
Kept for the imperial pleasure, envied fate!
And sacred from the subject, and the state.
Though their progenitors, in days of yore,
Did worthy service, and to battle bore
Whole cohorts; taught the general's voice to know,
And rush, themselves an army, on the foe.
But what avails their worth! could gold obtain
So rare a creature, worth might plead in vain:
Novius, without delay, their blood would shed,
To raise his Paccius from affliction's bed;
An offering, sacred to the great design,
And worthy of the votary and the shrine!
Pacuvius, did our laws the crime allow,
The fairest of his numerous slaves would vow;
The blooming boy, the love-inspiring maid,
With garlands crown, and to the temple lead;
Nay, seize his Iphigene, prepared to wed,
And drag her to the altar, from the bed;
Though hopeless, like the Grecian sire, to find,
In happy hour, the substituted hind.
And who shall say my countryman does ill?
A thousand ships are trifles to a Will!
For Paccius, should the fates his health restore,
May cancel every item framed before
(Won by his friend's vast merits, and beset,
On all sides, by the inextricable net),
And, in one line, convey plate, jewels, gold,
Lands, every thing to him, "to have and hold."
With victory crowned, Pacuvius struts along,
And smiles contemptuous on the baffled throng;
Then counts his gains, and deems himself o'erpaid
For the cheap murder of one wretched maid.
Health to the man! and may he THUS get more
Than Nero plundered! pile his shining store
High, mountain high; in years a Nestor prove,
And, loving none, ne'er know another's love!