Satire VI (Gifford)

Say, have the wintry storms, which round us beat,
Chased thee, my Bassus, to thy Sabine seat?
Does music there thy sacred leisure fill,
While the strings quicken to thy manly quill?--
O skilled, in matchless numbers, to disclose
How first from Night this fair creation rose;
And kindling, as the lofty themes inspire,
To smite, with daring hand, the Latian lyre!
Anon, with youth and youth's delights to toy,
And give the dancing chords to love and joy;
Or wake, with moral touch, to accents sage,
And hymn the heroes of a nobler age!
To me, while tempests howl and billows rise,
Liguria's coast a warm retreat supplies,
Where the huge cliffs an ample front display,
And, deep within, recedes the sheltering bay.
The Port of Luna, friends, is worth your note--
So, in his sober moments, Ennius wrote,
When, all his dreams of transmigration past,
He found himself plain Quintus at the last!
Here to repose I give the cheerful day,
Careless of what the vulgar think or say;
Or what the South, from Afric's burning air,
Unfriendly to the fold, may haply bear:
And careless still, though richer herbage crown
My neighbors' fields, or heavier crops embrown.
--Nor, Bassus, though capricious Fortune grace
Thus with her smiles a low-bred, low-born race,
Will e'er thy friend, for that, let Envy plow,
One careful furrow on his open brow;
Give crooked age upon his youth to steal,
Defraud his table of one generous meal;
Or, stooping o'er the dregs of mothery wine,
Touch, with suspicious nose, the sacred sign.
But inclinations vary:--and the Power
That beams, ascendant, on the natal hour,
Even Twins produces of discordant souls,
And tempers, wide asunder as the poles.
The one on birthdays, and on those alone,
Prepares (but with a forecast all his own)
On tunny-pickle, from the shops, to dine,
And dips his withered pot-herbs in the brine;
Trembles the pepper from his hands to trust,
And sprinkles, grain by grain, the sacred dust.
The other, large of soul, exhausts his hoard,
While yet a stripling, at the festive board.
To USE my fortune, Bassus, I intend:
Nor, therefore, deem me so profuse, my friend,
So prodigally vain, as to afford
The costly turbot for my freedmen's board;
Or so expert in flavors, as to show
How, by the relish, thrush from thrush I know.
"Live to your means"--'tis wisdom's voice you hear--
And freely grind the produce of the year:
What scruples check you? Ply the hoe and spade,
And lo! another crop is in the blade.
True; but the claims of duty caution crave.
A friend, scarce rescued from the Ionian wave,
Grasps a projecting rock, while in the deep
His treasures, with his prayers, unheeded sleep:
I see him stretched, desponding, on the ground.
His tutelary gods all wrecked around,
His bark dispersed in fragments o'er the tide,
And sea-mews sporting on the ruins wide.
Sell, then, a pittance ('tis my prompt advice)
Of this your land, and send your friend the price;
Lest, with a pictured storm, forlorn and poor,
He ask cheap charity from door to door.
"But then, my angry heir, displeased to find
His prospects lessened by an act so kind,
May slight my obsequies; and, in return,
Give my cold ashes to a scentless urn;
Reckless what vapid drugs he flings thereon,
Adulterate cassia, or dead cinnamon!--
Can I (bethink in time) my means impair,
And with impunity provoke my heir?"
--Here Bestius rails--"A plague on Greece," he cries,
"And all her pedants!--there the evil lies;
For since their mawkish, their enervate lore,
With dates and pepper, cursed our luckless shore,
Luxury has tainted all; and plowmen spoil
Their wholesome barley-broth with luscious oil."
Heavens! can you stretch (to fears like these a slave)
Your fond solicitude beyond the grave?
Away!--But thou, my heir, whoe'er thou art,
Step from the crowd, and let us talk apart.
Hearest thou the news? Cæsar has won the day
(So, from the camp, his laureled missives say),
And Germany is ours! The city wakes,
And from her altars the cold ashes shakes.--
Lo! from the imperial spoils, Cæsonia brings
Arms, and the martial robes of conquered kings,
To deck the temples; while, on either hand,
Chariots of war and bulky captives stand
In long array. I, too, my joy to prove,
Will to the emperor's Genius, and to Jove,
Devote, in gratitude for deeds so rare,
Two hundred well-matched fencers, pair by pair.
Who blames--who ventures to forbid me? You?
Woe to your future prospects! if you do.
--And, sir, not this alone; for I have vowed
A supplemental largess to the crowd,
Of corn and oil. What! muttering still? draw near,
And speak aloud, for once, that I may hear.
"My means are not so low that I should care
For that poor pittance you may leave your heir."
Just as you please: but were I, sir, bereft
Of all my kin; no aunt, no uncle left;
No nephew, niece; were all my cousins gone,
And all my cousins' cousins, every one,
Aricia soon some Manius would supply,
Well pleased to take that "pittance," when I die.
"Manius! a beggar of the first degree,
A son of earth, your heir!" Nay, question me,
Ask who my grandsire's sire? I know not well,
And yet, on recollection, I might tell;
But urge me one step farther--I am mute:
A son of earth, like Manius, past dispute.
Thus his descent and mine are equal proved,
And we at last are cousins, though removed.
But why should you, who still before me run,
Require my torch ere yet the race be won?
Think me your Mercury: Lo! here I stand,
As painters represent him, purse in hand:
Will you, or not, the proffered boon receive,
And take, with thankfulness, whate'er I leave?
Something, you murmur, of the heap is spent.
True: as occasion called it freely went;
In life 'twas mine: but death your chance secures,
And what remains, or more or less, is yours.
Of Tadius' legacy no questions raise,
Nor turn upon me with a grandsire-phrase,
"Live on the interest of your fortune, boy;
To touch the principal is to destroy."
"What, after all, may I expect to have?"
Expect!--Pour oil upon my viands, slave,
Pour with unsparing hand! shall my best cheer
On high and solemn days be the singed ear
Of some tough, smoke-dried hog, with nettles drest;
That your descendant, while in earth I rest,
May gorge on dainties, and, when lust excites,
Give to patrician beds his wasteful nights?
Shall I, a napless figure, pale and thin,
Glide by, transparent, in a parchment skin,
That he may strut with more than priestly pride,
And swag his portly paunch from side to side?
Go, truck your soul for gain! buy, sell, exchange;
From pole to pole in quest of profit range.
Let none more shrewdly play the factor's part;
None bring his slaves more timely to the mart;
Puff them with happier skill, as caged they stand,
Or clap their well-fed sides with nicer hand.
Double your fortune--treble it--yet more--
'Tis four, six, ten-fold what it was before:
O bound the heap--You, who could yours confine,
Tell me, Chrysippus, how to limit mine!