To Annæus Cornutus

PERSIUS. Poets are wont a hundred mouths to ask,A hundred tongues--whate'er the purposed task;Whether a tragic tale of Pelops' lineFor the sad actor, with deep mouth, to whine;Or Epic lay;--the Parthian winged with fear,And wrenching from his groin the Roman spear.CORNUTUS. Heavens! to what purpose (sure I heard thee wrong),Tend those huge gobbets of robustious song,Which, struggling into day, distend thy lungs,And need a hundred mouths, a hundred tongues?Let fustian bards to Helicon repair,And suck the spongy fogs that hover there,Bards, in whose fervid brains, while sense recoils,The pot of Progne, or Thyestes boils,Dull Glyco's feast!--But what canst thou propose?Puffed by thy heaving lungs no metal glows;Nor dost thou, mumbling o'er some close-spent strain,Croak the grave nothings of an idle brain;Nor swell, until thy cheeks, with thundering sound,Displode, and spurt their airy froth around.Confined to common life, thy numbers flow,And neither soar too high, nor sink too low;There strength and ease in graceful union meet,Though polished, subtle, and though poignant, sweet;Yet powerful to abash the front of crime,And crimson error's cheek with sportive rhyme.O still be this thy study, this thy care:Leave to Mycenæ's prince his horrid fare,His head and feet; and seek, with Roman taste,For Roman food--a plain but pure repast.PERSIUS. Mistake me not. Far other thoughts engageMy mind, Cornutus, than to swell my pageWith air-blown trifles, impotent and vain,And grace, with noisy pomp, an empty strain.Oh, no: the world shut out, 'tis my design,To open (prompted by the inspiring Nine)The close recesses of my breast, and bareTo your keen eye each thought, each feeling, there;Yes, best of friends! 'tis now my wish to proveHow much you fill my heart, engross my love.Ring then--for, to your practiced ear, the soundWill show the solid, and where guile is foundBeneath the varnished tongue: for THIS, in fine,I dared to wish a hundred voices mine;Proud to declare, in language void of art,How deep your form is rooted in my heart,And paint, in words--ah! could they paint the whole--The ineffable sensations of my soul.When first I laid the purple by, and free,Yet trembling at my new-felt liberty,Approached the hearth, and on the Lares hungThe bulla, from my willing neck unstrung;When gay associates, sporting at my side.And the white boss, displayed with conscious pride,Gave me, unchecked, the haunts of vice to trace,And throw my wandering eyes on every face,When life's perplexing maze before me lay,And error, heedless of the better way,To straggling paths, far from the route of truth,Woo'd, with blind confidence, my timorous youth,I fled to you, Cornutus, pleased to restMy hopes and fears on your Socratic breast,Nor did you, gentle Sage, the charge decline:Then, dextrous to beguile, your steady lineReclaimed, I know not by what winning force,My morals, warped from virtue's straighter course;While reason pressed incumbent on my soul,That struggled to receive the strong control,And took like wax, tempered by plastic skill;The form your hand imposed; and bears it still!Can I forget how many a summer's day,Spent in your converse, stole, unmarked, away?Or how, while listening with increased delight,I snatched from feasts the earlier hours of night?--One time (for to your bosom still I grew),One time of study, and of rest, we knew;One frugal board where, every care resigned,An hour of blameless mirth relaxed the mind.And sure our lives, which thus accordant move(Indulge me here, Cornutus), clearly proveThat both are subject to the self-same law,And from one horoscope their fortunes draw;And whether Destiny's unerring doomIn equal Libra poised our days to come;Or friendship's holy hour our fates combined,And to the Twins a sacred charge assigned;Or Jove, benignant, broke the gloomy spellBy angry Saturn wove;--I know not well--But sure some star there is, whose bland controlSubdues, to yours, the temper of my soul!Countless the various species of mankind,Countless the shades which separate mind from mind;No general object of desire is known;Each has his will, and each pursues his own;With Latian wares, one roams the Eastern main,To purchase spice, and cummin's blanching grain;Another, gorged with dainties, swilled with wine,Fattens in sloth, and snores out life, supine;This loves the Campus; that, destructive play;And those, in wanton dalliance melt away:--But when the knotty gout their strength has broke,And their dry joints crack like some withered oak,Then they look back, confounded and aghast,On the gross days in fogs and vapors past;With late regret the waste of life deplore,No purpose gained, and time, alas! no more.But you, my friend, whom nobler views delight,To pallid vigils give the studious night;Cleanse youthful breasts from every noxious weed,And sow the tilth with Cleanthean seed.There seek, ye young, ye old, secure to findThat certain end which stays the wavering mind;Stores, which endure, when other means decay,Through life's last stage, a sad and cheerless way."Right; and to-morrow this shall be our care."Alas! to-morrow, like to-day, will fare."What! is one day, forsooth, so great a boon?"But when it comes (and come it will too soon),Reflect, that yesterday's to-morrow's o'er.--Thus "one to-morrow! one to-morrow! more,"Have seen long years before them fade away;And still appear no nearer than to-day!So while the wheels on different axles roll,In vain (though governed by the self-same pole)The hindmost to o'ertake the foremost tries:Fast as the one pursues the other flies!FREEDOM, in truth, it steads us much to have:Not that by which each manumitted slave,Each Publius, with his tally, may obtainA casual dole of coarse and damaged grain.--O souls! involved in Error's thickest shade,Who think a Roman with one turn is made!Look on this paltry groom, this Dama here,Who at three farthings would be prized too dear;This blear-eyed scoundrel, who your husks would steal,And outface truth to hide the starving meal;Yet--let his master twirl this knave about,And MARCUS DAMA in a trice steps out!Amazing! MARCUS surety?--yet distrust!MARCUS your judge?--yet fear a doom unjust!MARCUS avouch it?--then the fact is clear.The writings!--set your hand, good MARCUS, here."This is mere liberty--a name, alone:Yet this is all the cap can make our own."Sure, there's no other. All mankind agreeThat those who live without control are free:I live without control; and therefore holdMyself more free than Brutus was of old."Absurdly put; a Stoic cries, whose ear,Rinsed with sharp vinegar, is quick to hear:True;--all who live without control are free;But that YOU live so, I can ne'er agree."No? From the Prætor's wand when I withdrew,Lord of myself, why, might I not pursueMy pleasure unrestrained, respect still hadTo what the rubric of the law forbad?"Listen--but first your brows from anger clear,And bid your nose dismiss that rising sneer;Listen, while I the genuine truth impart,And root those old wives' fables from your heart.It was not, is not in the "Prætor's wand,"To gift a fool with power, to understandThe nicer shades of duty, and educe,From short and rapid life, its end and use;The laboring hind shall sooner seize the quill,And strike the lyre with all a master's skill.Reason condemns the thought, with mien severe,And drops this maxim in the secret ear,"Forbear to venture, with preposterous toil,On what, in venturing, you are sure to spoil."In this plain sense of what is just and rightThe laws of nature and of man unite;That Inexperience should some caution show,And spare to reach at what she does not know.Prescribe you hellebore! without the skillTo weigh the ingredients, or compound the pill?--Physic, alarmed, the rash attempt withstands,And wrests the dangerous mixture from your hands.Should the rude clown, skilled in no star to guideHis dubious course, rush on the trackless tide,Would not Palemon at the fact exclaim,And swear the world had lost all sense of shame!Say, is it yours, by wisdom's steady rays,To walk secure through life's entangled maze?Yours to discern the specious from the true,And where the gilt conceals the brass from view?Speak, can you mark, with some appropriate sign,What to pursue, and what, in turn, decline?Does moderation all your wishes guide,And temperance at your cheerful board preside?Do friends your love experience? are your storesNow dealt with closed and now with open doors,As fit occasion calls? Can you restrainThe eager appetite of sordid gain?Nor feel, when in the mire a doit, you note,Mercurial spittle gurgle in your throat?If you can say, and truly, "THESE ARE MINE,And THIS I CAN:"--suffice it. I declineAll farther question; you are wise and free,No less by Jove's than by the law's decree.But if, good Marcus, you who formed so lateOne of our batch, of our enslaved estate,Beneath a specious outside, still retainThe foul contagion of your ancient strain;If the sly fox still burrow in some part,Some secret corner, of your tainted heart;I straight retract the freedom which I gave,And hold your Dama still, and still a slave!Reason concedes you nothing. Let us try.Thrust forth your finger. "See." O, heavens, awry!Yet what so trifling?--But, though altars smoke,Though clouds of incense every god invoke,In vain you sue, one drachm of RIGHT to find,One scruple, lurking in the foolish mind.Nature abhors the mixture; the rude clownAs well may lay his spade and mattock down,And with light foot and agile limbs prepareTo dance three steps with soft Bathyllus' air!"Still I am free." You! subject to the swayOf countless masters, FREE! What datum, pray,Supports your claim? Is there no other yokeThan that which, from your neck, the Prætor broke!"Go, bear these scrapers to the bath with speed;What! loitering, knave?"--Here's servitude indeed!Yet you unmoved the angry sounds would hear;You owe no duty, and can know no fear.But if within you feel the strong control--If stormy passions lord it o'er your soul,Are you more free than he whom threatenings urgeTo bear the strigils and escape the scourge?'Tis morn; yet sunk in sloth you snoring lie."Up! up!" cries Avarice, "and to business hie;Nay, stir." I will not. Still she presses, "Rise!"I can not. "But you must and shall," she cries.And to what purpose? "This a question! Go,Bear fish to Pontus, and bring wines from Co;Bring ebon, flax, whate'er the East supplies,Musk for perfumes, and gums for sacrifice:Prevent the mart, and the first pepper takeFrom the tired camel ere his thirst he slake.Traffic forswear, if interest intervene"--But Jove will overhear me.--"Hold, my spleen!O dolt; but, mark--that thumb will bore and boreThe empty salt (scraped to the quick before)For one poor grain, a vapid meal to mend,If you aspire to thrive with Jove your friend!"You rouse (for who can truths like these withstand?),Victual your slaves, and urge them to the strand.Prepared in haste to follow; and, ere now,Had to the Ægean turned your vent'rous prow,But that sly Luxury the process eyed,Waylaid your desperate steps, and, taunting, cried,"Ho, madman, whither, in this hasty plight?What passion drives you forth? what furies fright?Whole urns of hellebore might hope in vainTo cool this high-wrought fever of the brain.What! quit your peaceful couch, renounce your ease,To rush on hardships, and to dare the seas!And while a broken plank supports your meat,And a coiled cable proves your softest seat,Suck from squab jugs that pitchy scents exhale,The seaman's beverage, sour at once and stale!And all for what? that sums, which now are lent,At modest five, may sweat out twelve per cent.!--"O rather cultivate the joys of sense,And crop the sweets which youth and health dispense;Give the light hours to banquets, love, and wine:THESE are the zest of life, and THESE are mine!Dust and a shade are all you soon must be:Live, thou, while yet you may. Time presses.--See!Even while I speak, the present is becomeThe past, and lessens still life's little sum."Now, sir, decide; shall this, or that, command?Alas, the bait, displayed on either hand,Distracts your choice:--but, ponder as you may,Of this be sure; both, with alternate sway,Will lord it o'er you, while, with slavish fears,From side to side your doubtful duty veers.Nor must you, though in some auspicious hourYou spurn their mandate, and resist their power,At once conclude their future influence vain:--With struggling hard the dog may snap his chain;Yet little freedom from the effort find,If, as he flies, he trails its length behind."Yes, I am fixed; to Love a long adieu!--Nay, smile not, Davus; you will find it true."So, while his nails, gnawn to the quick, yet bled,The sage Chærestratus, deep-musing, said.--"Shall I my virtuous ancestry defame,Consume my fortune, and disgrace my name,While, at a harlot's wanton threshold laid,Darkling, I whine my drunken serenade!"Tis nobly spoken:--Let a lamb be broughtTo the Twin Powers that this deliverance wrought."But--if I quit her, will she not complain?Will she not grieve? Good Davus, think again."Fond trifler! you will find her "grief" too late;When the red slipper rattles round your pate,Vindictive of the mad attempt to foilHer potent spell, and all-involving toil.Dismissed, you storm and bluster: hark! she callsAnd, at the word, your boasted manhood falls."Mark, Davus; of her own accord, she sues!Mark, she invites me! Can I now refuse?"Yes, Now, and EVER. If you left her doorWhole and entire, you must return no more.Right. This is He, the man whom I demand;This, Davus; not the creature of a wandWaved by some foolish lictor.--And is he,This master of himself, this truly free,Who marks the dazzling lure Ambition spreads,And headlong follows where the meteor leads?"Watch the nice hour, and on the scrambling tribesPour, without stint, your mercenary bribes,Vetches and pulse; that, many a year gone by,Graybeards, as basking in the sun they lie,May boast how much your Floral Games surpast,In cost and splendor, those they witnessed last!"A glorious motive! And on Herod's day,When every room is decked in meet array,And lamps along the greasy windows spread,Profuse of flowers, gross, oily vapors shed;When the vast tunny's tail in pickle swims,And the crude must foams o'er the pitcher's brims;You mutter secret prayers, by fear devised,And dread the sabbaths of the circumcised!Then a cracked egg-shell fills you with affright,And ghosts and goblins haunt your sleepless night.Last, the blind priestess, with her sistrum shrill,And Galli, huge and high, a dread instillOf gods, prepared to vex the human frameWith dropsies, palsies, ills of every name,Unless the trembling victim champ, in bed,Thrice every morn, on a charmed garlic-head.Preach to the martial throng these lofty strains,And lo! some chief more famed for bulk than brains,Some vast Vulfenius, blessed with lungs of brass,Laughs loud and long at the scholastic ass;And, for a clipt cent-piece, sets, by the tale,A hundred Greek philosophers to sale!