To Plotius Macrinus (On His Birthday)

Health to my friend! and while my vows I pay,O mark, Macrinus, this auspicious day,Which, to your sum of years already flown,Adds yet another--with a whiter stone.Indulge your Genius, drench in wine your cares:--It is not yours, with mercenary prayersTo ask of Heaven what you would die with shame,Unless you drew the gods aside, to name;While other great ones stand, with down-cast eyes,And with a silent censer tempt the skies!--Hard, hard the task, from the low, muttered prayer,To free the fanes; or find one suppliant there,Who dares to ask but what his state requires,And live to heaven and earth with known desires!Sound sense, integrity, a conscience clear,Are begged aloud, that all at hand may hear:But prayers like these (half whispered, half supprest)The tongue scarce hazards from the conscious breast:O that I could my rich old uncle see,In funeral pomp!--O that some deityTo pots of buried gold would guide my share!O that my ward, whom I succeed as heir,Were once at rest! poor child, he lives in pain,And death to him must be accounted gain.--By wedlock, thrice has Nerius swelled his store,And now--is he a widower once more!These blessings, with due sanctity, to crave,Once, twice, and thrice in Tiber's eddying waveHe dips each morn, and bids the stream conveyThe gathered evils of the night, away!One question, friend:--an easy one, in fine--What are thy thoughts of Jove? My thoughts! Yes; thine.Wouldst thou prefer him to the herd of Rome?To any individual?--But, to whom?To Staius, for example. Heavens! a pause?Which of the two would best dispense the laws?Best shield the unfriended orphan? Good! Now moveThe suit to Staius, late preferred to Jove:--"O Jove! good Jove!" he cries, o'erwhelmed with shame,And must not Jove himself, O Jove! exclaim?Or dost thou think the impious wish forgiven,Because, when thunder shakes the vault of heaven,The bolt innoxious flies o'er thee and thine,To rend the forest oak and mountain pine?--Because, yet livid from the lightning's seath,Thy mouldering corpse (a monument of wrath)Lies in no blasted grove, for public careTo expiate with sacrifice and prayer;Must, therefore, Jove, unsceptred and unfeared,Give to thy ruder mirth his foolish beard?What bribe hast thou to win the Powers divine,Thus, to thy nod? The lungs and lights of swine.Lo! from his little crib, the grandam hoar,Or aunt, well versed in superstitious lore,Snatches the babe; in lustral spittle dipsHer middle finger, and anoints his lipsAnd forehead:--"Charms of potency," she cries,"To break the influence of evil eyes!"The spell complete, she dandles high in airHer starveling hope; and breathes a humble prayer,That heaven would only tender to his handsAll Crassus' houses, all Licinius' lands!--"Let every gazer by his charms be won,And kings and queens aspire to call him son:Contending virgins fly his smiles to meet,And roses spring where'er he sets his feet!"Insane of soul--but I, O Jove, am free.Thou knowest, I trust no nurse with prayers for me:In mercy, then, reject each fond demand,Though, robed in white, she at thy altar stand.This begs for nerves to pain and sickness steeled,A frame of body that shall slowly yieldTo late old age:--'Tis well, enjoy thy wish.--But the huge platter, and high-seasoned dish,Day after day the willing gods withstand,And dash the blessing from their opening hand.That sues for wealth: the laboring ox is slain,And frequent victims woo the "god of gain.""O crown my hearth with plenty and with peace,And give my flocks and herds a large increase!"Madman! how can he, when, from day to day,Steer after steer in offerings melt away?--Still he persists; and still new hopes arise,With harslet and with tripe, to storm the skies."Now swell my harvests! now my fields! now, now,It comes--it comes--auspicious to my vow!"While thus, poor wretch, he hangs 'twixt hope and fear,He starts, in dreadful certainty, to hearHis chest reverberate the hollow groanOf his last piece, to find itself alone?If from my sideboard I should bid you takeGoblets of gold or silver, you would shakeWith eager rapture; drops of joy would start,And your left breast scarce hold your fluttering heart:Hence, you presume the gods are bought and sold;And overlay their busts with captured gold.For, of the brazen brotherhood, the PowerWho sends you dreams, at morning's truer hour,Most purged from phlegm, enjoys your best regards,And a gold beard his prescient skill rewards!Now, from the temples, GOLD has chased the plainAnd frugal ware of Numa's pious reign;.The ritual pots of brass are seen no more,And Vesta's pitchers blaze in burnished ore.O groveling souls! and void of things divine!Why bring our passions to the Immortals' shrine,And judge, from what this CARNAL SENSE delights,Of what is pleasing in their purer sights?THIS, the Calabrian fleece with purple soils,And mingles cassia with our native oils;Tears from the rocky conch its pearly store,And strains the metal from the glowing ore.This, this, indeed, is vicious; yet it tendsTo gladden life, perhaps; and boasts its ends;But you, ye priests (for, sure, ye can), unfold--In heavenly things, what boots this pomp of gold?No more, in truth, than dolls to Venus paid(The toys of childhood), by the riper maid!No; let me bring the Immortals, what the raceOf great Messala, now depraved and base,On their huge charger, can not;--bring a mind,Where legal and where moral sense are joinedWith the pure essence; holy thoughts, that dwellIn the soul's most retired and sacred cell;A bosom dyed in honor's noblest grain,Deep-dyed:--with these let me approach the fane,And Heaven will hear the humble prayer I make,Though all my offering be a barley cake.