Classic Poem

Since you alone sustain the state,
Midst things so various and so great,
And while your arms our coast defend,
To moral pulchritude attend,
Correcting us with wholesome laws,
'Twere sin against the common cause
Was I to pen a tedious strain,
Thy time, Augustus, to detain.
Rome's Founder, Bacchus, and the seed
Of Leda, men of might in deed,
And for their works in heav'n receiv'd,
Yet while on earth conjointly griev'd,
That human favour, human fame,
By no means answer'd to their claim,
As cultivators of mankind,
That special property assign'd,
And cities built, and lands dispos'd,
And finally dissentions clos'd.
The man that brought the Hydra down,
And beasts of horrible renown
Subdu'd by his predestin'd toil,
Found yet there was a foe to foil,
Ev'n Envy, whose infernal blast
Cou'd not be worsted but the last.
HE galls, whose merits overbear
The puny wits, with lust'rous glare,
Hated while he retains his breath,
And lov'd for nothing but his death.
To YOU , tho' with us, we bestow
The full-blown honours, as they grow,
And to your name those altars rear,
Which men upon their oath revere,
Confessing that a man like thee,
Nor has been, nor again shall be.
But here your people, wise to own
The truth in this one point alone,
(That is to place your matchless fame
Above each Greek and Roman name)
Cannot be made, at any rate,
Thus other things to estimate,
And still their futile venom spawn,
On all that are not dead and gone:
Such favourers of dusty shelves,
They will assert the NINE themselves
Upon mount Alban did ordain
Those tables that the laws contain;
The leagues our antient monarchs made,
With neighbours for their mutual aid,
The Pontiff's rolls, and each record
The Augurs College keeps in ward.
If, as the oldest Greeks are best,
You say the same thing of the rest
And prove our writers by that test;
Your tongue at once all truth disowns,
Nuts have no shells, nor olives stones.
We've reached the highest pitch in arts,
In painting, music, shew our parts
And wrestle cleaner on the stage
Than active Greeks, in any age.
If keeping to a certain date,
Like wine one's poems meliorate:
I fain wou'd know the very year
That makes this sage decision clear.
Who died an hundred years ago,
Is he an ancient good or no?
Or must he rather be referr'd,
And scorn'd amongst the modern herd?
Here something positive will suit,
To put the matter past dispute —
Well he's an ancient true and good,
Who for an hundred years has stood:
But what for him do you decide
Who month or year his junior dy'd?
Him will you condescend to place,
Amongst the vet'rans in this case,
Or such as are condemn'd to scoff
Both now and many ages off?
Him then you say, we may be bold
In honesty, to rank as old
Who did the junior depart
One month, or year — with all my heart —
From your concessions if you please,
I pull the tail off by degrees,
And certainly shall dock the mare
If once I work it hair by hair,
Till like an heap that falls to ground,
I my opponent shall confound,
Who to the almanacs adheres,
And reckons eminence by years;
And nothing will applaud at all
But trophies from a funeral.
Ennius th'ingenious and the strong,
A second Homer for his song,
(As critics estimate the bard)
Seems now but lightly to regard
His dreams of what shou'd come to pass,
And figments of Pythagoras.
Naevius, altho' he be not read,
Is fresh in every person's head,
All ancient verse is held so dread.
When critic disputants contest,
Which of the poets is the best,
Pacuvius is for learning praised,
And Accius reckon'd great and rais'd ;
Afranius all the town admit
His gown wou'd on Menander fit.
Plautus still keeps each sketch in view,
Sicilian Epicharmus drew:
Caecilius did in weight excel,
And Terence in conducting well.
These mighty Rome by heart has got,
With these cram'd theatres are hot.
These are the poets of the stage
From Livius to the present age.
Sometimes the populace are right,
Sometimes remote from reason quite.
If poets of the former days
At such a rate th'admirers praise,
So that they nothing will prefer
Or ev'n compare with them, they err;
If they but fairly wou'd confess,
Some things are in too stale a dress,
Most lines put down too harsh and rough,
And many errant idle stuff,
Then are they wisemen, and agree
With what is very truth — and me.
I do not for my part devote
To silence, all that Livius wrote,
Who when a boy, that flogging cull
Orbilius hammer'd in my skull,
But am astonish'd they appear
To any beautiful and near
To finish'd — for 'mongst many lines
If but one bright expression shines,
And midst the lamentable whole,
One verse or two harmonious roll,
In every righteous man's despite
It carries off th'edition quite.
'Tis wrath — when works they discommend,
Not that they're stupid or ill penn'd,
But merely for their modern date:
And for the ancients arrogate
Rewards and reputation too,
When pardon barely is their due.
Shou'd a man question in this age
If Atta tread the essenc'd stage
With grace or not, our sires wou'd roar
That modesty is now no more,
Those parts by me to be disdain'd,
Whence grave Esopus glory gain'd,
And which learn'd Roscius too sustain'd.
Because they think there's nothing right
But which is pleasing in their sight,
Or that they hold themselves disgrace't
If once their juniors set the taste ,
And that when young (they must allow)
They learnt, what they shou'd cancel now.
Who Numa's Salian hymn wou'd praise
And such strange stuff, which now a days
Cannot be understood when read,
Does not so much applaud the dead,
As his invidious taunts he show'rs
On us and every thing of ours.
But if in Greece new things had been
Thus odious, how shou'd we have seen
One ancient, how had they remain'd
With which we all are entertain'd?
When first upon a gen'ral peace
They learn'd to play the fool in Greece,
And into luxury to slide
By fortune fav'ring wind and tide,
Now wrestlers, now the race alone,
Now works in iv'ry or in stone,
Now busts, now pictures were admir'd
Thro' which the very soul transpired.
Now were they fond of pipe, now plays,
Full of those wild infantine ways,
Like little misses when they're nurst
Soon slighting what so pleas'd at first.
Nought sweeten'd and nought made them sour
But had mutations every hour.
Such were the things that peace cou'd do,
And all the prosp'rous gales that blew.
In Rome it was in much repute,
And held a pleasant task to boot,
Betimes each morning to be found
And to a client laws expound;
Cash with great caution to put out;
To be attentively devout
To hear the old — the young direct
How wealth may grow and lust be check'd.
Light fashion now has chang'd our mind,
All are to verse alone inclin'd,
Each boy and rigid elder's crown'd
With bays, and as the cup goes round
At supper will their lines rehearse —
Ev'n I, who swear I make no verse,
Am found a Parthian to outlie,
And ere the Sun's a second high,
Call for my ink with quick demand,
My pen, my paper and my stand.
A man that knows not how to steer
A ship, will such an office fear;
No one with drugs the sick will aid
Who was not 'prentice to the trade —
They're doctors who the art profess,
Smiths use their hammers with address,
But wits or blockheads, wrong or right,
We one and all must verse indite.
But yet this error in degree
This tincture of insanity
How much the virtues it can serve
Please in this manner to observe.
The poet seldom on the whole
Has got an avaricious soul,
Verse is his study and delight —
At detriments of fire and flight
Of servants he securely smiles,
By craft no neighbour he beguiles,
No pupil of his trust, as fed
On homely husks and second bread:
Tho' slow and useless in the war,
Rome's weal is that he's ever for,
And if you'll grant me this withal
That great things are upheld by small,
The infant's mouth the poets frame,
And tune their language lisping-lame,
Weans from bad words their ears betimes,
With friendly care their heart sublimes;
Corrects their rudeness, all the seeds
Of envy or of passion weeds;
Records good actions with the pen
And in the lives of glorious men
Instructs hereafter; to the poor
And weakly gives a gentle cure.
How shou'd good boys and girls regard
Their pray'rs, had heav'n denied a bard!
The chorus for heav'n's aid applies
And feels the present deities,
Sweet in mysterious pray'r the rain
They from the highest heav'n obtain,
Avert disease, stave dang'rous fears
Bring peace with rich and fruitful years:
The gods above, the pow'rs below
By verse their consolation know.
Our ancient rustics hale and rough,
And with a little bless'd enough,
Soothing upon their garner'd grain
Their limbs and minds, which cou'd sustain,
In hopes of respite, grievous pain;
With children and with faithful wife,
And fellow-craft in rural life,
The goddess Tellus with a swine,
Sylvanus with the milk and kine,
All worshipp'd, and with wine and flow'rs
The genius of the mental pow'rs
Who's mindful still that life is fleet
And thence invites to make it sweet.
From sports like these driv'n to excess
Came Fescennine licentiousness,
Which pour'd out clownish verse profuse
In dialogue and gross abuse,
Which grateful liberty each year
Was rather cheerful than severe.
At length the jest too far inhanc'd
To downright open rage advanc'd,
And while impunity remain'd
Upon ingenuous houses gain'd,
The suff'rers from their bloody fangs
Were tortur'd with most cruel pangs,
And many, tho' unhurt, were grieved,
That men such injuries receiv'd.
The senate made a law in fine
Which did a penalty injoin,
If any man they shou'd asperse
And point out in satiric verse,
They were oblig'd to change their plan
For fear of beating, and began
Their works poetic to dispense
For pleasure and benevolence.
Bow'd to our arms, the captive Greece
Took the fierce victor on the peace
And introduced politer arts
In Italy's more rustic parts;
Thus lines of barbarism and scoff,
Prais'd in Saturnian times, flow'd off,
And elegance, which must be neat
Did squalled filthiness defeat.
Yet this (as former times) retains
Some traces of the rough remains.
'Twas late ere they their talents tried
And to the Grecian style applied;
And both the Punic wars were o'er
Ere they set by th'Athenian lore,
And made enquiry by degrees,
What Aeschylus, and Sophocles,
And Thespis, had of useful vein,
And strove too, if they might attain
Each author's beauties to translate,
Conscious of natures high and great.
For spirit we've enough in Rome,
And wear with grace the Tragic plume,
But cannot bear to be correct,
And hate a blot as a defect.
The comic muse that draws her scene
From things of common life and mean,
Is thought to smell too much of sweat:
But the less favour it can get,
The more of study it shou'd take.
Observe how Plautus paints his rake,
How stupidly th'old huncks is drawn,
And crafty bawds that huff and fawn;
How much Dorsennus' muse delights
In eating and in parasites,
Who treads the stage an errant slouch
For while there's money in his pouch,
With him is no concern at all
Whether the Drama stand or fall.
He, whom vain-glory's chariot draws
Upon the stage for mere applause,
Faints when the audience languid grows,
But when they're lively puffs and blows.
So light, so trivial are the things
By which a spirit flags or springs,
That's covetous of praise — Farewel
All thought in writing to excel,
If glory giv'n or ta'en away
Make me look fat or lean a day —
This too makes many a bard withold
And well may terrify the bold,
That those who're of no worth possess'd
Or name, out-number all the rest,
Unlearn'd and dolts and prone to box
When a knight's taste their fancy shocks:
These midst the most inchanting airs
Demand the wrestlers and the bears,
For in all such the mob delights:
Nay ev'n the pleasure of our knights,
Driv'n from judicious ears, decoys
Th'uncertain eyes to gewgaw toys.
— Three or four hours the curtain's drawn
And horse and foot at once come on,
March o'er the stage with hapless kings,
Their hands behind them tied in slings,
Then chariots, litters, ships and wains
And slaves with iv'ry drag'd in chains,
And Corinth, to conclude the whole,
Is carried on a cloth and pole.
Democritus, was he on earth,
Wou'd fairly burst his sides with mirth,
To see the people staring hard
Upon some strange camelo-pard,
Or on an elephant all white;
The mob wou'd more attract his sight,
Than all the fun upon the stage.
Mean time he'd find the author's rage,
On a deaf ass was spent in vain,
For who can rant in such a strain,
As all that din to over-bear,
With which they drown both house and play'r?
You'd think Garganian forests roar,
Or billows on the Tuscan shore:
With so much clamour from their hearts,
The foreign gems, and wealth, and arts,
In which the actor's trick'd, are view'd;
For when he comes, in claps renew'd,
The right-hand and the left agree —
Has he said any thing? — Not he —
Whence therefore all this wond'rous glee?
From robe of true Tarentian die,
Whose tints may with the violet vie.
And lest you think that I degrade
With sparing praise, what I'm affraid
To undertake myself, when done
By others for a general run,
Know then, that far above my hopes
That poet treads the highest ropes,
With fictious grief who wounds my breast,
Inflames, serenes, disturbs my rest
With magic terrors, that he makes,
And now to Thebes, now Athens takes.
But Caesar, take a little care
Of writers, that the stage forbear,
Who for the closet bards commence,
And dread an haughty audience:
So shall that library be fill'd
To Phoebus which you rose to build,
And bards have spurs for new essays,
To gain the Heliconian bays.
We poets oft (to mar the plot
Of our own comrades) are, god wot,
Too apt to do ourselves much wrong,
When we present th' obtrusive song
To thoughtful patrons, when in league
With sleepy dulness, thro' fatigue:
When we are pain'd, if any friend
Has dar'd to call one line ill-penn'd;
When tho' unask'd, we read again
The place that did small praise obtain,
Griev'd that our works so very clear,
And finely spun did not appear ,
When we indulge our hopes, in fine,
That when our verses we divine,
You'll cite us of your own accord,
Force us to write for a reward,
Nor dream of want, when you're a Lord.
And yet 'tis worth the while to know,
Who shou'd be virtue's priest below,
Who gives to their immortal tome
Your worth in battle and at home,
Themes far too sacred for a bard
That is not worthy prime regard.
Lov'd by the Macedonian youth
Was Choerilus, whose verse uncouth,
And vilely made, cou'd yet purloin
An hoard of royal Philip's coin.
But as the ink not manag'd right
Leaves blots, so scriblers that indite
Bald verses, must their theme debase,
And the most shining acts disgrace.
This same king, who cou'd verses buy
So stupid, at a price so high,
Cou'd make an edict of restraint,
That not a hand his face shou'd paint
Except Apelles, nor in brass
Shou'd bustos for his likeness pass,
Save form'd in fam'd Lysippus' mould —
Now shou'd a person make so bold,
This monarch's judgment to refer
To books and bards, one might aver,
Or even undertake to swear,
His birth was in Boeotian air.
But those, your fav'rite sons of song,
Virgil and Varius, do not wrong
Your judgment, or the gifts that crown
Theirs and the donor's just renown.
Nor are the lineaments more just,
When cast into a brazen bust,
Than in th'immortal poet's lays
Appear the spirit and the ways
Of heroes — I am none of those
Who wou'd prefer your creeping prose,
To the describing mighty acts,
Earths, rivers, and extensive tracts,
And tow'rs upon the mountains built,
And kingdoms of barbarian guilt,
With all the wars constrain'd to cease,
By proclamation of your peace,
And Janus' temple lock'd and barr'd,
To stand for Concord upon guard,
And Rome, that now the Parthians dread,
Because Augustus is our head.
All this supposing I cou'd do,
As well as is my wish, is true.
But nor your grandeur will admit
Of grov'lers, nor can I think fit,
In modesty a theme to try,
Which for my size is far too high.
An author's zeal that's too intense,
Will urge his folly to offence;
But most so, when he acts his part
In numbers, and poetic art:
For things ridiculously wrong,
Will to the mem'ry stick more strong,
Than passages of better thought,
For praise and admiration wrote.
Were I a patron I shou'd feel
Uneasiness for ill-tim'd zeal,
Nor like by any means to spy
My ugly likeness in a die,
Nor choose to be a heroe call'd,
In verses miserably bald,
Lest I shou'd blush, when forc'd to take
The gifts fat dulness comes to make,
And in an open trunk repine,
To see my author's name and mine;
Or, carried off, those streets behold,
Where all-spice and perfumes are sold,
And fritter'd into many a scrap,
Be doom'd all sorts of trash to wrap.