Classic Poem

Well, I did say Lucilius penn'd
Lame verses—who's so much his friend,
And fawning dupe, to praise amiss,
As not at least to grant me this?
But that he smartly lash'd the age,
I praise him in the self-same page.
Yet, tho' I this one truth attest,
I cannot grant you all the rest.
For so I might admire each mime,
Laberius wrote, as true sublime.
Wherefore 'tis not enough to win
The hearer's ear, and make him grin,
(Tho' this is merit in degree)
But that the period may run free,
Nor with vain words the ear be tir'd—
There is a brevity requir'd.
The stile too sometimes shou'd of right
Be grave, and often arch and light,
As acting now the poet's part,
And now the pleader to the heart;
And sometime lower'd, to acquit
The part of a familiar wit,
Who will his strength and skill neglect,
The more to heighten the effect.
By satire in a pleasant vein,
A weighty point we oft'ner gain,
Than talking in severer strain.
The writers of the Comic cast,
Who wrote their plays some ages past,
Their works on this foundation rear,
And all are imitable here.
But these Hermogenes the beau,
And ape Demetrius did not know,
Which last, not learning better things,
Still Calvus and Catullus sings.—
But this Lucilius cou'd atchieve
A mighty feat, and interweave
His Latin with a deal of Greek.—
O ye late-learn'd, and still to seek—
To think ought wonderful or hard,
Performed ev'n by the Rhodian bard!—
But yet, they cry, the stile combin'd
Of diff'rent tongues is more refin'd;
As Chian wine is always best,
Well mixt with the Falernian zest.
Now let me fairly ask your muse,
If for your subject you shou'd choose
Petillus his intangled case,
Wou'd you forget your native place
And Roman sire, to inter-lard
Words taken from a foreign bard?
And ape the Canusinian folk,
Where only broken Latin's spoke,
Tho' Pedius and Corvinus sweat
With zeal, and a great pattern set.
To me one time about to speak,
And write my verses all in Greek
Tho' born upon th'Italian coast,
At midnight Romulus his ghost
Appear'd, the hour that dreams are true,
My scheme forbidding to pursue:
‘The plan wou'd be as wise and good,
To carry timber to the wood,
As to augment th'enormous throng
Of Grecian books in prose and song.’
While puff't Alpinus blows his blast,
And butchers Memnon in bombast,
Or Rhine with muddy head displays,
I sport with these satiric lays;
Which nor in Phoebus' temple dare
Be shewn, if Tarpa shou'd be there,
Nor in the play-house give delight,
Nor have a run from night to night.
You, O Fundanius! far surpass
All moderns of the comic class,
While you th'arch dialogue repeat,
How Davus and the doxy cheat
That old huncks Chremes—Pollio sings
In lively verse the deeds of kings;
Varius is masterly and strong,
Unrival'd in th'heroic song;
While all the Muses of the field,
The delicate and pleasant yield
To Virgil—writings of this strain,
Which Varro cou'd attempt in vain,
And certain others, I pretend
In some degree to recommend,
But of inferior rank in Rome
To him, th' original, from whom
I shall not dare to pluck the bays,
That crown his head with so much praise.—
But I objected that his song,
Flow'd oft so muddily along,
That the more part of what he said
Shou'd rather be eras'd, than read.
Well! well! do you so great a clerk,
No fault in Homer's self remark?
Does not Lucilius revise
In wagg'ry Accius' comedies?
And laugh at Ennius as too free,
With his poetic gravity,
When ev'n his noble self he names
No better, than the men he blames?—
What in like manner can impede
But I, who this Lucilius read,
May make enquiry, as I go,
Which was the real cause, to know,
His subject's nature, or his own,
That he no better skill has shown,
Nor lets his numbers smoother glide,
Than if a man shou'd take a pride
The measure with six feet to close,
And lines by hundreds to compose,
Before he sits him down to eat,
And then as many after meat.
Such was the Tuscan poet's trade,
With genius fierce as a cascade,
Whose works gave fuel for the fire,
Upon his own funereal pyre.
But grant Lucilius form'd to write,
At once the hum'rous and polite,
More learn'd than Ennius every piece,
The sire of verse unknown to Greece,
And more correct in ev'ry page,
Than poets of the earlier age—
Yet he (continued to our day)
Much from himself had par'd away,
And prun'd off every useless shoot,
On which was neither song nor fruit;
And in the tuning of his wit,
Had often scratch'd his head, and bit
His nails, in an extatic fit.
You that wou'd write a taking strain,
And worthy to be read again,
Oft turn your style in act to blot,
Nor care if crouds admire, or not,
Content with readers more select—
What, wou'd you foolishly affect,
To have your verses taught in schools,
To shew poor boys the grammar-rules?
Not I—for whom it will suffice,
If knights allow my works the prize;
As in contempt of all the rest,
The hiss'd Arbuscula profess'd.
Me shall the gnat Pantilius fret,
Or shall I feel a thought's regret,
That by Demetrius I am spurn'd,
As soon as e'er my back is turn'd?
Or that Hermogenes's friend,
Weak Fannius loves to discommend—
May Plotius, Varius, and the Knight
Of Tuscany, praise what I write!
And Virgil, Valgius, and that best
Of men Octavius, with the rest;
And Fuscus I cou'd wish indeed,
And either Viscus wou'd accede!
And here with no ambitious view,
O Pollio! I cou'd mention you,
Messala, and his brother too;
On Servius, Bibulus insist,
And candid Furnius in my list:
With many more, whom learn'd and dear,
I wittingly insert not here.
These only, and the like of these,
I do desire my works shou'd please,
Such as they are, and shall be griev'd,
If my fond hope shou'd be deceiv'd.
Avaunt Demetrius, and the fool
Tigellius to the singing-school,
There snivel 'midst your female tribe—
Ho! quick, my boy, these lines transcribe.