" THE Satires . "

I felt a wish for one small lot
Of meadow land, a garden plot,
Beside a clump of wood, and near
My door a rivulet running clear.
This sum of all imagined bliss
The Gods have given, and more than this.
Enough; if, Hermes! thou consign
The boon, for life to call them mine!
If ne'er I sought to make my store
Though scant, by means dishonest, more;
Nor shrank the little I possess
By careless thrift or loose excess:
If ne'er to heaven I bend my knees
With fond petitions, such as these: —
" Oh, that the owner would but yield
That nook which so misshapes my field! "
" Oh, that my clinking plough had found
A pot of silver under ground;
Like him, who with the treasure bought
The field in which for hire he wrought;
At one kind hit, to wealth and ease
Lifted, by help of Hercules. "
If pleased and grateful for my lot,
This, Mercury, deny me not:
May cattle thrive on my domains,
And all be fat — except my brains!
And still, as usual, deign to guard
Your most devoted slave and bard.
When out of town I haste to dwell
Snug in my mountain citadel;
What better pastime can I choose
Than satire and the prose-like Muse?
No visits pester me to death;
No flagging winds weigh down my breath;
No sickly Autumn agues give,
Whence crabbed undertakers live.
Father of Morn! or Janus, hear!
Whichever name may catch thine ear;
Since 't is the will of God, that all
On thy protection duly call,
Who take in hand some weighty matter,
From thee will I begin my satire.
Bail for a friend you bid me fly
To Rome, i' th' twinkling of an eye;
" Use your best speed and mend your pace;
Some other else will take your place. "
Whether the sweeping North-wind blow,
Or Winter dim the air with snow,
And shrink the daylight in a span,
I needs must hurry, as I can.
In court I hasten to appear,
Where terms of law precise and clear,
Bind, to my cost, whate'er I say;
Tost in the crowd I squeeze my way,
And jostle those that sluggish move;
" How now? " or " Whither would you shove,
Mad-pated fool? " some waspish wight
Bawls with a curse; and then, in spite,
" When to Maecenas post you ride,
You care not whom you push aside! "
Now this I like; to own the truth,
It is as honey to my tooth.
When to the Esquilian palace come,
The gloomy burial-place of Rome,
A hundred people's matters din
My tingling ears and hem me in!
" My master Roscius begs you 'll lend
His cause assistance, and attend
The Court of Common Pleas ere eight
To-morrow " — " The committee wait
Your presence on some state affair;
And hope you 'll to the board repair " —
" Persuade Maecenas, Sir, I pray
To seal these papers " — If I say
" I 'll try: " he hangs and teases still
With a — " You can, Sir, if you will. "
Seven years or nearer eight have flown
Since to Maecenas I was known.
Not for such purposes and ends
He ranked me with his humble friends.
But, to be seated at his side,
When in his charioThe would ride
Abroad for air; as one whom just
With chit-chat trifles he would trust.
As " What 's o'clock? " as wagers ran,
" Which gladiator 's the better man? "
" This is a nipping morning wind
For those who leave their cloaks behind. "
Such secrets as, for aught appears,
May safely drop in chinky ears.
Yet every day and every hour,
I 'm envied for my fancied power.
" Our old acquaintance near him sat
In the amphitheatre; mark that. "
" They played together in the ring " —
" Fortune's spoilt child " 's the tune they sing.
Some vapouring news about the street
Is cried; and every fool I meet
Refers to me: " Good Sir! relate —
For you must know, that haunt the great —
What of the Dacians? Have you heard
Some hostile tidings? " Not a word. —
" Ah! how you dearly love to jest. "
By all that 's sacred, I protest
It is a secret still, to me! —
" Then tell us, will Augustus fee
With Latian farms the veteran bands,
Or quarter on Sicilian lands? "
And, when most solemnly I swear
I 'm in the dark, they wink and stare;
Of all queer mortals ever known,
For close reserve I stand alone.
My day of life exhausted flies
Amidst these petty miseries.
Yet oft my lips the wish repeat:
When shall I view my country-seat?
And books and sleep and leisure drown
In sweet forgetfulness the town?
When shall Pythagoras' relations,
Fresh-gathered beans, supply my rations?
And cabbage, from my garden soil,
On bacon served and dript with oil?
Oh, suppers! and oh, nights divine!
When snug at home, both I and mine
Regale; and of the broken meat
My saucy slaves contented eat.
No senseless rules; we fill, at pleasure,
In goblets of unequal measure;
Whether more strong of head, my guest
In ample cup delights him best,
Or sips the glass of moderate size
And in his merriment is wise.
The conversation circles free
In this our cheered sobriety.
'T is not, if such a person own
A country house or house in town;
Nor yet! if such a dancer show
An elasticity of toe:
But what concerns our bosoms nigh
Where ignorance were injury:
If bliss on wealth or worth depend;
If truth or interest fix a friend;
If the essential good we know
And what the sum of good below.
While these grave matters we pursue,
My neighbour Servius takes his cue,
And chimes in with some old wife's fable;
Thus, if some simpleton at table
Praise rich Arellius' large estate,
Our friend runs on in moral prate:
Once on a time, as stories tell,
A country mouse, in homely cell,
Received an old friend bred in town;
Our host was thrifty, a mere clown;
Yet on the occasion did his best,
Opening his heart to treat his guest.
And, to be short, he freely fetches
His long-eared oats and hoarded vetches;
And, hospitable, 'twixt his chaps
Brings shrivelled grapes and bacon scraps,
Hoping with many a tempting bit
The stranger's squeamish taste to hit;
Who pickt with dainty tooth, and sat
Fribbling, at whiles, with this and that.
While my good host on this year's straw
With corn and tares amused his maw,
Leaving the dainties to his guest.
The cit, at length, the clown addrest:
" Old friend! what pleasure can you find
In this dull, patient life, behind
A shaggy thicket? would you see
The town and men's society?
Come — trust me! — leave this savage wood;
A jaunt aroad will do you good!
Since mice have mortal lives, and all
Must die at last, both great and small;
Live, my good friend, and take your sport;
Live, and remember life is short. "
This logic shook the country mouse;
He leapt full nimbly from his house;
Both trudged along, in hope to crawl
At night beneath the city wall.
Night, now the middle sky possest,
When they with tiny footsteps prest
A sumptuous mansion's spacious floor,
Where ivory couches, covered o'er
With crimson draperies, gorgeous glowed,
Of viands a luxurious load,
Saved from a feast of yesternight
High-heapt in baskets, caught the sight.
The bumpkin, placed in formal state
On purple cushion, lolled and ate.
My host ran bustling up and down,
Like a smart slave with tuckt-up gown;
Served dish on dish in course complete;
With entremets prolonged the treat;
And played the taster with the meat.
The rustic hugged his change of lot;
And, stretcht at ease, his tares forgot.
Midst the good cheer he did his best,
And acted, frank, the jolly guest.
When open bursts the clanging door;
Shook from their seats, they scour the floor,
Half-dead with panic: — mastiffs roar;
And the high-vaulted ceilings round
Ring hollow to the bellowing sound.
Then quoth the rustic: — " Friend, adieu.
This same town-life may suit with you;
My den and wood are safe from snares;
There will be comfort in my tares. "