THE PHILOSOPHER AND DISCIPLE; OR,
THE REPROACH OF IDLENESS.
WHAT, always thus? Now in full blaze of day
Sol mounts the skies, and shoots a downward ray;
Breaks on your darken'd chamber's lengthen'd night,
And pours thro' narrow chinks long streams of light :
Yet still subdued by sleep's oppressive power,
You slumber, heedless of the passing hour;
strong Falernian dissipate the fumes,
And snore unconscious, while the day consumes.
See the hot sun through reddening Leo roll,
The raging dog-star fire the glowing pole;
The yellow harvest waving o'er the plain,
The reapers bending o'er the golden grain ;—
Beneath the spreading elm the cattle laid,
And panting flocks recumbent in the shade.
"Is it indeed so late?" the sluggard cries.
"Who waits? here, slaves! be quick-I wish to rise."
Jam liber, et bicolor positis membrana capillis,
Inque manus chartæ, nodosaque venit arundo.
Tunc queritur, crassus calamo quod pendeat humor.
Nigra quod infusa vanescat sepia lympha;
Dilutas queritur geminet quod fistula guttas.
O miser; inque dies ultra miser, huccine rerum
Venimus? at cur non potius, teneroque columbo,
Et similis regum pueris, pappare minutum
Poscis, et iratus mammæ lallare recusas?
An tali studeam calamo? cui verba ? quid istas
Succinis ambages? tibi luditur: effluis amens.
Contemnere, sonat vitium percussa, maligne
Respondet viridi non cocta fidelia limo.
Udum et molle lutum es, nunc, nunc properandus, et acri
Fingendus sine fine rota: sed rure paterno
Est tibi far modicum, purum et sine labe salinum.
Quid metuas? cultrixque foci secura patella est.
Hoc satis? an deceat pulmonem rumpere ventis,
Stemmate quod Tusco ramum millesime ducis,
At length, to study see the youth proceed,
Charged with his book, his parchment, and his reed,
But now he finds the ink too black to write;
And now, diluted, it escapes the sight:
Now it is made too thick, and now too thin,
And now it sinks too deeply in the skin :
The pen writes double, and the point, too wide,
O'er the smooth vellum pours the sable tide.
O wretch, whose habits into vices grow,
Whose life accumulates the means of woe!
Dismiss the scholar, be again the boy,
Replace the rattle, reassume the toy;
Repose in quiet on your nurse's lap,
Pleased by her lullaby, and feed on pap.
Who is deceived; for whom are spread these lures?
Is the misfortune mine, or is it yours,
That you refuse to listen to the truth,
And waste in idleness the hours of youth?
Of shame sure victim when that youth is pass'd,
And sorrow mingles in your cup at last.
Yet art thou young, and yet thy pliant mind
Yields to the gale, and bends with every wind;
Seize then this sunny, but this fleeting hour,
To nurse and cultivate the tender flower.
Art thou of riches and of titles vain,
A splendid equipage, a pompous train ?
Or dost thou boast a Tuscan race as thine,
A great, an ancient, and an honour'd line?
Censoremne tuum vel quod trabeate salutas?
Ad populum phaleras: ego te intus, et in cute novi.
Non pudet ad morem discincti vivere Nattæ ?
Sed stupet hic vitio, et fibris increvit opimum
Pingue: caret culpa : nescit quid perdat: et alto
Demersus, summa rursus non bullit in unda.
Magne pater divum, sævos punire tyrannos
Haud alia ratione velis, cum dira libido
Moverit ingenium ferventi tincta veneno,
Virtutem videant, intabescantque relicta.
Anne magis Siculi gemuerunt æra juvenci,
Et magis auratis pendens laquearibus ensis
Purpureas subter cervices terruit, Imus,
Imus præcipites, quàm si sibi dicat, et intus
Palleat infelix, quod proxima nesciat uxor ?
Does it suffice, the purple round thee thrown,
To hail the Roman Censor as thine own ?
Vain honours all-how little are the proud,
Ev'n when their pomp imposes on the crowd!
I know thee well; and hast thou then no shame,
That thy loose life and Natta's are the same?
But he, to virtue lost, knows not its price,
Fattens in sloth, and stupifies in vice:
Sunk in the gulf, immerged in guilt he lies,
Has not the power, nor yet the will to rise.
Great Sire of Gods, let not thy thunder fall
On princes, when their crimes for vengeance call;
But let remembrance punish guilty kings,
And conscience wound with all her thousand stings;
Let Truth's fair form confess'd before them rise;
And Virtue stand reveal'd to mortal eyes,
Astonish tyrants by her placid mien,
And teach them, dying, what they might have been.
Does he feel keener pangs, acuter pains,
Whom, doom'd to death, the brazen bull contains?
Was he more cursed, who, mock'd with regal state,
Around his throne saw slaves and courtiers wait,
While from the roof, suspended by a thread,
The pointed sword hung threatening o'er his head :
Than he, who cries, while rushing on his doom,
"I go, headlong, I go, nor fear the tomb :"
-Who from his bosom dares not lift the veil,
Shudders in thought, and at himself grows pale.
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