“These sniveling rogues take special pleasure still
To make the punishment outweigh the ill."
So runs the cry; and he must be possest
Of more, Vagellius, than thy iron breast,

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Who braves their anger, and, with ten poor, toes,
Defies such countless hosts of hobnailed shoes.
Who so untutored in the ways of Rome,
Say, who so true a Pylades, to come

Within the camp ?-no; let thy tears be dried,

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Nor ask that kindness, which must be denied,

For, when the Court exclaims, "Your witness, here!"

Let that firm friend, that man of men, appear,

And testify but what he saw and heard;

And I pronounce him worthy of the beard

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And hair of our forefathers! You may find

False witnesses against an honest hind,

Easier than true (and who their fears can blame?),

Against a soldier's purse, a soldier's fame!
But there are other benefits, my friend,

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And greater, which the sons of war attend:
Should a litigious neighbor bid me yield
My vale irriguous, and paternal field;

Or from my bounds the sacred landmark tear,
To which, with each revolving spring, I bear,
In pious duty to the grateful soil,

My humble offerings, honey, meal, and oil;
Or a vile debtor my just claims withstand,
Deny his signet, and abjure his hand;
Term after Term I wait, till months be past,
And scarce obtain a hearing at the last.

Even when the hour is fixed, a thousand stays

Retard my suit, a thousand vague delays:

The cause is called, the witnesses attend,

Chairs brought, and cushions laid-and there an end!
Cæditius finds his cloak or gown too hot,

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And Fuscus slips aside to seek the pot;

Thus, with our dearest hopes the judges sport,

And when we rise to speak, dismiss the Court!

But spear-and-shield-men may command the hour;
The time to plead is always in their power;
Nor are their wealth and patience worn away,
By the slow drag-chain of the law's delay.

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Add that the soldier, while his father lives,
And he alone, his wealth bequeaths or gives;
For what by pay is earned, by plunder won,
The law declares, vests solely in the son.
Coranus therefore sees his hoary sire,
To gain his Will, by every art, aspire !—
He rose by service; rank in fields obtained,

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And well deserved the fortune which he gained.

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And every prudent chief must, sure, desire,
That still the worthiest should the most acquire;
That those who merit, their rewards should have,
Trappings, and chains, and all that decks the brave.

PERSIU S.

PROLOGUE.

"Twas never yet my luck, I ween,
To drench my lips in Hippocrene;
Nor, if I recollect aright,

On the forked Hill to sleep a night,
That I, like others of the trade,
Might wake-a poet ready made!
Thee, Helicon, with all the Nine,
And pale Pyrene, I resign,
Unenvied, to the tuneful race,

Whose busts (of many a fane the grace)
Sequacious ivy climbs, and spreads
Unfading verdure round their heads.
Enough for me, too mean for praise,
To bear my rude, uncultured lays
To Phoebus and the Muses' shrine,
And place them near their gifts divine.
Who bade the parrot xaipe cry;
And forced our language on the pie?
The BELLY: Master, he, of Arts,
Bestower of ingenious parts;
Powerful the creatures to endue
With sounds their natures never knew!
For, let the wily hand unfold
The glittering bait of tempting gold,
And straight the choir of daws and pies,
To such poetic heights shall rise,
That, lost in wonder, you will swear
Apollo and the Nine are there!

SATIRE I.

ALAS, for man! how vain are all his cares!

And oh! what bubbles, his most grave affairs!

Tush! who will read such trite-Heavens! this to me?

Not one, by Jove. Not one? Well, two, or three;

Or rather-none: a piteous case, in truth!

Why piteous? lest Polydamas, forsooth,

And Troy's proud dames, pronounce my merits fall
Beneath their Labeo's! I can bear it all.

Nor should my friend, though still, as fashion sways,
The purblind town conspire to sink or raise,
Determine, as her wavering beam prevails,
And trust his judgment to her coarser scales.
O not abroad for vague opinion roam;
The wise man's bosom is his proper home:

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And Rome is-What? Ah, might the truth be told !—
And, sure it may, it must.-When I behold

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What fond pursuits have formed our prime employ,

Since first we dropped the playthings of the boy,
To gray maturity, to this late hour,

When every brow frowns with censorial power,
Then, then-O yet suppress this carping mood.
Impossible! I could not if would;

For nature framed me of satiric mould,

And spleen, too petulant to be controlled.
Immured within our studies, we compose;

Some, shackled metre; some, free-footed prose;

But all, bombast; stuff, which the breast may strain,
And the huge lungs puff forth with awkward pain.
'Tis done! and now the bard, elate and proud,

Prepares a grand rehearsal for the crowd.
Lo! he steps forth in birthday splendor bright,

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Combed and perfumed, and robed in dazzling white;
And mounts the desk; his pliant throat he clears,
And deals, insidious, round his wanton leers;
While Rome's first nobles, by the prelude wrought,
Watch, with indecent glee, each prurient thought,
And squeal with rapture, as the luscious line
Thrills through the marrow, and inflames the chine.
Vile dotard! Canst thou thus consent to please!
To pander for such itching fools as these!
Fools-whose applause must shoot beyond thy aim,
And tinge thy cheek, bronzed as it is, with shame!

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But wherefore have I learned, if, thus represt,
The leaven still must swell within my breast?
If the wild fig-tree, deeply rooted there,
Must never burst its bounds, and shoot in air?
Are these the fruits of study! these of age!
O times, O manners--Thou misjudging sage,
Is science only useful as 'tis shown,
And is thy knowledge nothing, if not known?

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But, sure, 'tis pleasant, as we walk, to see
The pointed finger, hear the loud That's he,
On
every side-and seems it, in your sight,
So poor a trifle, that whate'er we write
Is introduced to every school of note,
And taught the youth of quality by rote?

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50

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-Nay, more! Our nobles, gorged, and swilled with wine,

Call, o'er the banquet, for a lay divine.

Here one, on whom the princely purple glows,

Snuffles some musty legend through his nose;
Slowly distills Hypsipyle's sad fate,

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And love-lorn Phillis, dying for her mate,

With what of woeful else is said or sung;

And trips up every word, with lisping tongue.

The maudlin audience, from the couches round,

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Hum their assent, responsive to the sound.-
And are not now the poet's ashes blest!
Now lies the turf not lightly on his breast!
They pause a moment-and again, the room
Rings with his praise: now will not roses bloom,
Now, from his relics, will not violets spring,
And o'er his hallowed urn their fragrance fling!
"You laugh ('tis answered), and too freely here
Indulge that vile propensity to sneer.

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Lives there, who would not at applause rejoice,

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And merit, if he could, the public voice?

Who would not leave posterity such rhymes,

As cedar oil might keep to latest times;

Rhymes, which should fear no desperate grocer's hand,

Nor fly with fish and spices through the land!

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Thou, my kind monitor, whoe'er thou art,

Whom I suppose to play the opponent's part,

Know-when I write, if chance some happier strain
(And chance it needs must be) rewards my pain,
Know, I can relish praise with genuine zest;
Not mine the torpid, mine the unfeeling breast:
But that I merely toil for this acclaim,
And make these eulogies my end and aim,
I must not, can not grant: for-sift them all,
Mark well their value, and on what they fall:
Are they not showered (to pass these trifles o'er)
On Labeo's Iliad, drunk with hellebore?
On princely love-lays driveled without thought,
And the crude trash on citron couches wrought?

You spread the table-'tis a master-stroke,
And give the shivering guest a threadbare cloak,
Then, while his heart with gratitude dilates
At the glad vest and the delicious cates,
Tell me, you cry-for truth is my delight,
What says the Town of me, and what I write ?
He can not he has neither ears nor eyes.
But shall I tell you, who your bribes despise?
-Bald trifler! cease at once your thriftless trade;
That mountain paunch for verse was never made.
O Janus, happiest of thy happy kind!-
No waggish stork can peck at thee behind;

No tongue thrust forth, expose to passing jeers;
No twinkling fingers, perked like ass's ears,
Point to the vulgar mirth :-but you, ye Great,
To a blind occiput condemned by fate,

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Prevent, while yet you may, the rabble's glee,
And tremble at the scoff you can not see!—

"What says the Town"-precisely what it ought:

All you produce, sir, with such skill is wrought,

That o'er the polished surface, far and wide,
The critic nail without a jar must glide;

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Since every verse is drawn as straight and fine
As if one eye had fixed the ruddled line.

-Whate'er the subject of his varied rhymes,
The humors, passions, vices of the times;
The pomp of nobles, barbarous pride of kings,
All, all is great, and all inspired he sings!

Lo! striplings, scarcely from the ferule freed,
And smarting yet from Greek, with headlong speed
Rush on heroics; though devoid of skill
To paint the rustling grove, or purling rill;
Or praise the country, robed in cheerful green,
Where hogs, and hearths, and osier frails are seen,
And happy hinds, who leap o'er smouldering hay,
In honor, Pales, of thy sacred day.

—Scenes of delight!—there Remus lived, and there,
In grassy furrows Quinctius tired his share;
Quinctius, on whom his wife, with trembling haste,
The dictatorial robes, exulting, placed,

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Before his team; while homeward, with his plow,

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The lictors hurried-Good! a Homer, thou!
There are, who hunt out antiquated lore;

And never, but on musty authors, pore;

These, Accius' jagged and knotty lines engage,

And those, Pacuvius' hard and horny page;
Where, in quaint tropes, Antiopa is seen
To-prop her dolorific heart with teen!

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O, when you mark the sire, to judgment blind,

Commend such models to the infant mind,

Forbear to wonder whence this olio sprung,

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This sputtering jargon which infests our tongue;

This scandal of the times, which shocks my ear,

And which our knights bound from their seats to hear!

How monstrous seems it, that we can not plead,

When called to answer for some felon deed,

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Nor danger from the trembling head repel,
Without a wish for-Bravo! Vastly well!
This Pedius is a thief, the accusers cry.
You hear them, Pedius; now, for your reply?
In terse antitheses he weighs the crime,
Equals the pause, and balances the chime;

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