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As want or infamy has chased from home,
And driven, in barefoot multitudes, to Rome.
Come, my brave youths :-the genuine sons of
rhyme,

Who in sweet numbers couch the true sublime,
Shall, from this hour, no more their fate accuse,
Or stoop to pains unworthy of the Muse.
Come, my brave youths; your tuneful labours ply,
Secure of favour; lo! the imperial eye
Looks round, attentive, on each rising bard,
For worth to praise, for genius to reward!
But if for other patronage you look,

And therefore write, and therefore swell your book,
Quick, call for wood, and let the flames devour
The hapless produce of the studious hour;
Or lock it up, to moths and worms a prey,
And break your pens, and fling your ink away :—
Or pour
it rather o'er your epick flights,
Your battles, sieges; (fruit of sleepless nights ;)
Pour it, mistaken men, who rack brains
In garrets, cocklofts, for heroick strains;
Who toil and sweat to purchase mere renown,
And a starved statue with an ivy crown!

your

mentioned by the old Scholiast on Persius. It is nothing to the purpose for which it is there produced; but it serves well enough to illustrate the passage before us: Hoc dicit, quia Cappadoces dicerentur habere studium naturale ad falsa testimonia proferenda ; qui nutriti in tormentis a pueritia-cum in pœna perdurarent, ad perjuria se bene venundarent. The same character, according to Cicero, might be justly given of all the people of Lesser Asia. It is singular, however, that with such numbers contending for the preference of selling their evidence, any of them should get rich.

VER. 44. And a starved statue with an ivy crown!] I do not

Here bound your expectations: for the great, Grown covetous, have wisely learn'd, of late, Topraise, and ONLY praise, the high-wrought strain, As boys, the bird of Juno's glittering train.

know whether the starved statue with which Juvenal threatens his poet, alludes to the custom of erecting statues to all such as distinguished themselves; or to the busts of celebrated writers, which were sometimes placed, together with their works, in the temple of the Palatine Apollo: I rather suppose to the latter.

The old Scholiast is pleased, but without knowing it, to be witty at the poor poet's expense. Imagine macra, he thus explains, corpore exili propter vigilias; quia poetæ sic pinguntur quasi ad summam maciem nimio labore (et inedia, he should have added) confecti. But Juvenal had no such "lenten stuff" in his thoughts; he merely meant to say that his poet was in the condition of one described by Aristophanes,

Στεφανον μεν εχων, δίψη δ' απολωλως.

This passage (Qui facis in parva, &c.) gave Jonson a transient fit of enthusiasm:

"I that spend half my nights, and half my days,
"Here in a cell, to get a dark pale face,

"To come forth worth the ivy or the bays,

"And in this age can hope no other grace

"Leave me there's something come into my thought,

"That must and shall be sung high and aloof,

"Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's hoof!"

VER. 47. To praise, and ONLY praise, &c.] This is prettily imitated by Spenser in the Shepherd's Calendar:

"So praysen babes the peacock's spotted traine,
"And wondren at bright Argus' blazing eye:
"But who rewards him ere the more forthy?
"Or feedes him once the fuller by a graine?"

Egl. x.

And Randolph, who had Spenser as well as Juvenal in his mind;

"The plowman is rewarded; only we

"That sing, are paid with our own melody:

"Rich churles have learnt to praise us, and admire,
"But have not learnt to think us worth the hire.-
"[So] when great Juno's beauteous bird displaies
"Her starry tail, the boyes do run and gaze
"At her proud train," &c.

Poems, p. 78.

Meanwhile those vigorous years, so fit to bear
The toils of agriculture, commerce, war,
Spent in this idle trade, decline apace,
And age, unthought of, stares you in the face:
Then, at your barren glories, you repine,
And curse, too late, the unavailing Nine!

Hear now what sneaking ways your patrons find
To save their darling gold :-they pay in kind!
Verses, composed in every Muse's spite,
To the starved bard they, in their turn, recite;

VER. 53. Then, at your barren glories, &c.]

"Passa la gioventude, e l'ore andate;
"La vecchiezza, mendica di sostanza,
"Bestemmia poi della perduta etate.”

S. Rosa, Sat. II.

VER. 55. Hear now what sneaking ways &c.] The Bufo of Pope is shadowed out in part from this animated passage:

"Till grown more frugal in his riper days,

"He paid some bards with port, and some with praise;
"To some a dry rehearsal was assign'd,

"And others, harder still! he paid in kind.”

There is a very good story told by Macrobius, which will not be much out of the way here. A Greek poet had presented Augustus Cæsar with many little compliments, in hopes of some trifling remuneration. The Emperour, who found them worth nothing, took no notice of the poor man; but, as he persisted in offering him his adulatory verses, composed himself an epigram in praise of the poet; and when he next waited on him with his customary panegyrick, presented his own to him with amazing gravity. The man took and read it with apparent satisfaction; then putting his hand into his pocket, he deliberately drew out two farthings, and gave them to the Emperour, saying, Ov xaтä тny Tuxny, w σεβαςτε· εἰ πλείονα είχον, πλείονα αν και εδίδεν. "This is not equal to the demands of your situation, Sire; but 'tis all I have: if I had more I would give it to you." Augustus, who was not an illnatured man, could not resist this; he burst into a fit of laughter, and, as Macrobius says, made the poet a handsome present.

In allusion to this passage, the Italians relate that Pius III. on

And, if they yield to Homer, let him know 'Tis that He lived a thousand years ago.

But, if inspired with genuine love of fame, A dry rehearsal only, be your aim,

The miser's breast with sudden warmth dilates,
And lo! he opes his triple-bolted gates;
Nay, sends his clients to support your cause,
And rouse the tardy audience to applause :-
But will not spare one farthing to defray
The numerous charges of this glorious day,
The rostrum, where, with conscious pride, you sat,
The chairs and benches, and I know not what.

being presented with a panegyrick in verse, by one who expected a pecuniary return, gave him the following distich:

"Discite pro numeris numeros sperare, poetæ,
"Mutare est animus carmina, non emere."

To which the other instantly replied:

"Si tibi pro numeris numeros Fortuna dedisset,
"Non esset capiti tanta corona tuo."

It must be confessed that the Pope and his friend make but a sorry figure by the side of Augustus and his Greek poet; who surpass them as much in genuine humour, as in urbanity and good breeding.

VER. 67. But will not spare one farthing &c.] I have little doubt but that if we were better acquainted with the literary history of Juvenal's time, we should find most of his allusions to be founded on fact. I could almost venture to affirm, that in the little narrative here produced, he had Saleius Bassus in view :-at least, many of the circumstances correspond with what Tacitus delivers of him in the Dial. de Oratoribus: Versus Basso domi nascuntur pulchri quidem et jucundi, quorum tamen hic exitus est, ut cum toto anno, per omnes dies, magna noctium parte, unum librum extudit, rogare ultro et ambire cogatur, ut sint qui dignentur audire: et ne id quidem gratis, nam et domum mutuatur, et auditorium extruit, et subsellia conducit, &c. §. 9.

Still we persist plough the light sand, and sow
Seed after seed, where none can ever grow:
Nay, should we, conscious of our fruitless pain,
Strive to escape, we strive, alas! in vain;
Long habit, and the thirst of praise beset,
And close us in the inextricable net.

The insatiate itch of scribbling, hateful pest!
Creeps, like a tetter, through the human breast,
Nor knows, nor hopes a cure; since years, which
All other passions, fire this growing ill.

[chill

But HE, the bard of every age and clime,
Of genius fruitful, and of soul sublime,
Who, from the glowing mint of fancy, pours
No spurious metal, fused from common ores,
But gold, to matchless purity refined,
And stamp'd with all the godhead in his mind;
He whom I feel, but want the power to paint,
Must boast a soul impatient of restraint,
And free from every care; a soul that loves
The Muses' haunts, clear springs, and shady groves,
Never, no never, did he wildly rave,

And shake his thyrsus in the Aonian cave,
Whom poverty kept sober, and the cries
Of a lean stomach, clamorous for supplies:
No; the wine circled briskly through his veins
When Horace pour'd his dithyrambick strains! —
What room for fancy, say, unless the mind,
And all its thoughts, to poesy resign'd,

VER. 97. What room for fancy, say, &c.] Spenser had this passage in his thoughts, when he wrote the following noble lines:

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