The Satires, Epistles, and Art of Poetry of Horace Part 11

So, to sum up: the sage is half divine, Rich, free, great, handsome, king of kings, in fine; A miracle of health from toe to crown, Mind, heart, and head, save when his nose runs down.

II. TO LOLLIUS.

TROJANI BELLI SCRIPTOREM.

While you at Rome, dear Lollius, train your tongue, I at Praeneste read what Homer sung: What's good, what's bad, what helps, what hurts, he shows Better in verse than Crantor does in prose.

The reason why I think so, if you'll spare A moment from your business, I'll declare.

The tale that tells how Greece and Asia strove In tedious battle all for Paris' love, Talks of the pa.s.sions that excite the brain Of mad-cap kings and peoples not more sane.

Antenor moves to cut away the cause Of all their sufferings: does he gain applause?

No; none shall force young Paris to enjoy Life, power and riches in his own fair Troy.

Nestor takes pains the quarrel to compose That makes Atrides and Achilles foes: In vain; their pa.s.sions are too strong to quell; Both burn with wrath, and one with love as well.

Let kings go mad and blunder as they may, The people in the end are sure to pay.

Strife, treachery, crime, l.u.s.t, rage, 'tis error all, One ma.s.s of faults within, without the wall.

Turn to the second tale: Ulysses shows How worth and wisdom triumph over woes: He, having conquered Troy, with sharp shrewd ken Explores the manners and the towns of men; On the broad ocean, while he strives to win For him and his return to home and kin, He braves untold calamities, borne down By Fortune's waves, but never left to drown.

The Sirens' song you know, and Circe's bowl: Had that sweet draught seduced his stupid soul As it seduced his fellows, he had been The senseless chattel of a wanton queen, Sunk to the level of his brute desire, An unclean dog, a swine that loves the mire.

But what are we? a mere consuming cla.s.s, Just fit for counting roughly in the ma.s.s, Like to the suitors, or Alcinous' clan, Who spent vast pains upon the husk of man, Slept on till mid-day, and enticed their care To rest by listening to a favourite air.

Robbers get up by night, men's throats to knive: Will you not wake to keep yourself alive?

Well, if you will not stir when sound, at last, When dropsical, you'll be for moving fast: Unless you light your lamp ere dawn and read Some wholesome book that high resolves may breed, You'll find your sleep go from you, and will toss Upon your pillow, envious, lovesick, cross.

You lose no time in taking out a fly, Or straw, it may be, that torments your eye; Why, when a thing devours your mind, adjourn Till this day year all thought of the concern?

Come now, have courage to be wise: begin: You're halfway over when you once plunge in: He who puts off the time for mending, stands A clodpoll by the stream with folded hands, Waiting till all the water be gone past; But it runs on, and will, while time shall last.

"Aye, but I must have money, and a bride To bear me children, rich and well allied: Those uncleared lands want tilling." Having got What will suffice you, seek no happier lot.

Not house or grounds, not heaps of bra.s.s or gold Will rid the frame of fever's heat and cold.

Or cleanse the heart of care. He needs good health, Body and mind, who would enjoy his wealth: Who fears or hankers, land and country-seat Soothe just as much as tickling gouty feet, As pictures charm an eye inflamed and blear, As music gratifies an ulcered ear.

Unless the vessel whence we drink is pure, Whate'er is poured therein turns foul, be sure.

Make light of pleasure: pleasure bought with pain Yields little profit, but much more of bane.

The miser's always needy: draw a line Within whose bound your wishes to confine.

His neighbour's fatness makes the envious lean: No tyrant e'er devised a pang so keen.

Who governs not his wrath will wish undone The deeds he did "when the rash mood was on."

Wrath is a short-lived madness: curb and bit Your mind: 'twill rule you, if you rule not it

While the colt's mouth is soft, the trainer's skill Moulds it to follow at the rider's will.

Soon as the whelp can bay the deer's stuffed skin, He takes the woods, and swells the hunters' din.

Now, while your system's plastic, ope each pore; Now seek wise friends, and drink in all their lore: The smell that's first imparted will adhere To seasoned jars through many an after year.

But if you lag behind or head me far, Don't think I mean to mend my pace, or mar; In my own jog-trot fas.h.i.+on on I go, Not vying with the swift, not waiting for the slow.

III. TO JULIUS FLORUS.

JULI FLORE.

Florus, I wish to learn, but don't know how, Where Claudius and his troops are quartered now.

Say, is it Thrace and Haemus' winter snows, Or the famed strait 'twixt tower and tower that flows, Or Asia's rich exuberance of plain And upland slope, that holds you in its chain?

Inform me too (for that, you will not doubt, Concerns me), what the ingenious staff's about: Who writes of Caesar's triumphs, and portrays The tale of peace and war for future days?

How thrives friend t.i.tius, who will soon become A household word in the saloons of Rome; Who dares to drink of Pindar's well, and looks With scorn on our cheap tanks and vulgar brooks?

Wastes he a thought on Horace? does he suit The strains of Thebes or Latium's virgin lute, By favour of the Muse, or grandly rage And roll big thunder on the tragic stage?

What is my Celsus doing? oft, in truth, I've warned him, and he needs it yet, good youth, To trust himself, nor touch the cla.s.sic stores That Palatine Apollo keeps indoors, Lest when some day the feathered tribe resumes (You know the tale) the appropriated plumes, Folks laugh to see him act the jackdaw's part, Denuded of the dress that looked so smart.

And you, what aims are yours? what thymy ground Allures the bee to hover round and round?

Not small your wit, nor rugged and unkempt; 'Twill answer bravely to a bold attempt: Whether you train for pleading, or essay To practise law, or frame some graceful lay, The ivy-wreath awaits you. Could you bear To leave quack nostrums, that but palliate care, Then might you lean on heavenly wisdom's hand And use her guidance to a loftier land.

Be this our task, whate'er our station, who To country and to self would fain be true.

This too concerns me: does Munatius hold In Florus' heart the place he held of old, Or is that ugly breach in your good will We hoped had closed unhealed and gaping still?

Well, be it youth or ignorance of life That sets your hot ungoverned bloods at strife, Where'er you bide, 'twere shame to break the ties Which made you once sworn brethren and allies: So, when your safe return shall come to pa.s.s, I've got a votive heifer out at gra.s.s.

IV. TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS

ALBI, NOSTRORUM.

Albius, kind critic of my satires, say, What do you down at Pedum far away?

Are you composing what will dim the s.h.i.+ne Of Ca.s.sius' works, so delicately fine, Or sauntering, calm and healthful, through the wood, Bent on such thoughts as suit the wise and good?

No brainless trunk is yours: a form to please, Wealth, wit to use it, Heaven vouchsafes you these.

What could fond nurse wish more for her sweet pet Than friends, good looks, and health without a let, A shrewd clear head, a tongue to speak his mind, A seemly household, and a purse well-lined?

Let hopes and sorrows, fears and angers be, And think each day that dawns the last you'll see; For so the hour that greets you unforeseen Will bring with it enjoyment twice as keen.

Ask you of me? you'll laugh to find me grown A hog of Epicurus, full twelve stone.

V. TO TORQUATUS.

SI POTES ARCHIACIS.

If you can lie, Torquatus, when you take Your meal, upon a couch of Archias' make, And sup off potherbs, gathered as they come, You'll join me, please, by sunset at my home.

My wine, not far from Sinuessa grown, Is but six years in bottle, I must own: If you've a better vintage, send it here, Or take your cue from him who finds the cheer.

My hearth is swept, my household looks its best, And all my furniture expects a guest.

Forego your dreams of riches and applause, Forget e'en Moschus' memorable cause; To-morrow's Caesar's birthday, which we keep By taking, to begin with, extra sleep; So, if with pleasant converse we prolong This summer night, we scarcely shall do wrong.

Why should the G.o.ds have put me at my ease, If I mayn't use my fortune as I please?

The man who stints and pinches for his heir Is next-door neighbour to a fool, I'll swear.

Here, give me flowers to strew, my goblet fill, And let men call me mad-cap if they will.