The Satires, Epistles, and Art of Poetry of Horace Part 17

None dares be pilot who ne'er steered a craft; No untrained nurse administers a draught; None but skilled workmen handle workmen's tools: But verses all men scribble, wise or fools.

And yet this scribbling is a harmless craze, And boasts in fact some few redeeming traits.

Avarice will scarce find lodging in a heart Whose every thought is centred on its art; He lays no subtle schemes, your dreamy bard, To circ.u.mvent his partner or his ward; Content with pulse and bread of ration corn, Mres, losses, runaways he laughs to scorn; Useless in camp, at home he serves the state, That is, if small can minister to great.

His lessons form the child's young lips, and wean The boyish ear from words and tales unclean; As years roll on, he moulds the ripening mind, And makes it just and generous, sweet and kind; He tells of worthy precedents, displays The example of the past to after days, Consoles affliction, and disease allays.

Had Rome no poets, who would teach the train Of maids and spotless youths their ritual strain?

Schooled by the bard, they lift their voice to heaven, And feel the wished-for aid already given, Prom brazen skies call down abundant showers, Are heard when sickness threats or danger lowers, Win for a war-worn land the smiles of peace, And crown the year with plentiful increase.

Song checks the hand of Jove in act to smite; Song soothes the dwellers in abysmal night.

Our rustic forefathers in days of yore, Robust though frugal, and content though poor, When, after harvest done, they sought repair From toils which hope of respite made them bear, Were wont their hard-earned leisure to enjoy With those who shared their labour, wife and boy; With porker's blood the Earth they would appease, With milk Silva.n.u.s, guardian of their trees, With flowers and wine the Genius, who repeats That life is short, and so should have its sweets.

'Twas hence Fescennia's privilege began, Where wit had licence, and man bantered man; And the wild sport, though countrified and rough, Pa.s.sed off each year acceptably enough; Till jokes grew virulent, and rabid spite Ran loose through houses, free to bark and bite.

The wounded shrieked; the unwounded came to feel That things looked serious for the general weal: So laws were pa.s.sed with penalties and pains To guard the lieges from abusive strains, And poets sang thenceforth in sweeter tones, Compelled to please by terror for their bones.

Greece, conquered Greece, her conqueror subdued, And Rome grew polished, who till then was rude; The rough Saturnian measure had its day, And gentler arts made savagery give way: Yet traces of the uncouth past lived on For many a year, nor are they wholly gone, For 'twas not till the Punic wars were o'er That Rome found time Greek authors to explore, And try, by digging in that virgin field, What Sophocles and Aeschylus could yield.

Nay, she essayed a venture of her own, And liked to think she'd caught the tragic tone; And so she has:--the afflatus comes on hot; But out, alas! she deems it shame to blot.

'Tis thought that comedy, because its source Is common life, must be a thing of course, Whereas there's nought so difficult, because There's nowhere less allowance made for flaws.

See Plautus now: what ill-sustained affairs Are his close fathers and his love-sick heirs!

How farcical his parasites! how loose And down at heel he wears his comic shoes!

For, so he fills his pockets, nought he heeds Whether the play's a failure or succeeds.

Drawn to the house in glory's car, the bard Is made by interest, by indifference marred: So slight the cause that prostrates or restores A mind that lives for plaudits and encores.

Nay, I forswear the drama, if to win Or lose the prize can make me plump or thin.

Then too it tries an author's nerve, to find The cla.s.s in numbers strong, though weak in mind, The brutal brainless mob, who, if a knight Disputes their judgment, bl.u.s.ter and show fight, Call in the middle of a play for bears Or boxers;--'tis for such the rabble cares.

But e'en the knights have changed, and now they prize Delighted ears far less than dazzled eyes.

The curtain is kept down four hours or more, While horse and foot go hurrying o'er the floor, While crownless majesty is dragged in chains, Chariots succeed to chariots, wains to wains, Whole fleets of s.h.i.+ps in long procession pa.s.s, And captive ivory follows captive bra.s.s.

O, could Democritus return to earth, In truth 'twould wake his wildest peals of mirth, To see a milkwhite elephant, or shape Half pard, half camel, set the crowd agape!

He'd eye the mob more keenly than the shows, And find less food for sport in these than those; While the poor authors--he'd suppose their play Addressed to a deaf a.s.s that can but bray.

For where's the voice so strong as to o'ercome A Roman theatre's discordant hum?

You'd think you heard the Gargan forest roar Or Tuscan billows break upon the sh.o.r.e, So loud the tumult waxes, when they see The show, the pomp, the foreign finery.

Soon as the actor, thus bedizened, stands In public view, clap go ten thousand hands.

"What said he?" Nought. "Then what's the attraction? "Why, That woollen mantle with the violet dye.

But lest you think 'tis n.i.g.g.ard praise I fling To bards who soar where I ne'er stretched a wing, That man I hold true master of his art Who with fict.i.tious woes can wring my heart, Can rouse me, soothe me, pierce me with the thrill Of vain alarm, and, as by magic skill, Bear me to Thebes, to Athens, where he will.

Now turn to us shy mortals, who, instead Of being hissed and acted, would be read: We claim your favour, if with worthy gear You'd fill the temple Phoebus holds so dear, And give poor bards the stimulus of hope To aid their progress up Parna.s.sus' slope.

Poor bards! much harm to our own cause we do (It tells against myself, but yet 'tis true), When, wanting you to read us, we intrude On times of business or of la.s.situde, When we lose temper if a friend thinks fit To find a fault or two with what we've writ, When, unrequested, we again go o'er A pa.s.sage we recited once, before, When we complain, forsooth, our laboured strokes, Our dexterous turns, are lost on careless folks, When we expect, so soon as you're informed That ours are hearts by would-be genius warmed, You'll send for us instanter, end our woes With a high hand, and make us all compose.

Yet greatness, proved in war and peace divine, Had best be jealous who should keep its shrine: The sacred functions of the temple-ward Were ill conferred on an inferior bard.

A blunderer was Ch.o.e.rilus; and yet This blunderer was Alexander's pet, And for the ill-stamped lines that left his mint Received good money with the royal print.

Ink spoils what touches it: indifferent lays Blot out the exploits they pretend to praise.

Yet the same king who bought bad verse so dear In other walks of art saw true and clear; None but Lysippus, so he willed by law, Might model him, none but Apelles draw.

But take this mind, in paintings and in bronze So ready to distinguish geese from swans, And bid it judge of poetry, you'd swear "Twas born and nurtured in Boeotian air.

Still, bards there are whose excellence commends The sovereign judgment that esteems them friends, Virgil and Varius; when your hand confers Its princely bounty, all the world concurs.

And, trust me, human features never shone With livelier truth through bra.s.s or breathing stone Than the great genius of a hero s.h.i.+nes Through the clear mirror of a poet's lines.

Nor is it choice (ah, would that choice were all!) Makes my dull Muse in prose-like numbers crawl, When she might sing of rivers and strange towns, Of mountain fastnesses and barbarous crowns, Of battles through the world compelled to cease, Of bolts that guard the G.o.d who guards the peace, And haughty Parthia through defeat and shame By Caesar taught to fear the Roman name: 'Tis strength that lacks: your dignity disdains The mean support of ineffectual strains, And modesty forbids me to essay A theme whose weight would make my powers give way.

Officious zeal is apt to be a curse To those it loves, especially in verse; For easier 'tis to learn and recollect What moves derision than what claims respect.

He's not my friend who hawks in every place A waxwork parody of my poor face; Nor were I flattered if some silly wight A stupid poem in my praise should write: The gift would make me blush, and I should dread To travel with my poet, all unread, Down to the street where spice and pepper's sold, And all the wares waste paper's used to fold.

II. TO JULIUS FLORUS.

FLORE BONO CLAROQUE.

Dear Florus, justly high in the good grace Of n.o.ble Nero, let's suppose a case; A man accosts you with a slave for sale, Born, say, at Gabii, and begins his tale: "See, here's a lad who's comely, fair, and sound; I'll sell him, if you will, for sixty pound.

He's quick, and answers to his master's look, Knows Greek enough to read a simple book Set him to what you like, he'll learn with ease; Soft clay, you know, takes any form you please; His voice is quite untrained, but still, I think, You'll like his singing, as you sit and drink.

Excuse professions; they're but stale affairs, Which chapmen use for getting off their waves.

I'm quite indifferent if you buy or no: Though I'm but poor, there's nothing that I owe.

No dealer'd use you thus; nay, truth to tell, I don't treat all my customers so well.

He loitered once, and fearing whipping, did As boys will do, sneaked to the stairs and hid.

So, if this running off be not a, vice Too bad to pardon, let me have my price."

The man would get his money, I should say, Without a risk of having to repay.

You make the bargain knowing of the flaw; 'Twere mere vexatiousness to take the law.

'Tis so with me; before you left, I said That correspondence was my rock ahead, Lest, when you found that ne'er an answer came To all your letters, you should call it shame.

But where's my vantage if you won't agree To go by law, because the law's with me?

Nay more, you say I'm faithless to my vow In sending you no verses. Listen now:

A soldier of Lucullus's, they say, Worn out at night by marching all the day, Lay down to sleep, and, while at ease he snored, Lost to a farthing all his little h.o.a.rd.

This woke the wolf in him;--'tis strange how keen The teeth will grow with but the tongue between;-- Mad with the foe and with himself, off-hand He stormed a treasure-city, walled and manned, Destroys the garrison, becomes renowned, Gets decorations and two hundred pound.

Soon after this the general had in view To take some fortress, where I never knew; He singles out our friend, and makes a speech That e'en might drive a coward to the breach: "Go, my fine fellow! go where valour calls!

There's fame and money too inside those walls."

"I'm not your man," returned the rustic wit: "He makes a hero who has lost his kit."

At Rome I had my schooling, and was taught Achilles' wrath, and all the woes it brought; At cla.s.sic Athens, where I went erelong, I learnt to draw the line 'twixt right and wrong, And search for truth, if so she might be seen, In academic groves of blissful green; But soon the stress of civil strife removed My adolescence from the scenes it loved, And ranged me with a force that could not stand Before the might of Caesar's conquering hand.

Then when Philippi turned me all adrift A poor plucked fledgeling, for myself to s.h.i.+ft, Bereft of property, impaired in purse, Sheer penury drove me into scribbling verse: But now, when times are altered, having got Enough, thank heaven, at least to boil my pot, I were the veriest madman if I chose To write a poem rather than to doze.

Our years keep taking toll as they move on; My feasts, my frolics are already gone, And now, it seems, my verses must go too: Bestead so sorely, what's a man to do?

Aye, and besides, my friends who'd have me chant Are not agreed upon the thing they want: You like an ode; for epodes others cry, While some love satire spiced and seasoned high.

Three guests, I find, for different dishes call, And how's one host to satisfy them all?

I bring your neighbour what he asks, you glower: Obliging you, I turn two stomachs sour.

Think too of Rome: can I write verses here, Where there's so much to tease and interfere?

One wants me for his surety; one, still worse, Bids me leave work to hear him just rehea.r.s.e; One's ill on Aventine, the farthest end, One on Quirinal; both must see their friend.

Observe the distance. "What of that?" you say, "The streets are clear; make verses by the way."

There goes a builder's gang, all haste and steam; Yon crane lifts granite, or perhaps a beam; Waggons and funerals jostle; a mad dog Ran by just now; that splash was from a hog: Go now, abstract yourself from outward things, And "hearken what the inner spirit sings."

Bards fly from town and haunt the wood and glade; Bacchus, their chief, likes sleeping in the shade; And how should I, with noises all about, Tread where they tread and make their footprints out?

Take idle Athens now; a wit who's spent Seven years in studying there, on books intent, Turns out as stupid as a stone, and shakes The crowd with laughter at his odd mistakes: Here, in this roaring, tossing, weltering sea, To tune sweet lyrics, is that work for me?

Two brothers, counsellor and pleader, went Through life on terms of mutual compliment; That thought the other Gracchus, this supposed His brother Mucius; so they praised and prosed.

Our tuneful race the selfsame madness goads: My friend writes elegies, and I write odes: O how we puff each other! "'Tis divine; The Muses had a hand in every line."

Remark our swagger as we pa.s.s the dome Built to receive the future bards of Rome; Then follow us and listen what we say, How each by turns awards and takes the bay.

Like Samnite fencers, with elaborate art We hit in tierce to be hit back in quart.

I'm dubbed Alcaeus, and retire in force: And who is he? Callimachus of course: Or, if 'tis not enough, I bid him rise Mimnermus, and he swells to twice his size.

Writing myself, I'm tortured to appease Those wasp-like creatures, our poetic bees: But when my pen's laid down, my sense restored, I rest from boring, rest from being bored.