The Satires, Epistles, and Art of Poetry of Horace Part 3

PROSCRIPTI REGIS RUPILI.

How mongrel Persius managed to outsting That pungent proscript, foul Rupilius King, Is known, I take it, to each wight that drops Oil on bleared eyes, or lolls in barbers' shops.

Persius was rich, a man of great affairs, Steeped to the lips in monetary cares Down at Clazomenae: and some dispute 'Twixt him and King had festered to a suit.

Tough, pus.h.i.+ng, loud was he, with power of hate To beat e'en King's; so pestilent his prate, That Barrus and Sisenna you would find Left in the running leagues and leagues behind.

Well, to return to King: they quickly see They can't agree except to disagree: For 'tis a rule, that wrath is short or long Just as the combatants are weak or strong: 'Twixt Hector and Aeacides the strife Was truceless, mortal, could but end with life, For this plain reason, that in either wight The tide of valour glowed at its full height; Whereas, if two poor cravens chance to jar, Or if an ill-matched couple meet in war, Like Diomede and Glaucus, straight the worse Gives in, and presents are exchanged of course.

Well, in the days when Brutus held command, With praetor's rank, o'er Asia's wealthy land, Persius and King engage, a goodly pair, Like Bithus matched with Bacchius to a hair.

Keen as sharp steel, before the court they go, Bach in himself as good as a whole show.

Persius begins: amid the general laugh He praises Brutus, praises Brutus' staff, Brutus, the healthful sun of Asia's sphere, His staff, the minor stars that bless the year, All, save poor King; a dog-star he, the sign To farmers inauspicious and malign: So roaring on he went, like wintry flood, Where axes seldom come to thin the wood.

Then, as he thundered, King, Praeneste-bred, Hurled vineyard slang in handfuls at his head, A tough grape-gatherer, whom the pa.s.ser-by Could ne'er put down, with all his cuckoo cry.

Sluiced with Italian vinegar, the Greek At length vociferates, "Brutus, let me speak!

You are our great king-killer: why delay To kill this King? I vow 'tis in your way."

SATIRE IX.

IBAM FORTE VIA SACRA.

Long the Sacred Road I strolled one day, Deep in some bagatelle (you know my way), When up comes one whose name I scarcely knew-- "The dearest of dear fellows! how d'ye do?"

He grasped my hand--"Well, thanks: the same to you."

Then, as he still kept walking by my side, To cut things short, "You've no commands?" I cried.

"Nay, you should know me: I'm a man of lore."

"Sir, I'm your humble servant all the more."

All in a fret to make him let me go, I now walk fast, now loiter and walk slow, Now whisper to my servant, while the sweat Ran down so fast, my very feet were wet.

"O had I but a temper worth the name, Like yours, Bola.n.u.s!" inly I exclaim, While he keeps running on at a hand-trot, About the town, the streets, I know not what.

Finding I made no answer, "Ah! I see, Tou 're at a strait to rid yourself of me; But 'tis no use: I'm a tenacious friend, And mean to hold you till your journey's end,"

"No need to take you such a round: I go To visit an acquaintance you don't know: Poor man! he's ailing at his lodging, far Beyond the bridge, where Caesar's gardens are."

"O, never mind: I've nothing else to do, And want a walk, so I'll step on with you."

Down go my ears, in donkey-fas.h.i.+on, straight; You've seen them do it, when their load's too great.

"If I mistake not," he begins, "you'll find Viscus not more, nor Varius, to yoar mind: There's not a man can turn a verse so soon, Or dance so nimbly when he hears a tune: While, as for singing--ah! my forte is there: Tigellius' self might envy me, I'll swear."

He paused for breath: I falteringly strike in: "Have you a mother? have you kith or kin To whom your life is precious?" "Not a soul: My line's extinct: I have interred the whole."

O happy they! (so into thought I fell) After life's endless babble they sleep well: My turn is next: dispatch me: for the weird Has come to pa.s.s which I so long have feared, The fatal weird a Sabine beldame sung, All in my nursery days, when life was young: "No sword nor poison e'er shall take him off, Nor gout, nor pleurisy, nor racking cough: A babbling tongue shall kill him: let him fly All talkers, as he wishes not to die."

We got to Vesta's temple, and the sun Told us a quarter of the day was done.

It chanced he had a suit, and was bound fast Either to make appearance or be cast.

"Step here a moment, if you love me." "Nay; I know no law: 'twould hurt my health to stay: And then, my call." "I'm doubting what to do, Whether to give my lawsuit up or you.

"Me, pray!" "I will not." On he strides again: I follow, unresisting, in his train.

"How stand you with Maecenas?" he began: "He picks his friends with care; a shrewd wise man: In fact, I take it, one could hardly name A head so cool in life's exciting game.

'Twould be a good deed done, if you could throw Your servant in his way; I mean, you know, Just to play second: in a month, I'll swear, You'd make an end of every rival there."

"O, you mistake: we don't live there in league: I know no house more sacred from intrigue: I'm never distanced in my friend's good grace By wealth or talent: each man finds his place."

"A miracle! if 'twere not told by you, I scarce should credit it." "And yet 'tis true."

"Ah, well, you double my desire to rise To special favour with a man so wise."

"You've but to wish it: 'twill be your own fault, If, with your nerve, you win not by a.s.sault: He can be won: that puts him on his guard, And so the first approach is always hard."

"No fear of me, sir: a judicious bribe Will work a wonder with the menial tribe: Say, I'm refused admittance for to-day; I'll watch my time; I'll meet him in the way, Escort him, dog him. In this world of ours The path to what we want ne'er runs on flowers."

'Mid all this prate there met us, as it fell, Aristius, my good friend, who knew him well.

We stop: inquiries and replies go round: "Where do you hail from?" "Whither are you bound?"

There as he stood, impa.s.sive as a clod, I pull at his limp arms, frown, wink, and nod, To urge him to release me. With a smile He feigns stupidity: I burn with bile.

"Something there was you said you wished to tell To me in private." "Ay, I mind it well; But not just now: 'tis a Jews' fast to-day: Affront a sect so touchy! nay, friend, nay."

"Faith, I've no scruples." "Ah! but I've a few: I'm weak, you know, and do as others do: Some other time: excuse me." Wretched me!

That ever man so black a sun should see!

Off goes the rogue, and leaves me in despair, Tied to the altar, with the knife in air: When, by rare chance, the plaintiff in the suit Knocks up against us: "Whither now, you brute?"

He roars like thunder: then to me: "You'll stand My witness, sir?" "My ear's at your command."

Off to the court he drags him: shouts succeed: A mob collects: thank Phoebus, I am freed.

SATIRE X.

NEMPE INCOMPOSITO.

Yes, I did say that, view him as a bard, Lucilius is unrhythmic, rugged, hard.

Lives there a partisan so weak of brain As to join issue on a fact so plain?

But that he had a gift of biting wit, In the same page I hastened to admit.

Now understand me: that's a point confessed; But he who grants it grants not all the rest: For, were a bard a bard because he's smart, Laberius' mimes were products of high art.

'Tis not enough to make your reader's face Wear a broad grin, though that too has its place: Terseness there wants, to make the thought ring clear, Nor with a crowd of words confuse the ear: There wants a plastic style, now grave, now light, Now such as bard or orator would write, And now the language of a well-bred man, Who masks his strength, and says not all he can: And pleasantry will often cut clean through Hard knots that gravity would scarce undo.

On this the old comedians rested: hence They're still the models of all men of sense, Despite Tigellius and his ape, whose song Is Calvus and Catullus all day long.

"But surely that's a merit quite unique, His gift of mixing Latin up with Greek,"

Unique, you lags in learning? what? a knack Caught by Pitholeon with his hybrid clack?

"Nay, but the mixture gives the style more grace, As Chian, plus Falernian, has more race."

Come, tell me truly: is this rule applied To verse-making by you, and nought beside, Or would you practise it, when called to plead For poor Petillius, at his direst need?

Forsooth, you choose that moment, to disown Your old forefathers, Latin to the bone, And while great Pedius and Corvinus strain Against you in pure Latin lungs and brain, Like double-tongued Ca.n.u.sian, try to speak A piebald speech, half native and half Greek!

Once when, though born on this side of the sea, I tried my hand at Attic poetry, Quirinus warned me, rising to my view An hour past midnight, just when dreams are true: "Seek you the throng of Grecian bards to swell?

Take sticks into a forest just as well."

So, while Alpinus spills his Memnon's blood, Or gives his Rhine a headpiece of brown mud, I toy with trifles such as this, unmeet At Tarpa's grave tribunal to compete, Or, mouthed by well-graced actors, be the rage Of mobs, and hold possession of the stage.

No hand can match Fundanius at a piece Where slave and mistress clip an old man's fleece: Pollio in buskins chants the deeds of kings: Varius outsoars us all on Homer's wings: The Muse that loves the woodland and the farm To Virgil lends her gayest, tenderest charm.

For me, this walk of satire, vainly tried By Atacinus and some few beside, Best suits my gait: yet readily I yield To him who first set footstep on that field, Nor meanly seek to rob him of the bay That shows so comely on his locks of grey.

Well, but I called him muddy, said you'd find More sand than gold in what he leaves behind.

And you, sir Critic, does your finer sense In Homer mark no matter for offence?

Or e'en Lucilius, our good-natured friend, Sees he in Accius nought he fain would mend?

Does he not laugh at Ennius' halting verse, Yet own himself no better, if not worse?