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Fat Lateranus does his revels keep
Where his forefathers' peaceful ashes sleep;
Driving himself a chariot down the hill,

And (though a consul) links himself the wheel:
To do him justice, 'tis indeed by night,
Yet the Moon sees, and every smaller light
Pries as a witness of the shameful sight.
Nay when his year of honour 's ended, soon
He'll leave that nicety, and mount at noon;
Nor blush should he some grave acquaintance meet,
But, proud of being known, will jerk and greet:
And when his fellow-beasts are weary grown,
He'll play the groom, give oats, and rub them down.
If, after Numa's ceremonial way,
He at Jove's altar would a victim slay,
To no clean goddess he directs his prayers,
But by Hippona most devoutly swears,
Or some rank deity, whose filthy face
We suitably o'er stinking stables place.

When he has run his length, and does begin
To steer his course directly for the inn,
(Where they have watch'd, expecting him all night)
A greasy Syrian, ere he can alight,
Presents him essence, while his courteous host
(Well knowing nothing by good-breeding 's lost)
Tags every sentence with some fawning word,
Such as "My king, my prince," at least "My lord;"
And a tight maid, ere he for wine can ask,
Guesses his meaning, and unoils the flask.
Some, friends to vice, industriously defend
These innocent diversions, and pretend
That I the tricks of youth too roughly blame,
Alleging, that when young we did the same.
I grant we did, yet when that age was past,
The frolic humour did no longer last;
We did not cherish and indulge the crime;
What 's foul in acting, should be left in time.
'Tis true, some faults, of course, with childhood end,
We therefore wink at wags when they offend,
And spare the boy, in hopes the man may mend.
But Lateranus, (now his vigorous age
Should prompt him for his country to engage,
The circuit of our empire to extend,
And all our lives in Caesar's to defend)
Mature in riots, places his delight
All day in plying bumpers, and at night
Reels to the bawds, over whose doors are set
Pictures and bills, with "Here are whores to let."
Should any desperate unexpected fate
Summon all heads and hands to guard the state,
Cæsar, send quickly to secure the port;
"But where's the general? where does he resort?"
Send to the sutler's; there y' are sure to find
The bully match'd with rascals of his kind,
Quacks, coffin-makers, fugitives, and sailors; [lors;
Rooks, common soldiers, hangmen, thieves, and tai-
With Cybele's priests, who, weary'd with processions,
Drink there, and sleep with knaves of all professions:
A friendly gang! each equal to the best;
And all, who can, have liberty to jest:

One flaggon walks the round, that none should think
They either change, or stint him of his drink:
And, lest exceptions may for place be found,
Their stools are all alike, their table round.
What think you, Ponticus, yourself might do,
Should any slave so lewd belong to you?
No doubt, you'd send the rogue in fetters bound
To work in Bridewell, or to plough your ground:
But nobles, you, who trace your birth from Troy,
Think, you the great prerogative enjoy

Of doing ill, by virtue of that race;
As if what we esteem in cobblers base,
Would the high family of Brutus grace.

Shameful are these examples, yet we find
(To Rome's disgrace) far worse than these behind;
Poor Damasippus, whom we once have known
Fluttering with coach and six about the town,
Is forc'd to make the stage his last retreat,
And pawns his voice, the all he has, for meat:
For now he must (since his estate is lost)
Or represent, or be himself, a ghost:
And Lentulus acts hanging with such art,
Were I a judge, he should not feign the part.
Nor would I their vile insolence acquit,
Who can with patience, nay diversion, sit,
Applauding my lord's buffoonry for wit,
And clapping farces acted by the court,
While the peers cuff, to make the rabble sport:
Or hirelings, at a prize, their fortunes try;
Certain to fall unpity'd if they die;
Since none can have the favourable thought
| That to obey a tyrant's will they fought,
But that their lives they willingly expose,
Bought by the pretors to adorn their shows.

Yet say, the stage and lists were both in sight,
And you must either choose to act, or fight;
Death never sure bears such a ghastly shape,
That a rank coward basely would escape
By playing a foul harlot's jealous tool,
Or a feign'd Andrew to a real fool.
Yet a peer actor is no monstrous thing,
Since Rome has own'd a fiddler for a king:
After such pranks, the world itself at best
May be imagin'd nothing but a jest.

Go to the lists where feats of arms are shown,
There you'll find Gracchus (from patrician) grown
A fencer and the scandal of the town.
Nor will he the Mirmillo's weapons bear,
The modest helmet he disdains to wear;
As Retiarius he attacks his foe;
First waves his trident ready for the throw,
Next casts his net, but neither level'd right,
He stares about expos'd to public sight,
Then places all his safety in his flight.
Room for the noble gladiator! See
His coat and hatband show his quality.
Thus when at last the brave Mirmillo knew
'Twas Gracchus was the wretch he did pursue,
To conquer such a coward griev'd him more,
Than if he many glorious wounds had bore.

Had we the freedom to express our mind,
There 's not a wretch so much to vice inclin❜d,
But will own, Seneca did far excel
His pupil, by whose tyranny he fell:
To expiate whose complicated guilt,
With some proportion to the blood he spilt,
Rome should more serpents, apes, and sacks provide,
Than one for the compendious parricide.
'Tis true, Orestes a like crime did act;
Yet weigh the cause, there's difference in the fact:
He slew his mother at the gods' command,
They bid him strike, and did direct his hand;
To punish falsehood, and appease the ghost
Of his poor father treacherously lost,
Just in the minute when the flowing bowl
With a full tide enlarg'd his cheerful soul.
Yet kill'd he not his sister, or his wife,
Nor aim'd at any near relation's life;
Orestes, in the heat of all his rage,
Ne'er play'd or sung upon a public stage;

360

STEPNEY'S POEMS.

Never on verse did his wild thoughts employ,
To paint the horrid scene of burning Troy,
Like Nero, who, to raise his fancy higher,
And finish the great work, set Rome on fire.
Such crimes make treason just, and might compel
Virginius, Vindex, Galba, to rebel;

For what could Nero's self have acted worse
To aggravate the wretched nation's curse?

These are the blest endowments, studies, arts,
Which exercise our mighty emperor's parts;
Such frolics with his roving genius suit,
On foreign theatres to prostitute
His voice and honour, for the poor renown
Of putting all the Grecian actors down,
And winning at a wake their parsley crown.
Let this triumphal chaplet find some place
Among the other trophies of thy race:
By the Domitii's statues shall be laid
The habit and the mask in which you play'd
Antigone's, or bold Thyestes' part,
(While your wild nature little wanted art)
And on the marble pillar shall be hung
The lute to which the royal madman sung.
Who, Catiline, can boast a nobler line
Than thy lewd friend Cethegus's, and thine?
Yet

you took arms, and did by night conspire
To set your houses and our gods on fire:
(An enterprise which might indeed become
Our enemies, the Gauls, not sons of Rome,
To recompense whose barbarous intent
Pitch'd shirts would be too mild a punishment)
But Tully, our wise consul, watch'd the blow,
With care discover'd, and disarm'd the foe;
Tully, the humble mushroom, scarcely known,
The lowly native of a country town,
(Who till of late could never reach the height
Of being honour'd as a Roman knight)
Throughout the trembling city plac'd a guard,
Dealing an equal share to every ward,
And by the peaceful robe got more renown
Within our walls, than young Octavius won
By victories at Actium, or the plain
Of Thessaly, discolour'd by the slain:
Him therefore Rome in gratitude decreed
The Father of his Country, which he freed.
Marius, (another consul we admire)

In the same village born, first plough'd for hire;
His next advance was to the soldier's trade,
Where, if he did not nimbly ply the spade,
His surly officer ne'er fail'd to crack
His knotty cudgel on his tougher back:
Yet he alone secur'd the tottering state,
Withstood the Cimbrians, and redeem'd our fate:
So when the eagles to their quarry flew,
(Who never such a goodly banquet knew)
Only a second laurel did adorn

His colleague Catulus, though nobly born;
He shar'd the pride of the triumphal bay,
But Marius won the glory of the day.

From a mean stock the pious Decii came,
Small their estates, and vulgar was their name;
Yet such their virtues, that their loss alone
For Rome and all our legions did atone;
Their country's doom they by their own retriev'd,
Themselves more worth than all the host they
sav'd.

The last good king whom willing Rome obey'd
Was the poor offspring of a captive maid;
Yet he those robes of empire justly bore,
Which Romulus, our sacred founder, wore:

Nicely he gain'd, and well possest the throne,
Not for his father's merit, but his own,
And reign'd, himself a family alone.

When Tarquin, his proud successor, was quell',
The consul's sons (who, for their country's good,
And with him Lust and Tyranny expell'd,
And to enhance the honour of their blood,
Should have asserted what their father won,
And, to confirm that liberty, have done
Actions which Cocles might have wish'd his own;
What might to Mutius wonderful appear,
And what bold Clelia might with envy hear)
Open'd the gates, endeavouring to restore
Their banish'd king, and arbitrary power:
Whilst a poor slave, with scarce a name, betray'd
The horrid ills these well-born rogues had laid;
Who therefore for their treason justly bore
The rods and ax, ne'er us'd in Rome before.

If you have strength Achilles' arms to bear,
And courage to sustain a ten years war;
Though foul Thersites got thee, thou shalt be
More lov'd by all, and more esteem'd by me,
Than if by chance you from some hero came,
In nothing like your father but his name.

Boast then your blood, and your long lineag

stretch

As high as Rome, and its great founders reach;
You'll find, in these hereditary tales,
Your ancestors the scum of broken jails;
And Romulus, your honour's ancient source,
But a poor shepherd's boy, or something worse.

HORACE. BOOK III. ODE VII.

IMITATED.

DEAR Molly, why so oft in tears?
Why all these jealousies and fears,

For thy bold Son of Thunder?
Have patience till we 've conquer'd France,
Thy closet shall be stor'd with Nantz;
Ye ladies like such plunder.
Before Toulon thy yoke-mate lies,
Where all the live-long night he sighs
For thee in lousy cabin:

And though the captain's Chloe cries,
""Tis I, dear Bully, pr'ythee rise".
He will not let the drab in.

But she, the cunning'st jade alive,
Says, 'tis the ready way to thrive,
By sharing female bounties:
And, if he 'll be but kind one night,
She vows he shall be dubb'd a knight,
When she is made a countess.

Then tells of smooth young pages whipp'd,
Cashier'd, and of their liveries stripp'd;
Who late to peers belonging,
Are nightly now compell'd to trudge
With links, because they would not drudge
To save their ladies' longing.

A colder cavalier than he,
But Val, the eunuch, cannot be

In all such love-adventures:
Then pray do you, dear Molly, take
Some Christian care, and do not break
Your conjugal indentures.

Nor does your virtue disappear

Bellair! (who does not Bellair know?
The wit, the beauty, and the beau)

Gives out, he loves you dearly:
And many a nymph attack'd with sighs,
And soft impertinence and noise,
Full oft has beat a parley.

But, pretty turtle, when the blade
Shall come with amorous serenade,

Soon from the window rate him:
But if reproof will not prevail,
And he perchance attempt to scale,
Discharge the jordan at him.

HORACE. BOOK IV. ODE IX.

VERSES immortal as my bays I sing,
When suited to my trembling string:
When by strange art both voice and lyre agree
To make one pleasing harmony.

All poets are by their blind captain led,

(For none e'er had the sacrilegious pride

To tear the well-plac'd laurel from his aged head.)
Yet Pindar's rolling dithyrambic tide
Hath still this praise, that none presume to fly
Like him, but flag too low, or soar too high.

Still does Stesichorus's tongue

Sing sweeter than the bird which on it hung.
Anacreon ne'er too old can grow,
Love from every verse does flow;
Still Sappho's strings do seem to move,
Instructing all her sex to love.

Golden rings of flowing hair

More than Helen did ensnare;

Others a prince's grandeur did admire,
And, wondering, melted to desire.

Not only skilful Teucer knew

To direct arrows from the bended yew.
Troy more than once did fall,

Though hireling gods rebuilt its nodding wall.
Was Sthenelus the only valiant he,
A subject fit for lasting poetry?
Was Hector that prodigious man alone,
Who, to save others lives, expos'd his own?
Was only he so brave to dare his fate,
And be the pillar of a tottering state?
No; others bury'd in oblivion lie,
As silent as their grave,

Because no charitable poet gave
Their well-deserved immortality.

Virtue with sloth, and cowards with the brave,
Are level'd in th' impartial grave,

If they no poet have.

But I will lay my music by,

With the small circle of one short-liv'd year: Others, like comets, visit and away;

Your lustre, great as theirs, finds no decay,

But with the constant Sun makes an eternal day.

We barbarously call those blest,

Who are of largest tenements possest,
Whilst swelling coffers break their owner's rest.
More truly happy those, who can
Govern that little empire, Man;

Bridle their passions, and direct their will
Through all the glittering paths of charming ill;
Who spend their treasure freely as 'twas given
By the large bounty of indulgent Heaven;
Who, in a fixt unalterable state,

Smile at the doubtful tide of Fate,
And scorn alike her friendship and her hate;
Who poison less than falsehood fear,
Loth to purchase life so dear;

But kindly for their friend embrace cold Death,
And seal their country's love with their departing
breath.

TRANSLATION

OF THE FOLLOWING VERSE FROM LUCAN:

Victrix causa Diis placuit, sed victa Catoni.

THE gods and Cato did in this divide,

They choose the conquering, he the conquer'd side.

TO

MR. EDMUND SMITH.

MUN, rarely credit Common Fame,
Unheeded let her praise or blame,
As whimsies guide the gossip tattles
Of wits, of beauties, and of battles;
To-day the warrior's brow she crowns,
For naval spoils, and taken towns;
To-morrow all her spite she rallies,
And votes the victor to the gallies.
Nor in her visits can she spare
The reputation of the fair.
For instance:-Chloe's bloom did boast
A while to be the reigning toast;
Lean hectic sparks abandon'd bohea,
And in beer-glasses pledg'd to Chloe :
What fops of figure did she bring
To the front boxes and the ring?
While nymphs of quality look sullen,
As breeding wives, or moulting pullen
Blest charmer she, till prying Fame

And bid the mournful strings in silence lie; Incog. to miss's toilet eame;

Unless my songs begin and end with you,

To whom my strings, to whom my songs, are due.
No pride does with your rising honours grow,
You meekly look on suppliant crowds below.

Should Fortune change your happy state,
You could admire, yet envy not, the great.
Your equal hand holds an unbias'd scale,
Where no rich vices, gilded baits, prevail:
You with a generous honesty despise
What all the meaner world so dearly prize:

Where in the gallipots she spy'd
Lilies and roses, that defy'd
The frost of Age, with certain pickles
They call-cosmetics for the freckles:
Away she flew with what she wanted,
And told at court that Chloe painted.

"Then who 'd on common Fame rely,
Whose chief employment 's to decry?
A cogging, fickle, jilting female,
As ever ply'd at six in the Mall;

The father of all fibs begat her
On some old newsman's fusty daughter."
O captain! Taisez-vous-'twere hard
Her novels ne'er should have regard:
One proof I'll in her favour give,
Which none but you will disbelieve.

When Phoebus sent her to recite
The praises of the most polite,
Whose scenes have been, in every age,
The glories of the British stage,
Then she, to rigid truth confin'd,
Your name with lofty Shakspeare join'd;
And, speaking as the god directed,
The praise she gave was unsuspected.

THE SPELL'.

"WHENE'ER I wive," young Strephon cry'd,
"Ye powers, that o'er the noose preside!
Wit, beauty, wealth, and humour, give,
Or let me still a rover live:

But if all these no nymph can share,
And I'm predestin'd to the snare,
Let mine, ye powers! be doubly fair."

Thus pray'd the swain in heat of blood,
Whilst Cupid at his elbow stood;

And twitching him, said, "Youth, be wise,
Ask not impossibilities:

A faultless make, a manag'd wit,
Humour and fortune never met:
But if a beauty you 'd obtain,

Court some bright Phyllis of the brain;
The dear idea long enjoy,
Clean is the bliss, and will not cloy.
But trust me, youth, for I'm sincere,
And know the ladies to a hair,
Howe'er small poets whine upon it,
In madrigal, and song, and sonnet,
Their beauty's but a Spell, to bring
A lover to th' enchanted ring;
Ere the sack-posset is digested,
Or half of Hymen's taper wasted,
The winning air, the wanton trip,
The radiant eye, the velvet lip,
From which you fragrant kisses stole,
And seem to suck her springing soul-
These, and the rest, you doated on,

Are nauseous or insipid grown;
The Spell dissolves, the cloud is gone,
And Sacharissa turns to Joan."

ELEGY

UPON

THE DEATH OF TIBULLUS.

FROM OVID.

IF Memnon's fate, bewail'd with constant dew,
Does, with the day, his mother's grief renew;

This poem, with a few alterations, is to be found in Fenton, (see vol. x.) ander the title of the Platonic Spell. N.

If her son's death mov'd tender Thetis' mind
To swell with tears the waves, with sighs the wind;
If mighty gods can mortals' sorrow know,
And be the humble partners of our woe;
Now loose your tresses, pensive Elegy,
(Too well your office and your name agree)
Tibullus, once the joy and pride of Fame,
Lies now rich fuel on the trembling flame.
Sad Cupid now despairs of conquering hearts,
Throws by his empty quiver, breaks his darts;
Eases his useless bows from idle strings,
Nor flies, but humbly creeps with flagging wings.
He wants, of which he robb'd fond lovers, rest,
And wounds with furious hands his pensive breast.
Those graceful curls which wantonly did flow,
The whiter rivals of the falling snow,
Forget their beauty, and in discord lie,
Drunk with the fountain from his melting eye.
Not more Æneas' loss the boy did move;
Like passions for them both, prove equal love.
Tibullus' death grieves the fair goddess more,
More swells her eyes, than when the savage boar
Her beautiful, her lov'd Adonis tore.

Poets' large souls Heaven's noblest stamps do bear;

(Poets, the watchful angels darling care)

Yet Death, (blind archer) that no difference knows,
Without respect his roving arrows throws.
Nor Phoebus, nor the Muses' queen, could give
Their son, their own prerogative, to live.
Orpheus, the heir of both his parents' skill,
Tam'd wondering beasts, and Death's more cruel will.
Linus' sad strings on the dumb lute do lie,
In silence forc'd to let their master die.
Homer (the spring to whom we poets owe
Our little all does in sweet numbers flow)
Remains immortal only in his fame,
His works alone survive the envious flame.

In vain to gods (if gods there are) we pray,
And needless victims prodigally pay,
Worship their sleeping deities: yet Death
Scorns votaries, and stops the praying breath,
To hallow'd shrines intruding Fate will come,
And drag you from the altar to the tomb.

Go, frantic poet, with delusions fed,
Think laurels guard your consecrated head,
Now the sweet master of your art is dead.
What can we hope? since that a narrow span
Can measure the remains of thee, great man!
The bold rash flame that durst approach so nigh,
And see Tibullus, and not trembling die,
Durst seize on temples, and their gods defy.
Fair Venus (fair ev'n in such sorrows) stands,
Closing her heavy eyes with trembling hands:
Anon, in vain, officiously she tries

To quench the flame with rivers from her eyes.
His mother weeping does his eyelids close,
And on his urn, tears, her last gift, bestows.
His sister too, with hair dishevell❜d, bears
Part of her mother's nature, and her tears.

With those, two fair, two mournful rivals come,
And add a greater triumph to his tomb:
Both hug his urn, both his lov'd ashes kiss,
And both contend which reap'd the greater bliss.
Thus Delia spoke, (when sighs no more could last)
Renewing by remembrance pleasures past;⚫
"When youth with vigour did for joy combine,
I was Tibullus' life, Tibullus mine:
I entertain'd his hot, his first desire,
And kept alive, till age, his active fire."

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To her then Nemesis, (when groans gave leave)
"As I alone was lov'd, alone I'll grieve:
Spare your vain tears, Tibullus' heart was mine,
About my neck his dying arms did twine;

I snatch'd his soul, which true to me did prove:
Age ended yours, Death only stopp'd my love."
If any poor remains survive the flames,
Except thin shadows, and more empty names;
Free in Elysium shall Tibullus rove,

Nor fear a second death should cross his love.
There shall Catullus, crown'd with bays, impart
To his far dearer friend his open heart:
There Gallus (if Fame's hundred tongues all lie)
Shall, free from censure, no more rashly die.
Such shall our poet's blest companions be,
And in their deaths, as in their lives, agree.
But thou, rich Urn, obey my strict commands,
Guard thy great charge from sacrilegious hands.
Thou, Earth, Tibullus' ashes gently use,
And be as soft and easy as his Muse.

TO THE

EVENING STAR.

ENGLISHED FROM A GREEK IDYLLIUM.

BRIGHT Star! by Venus fix'd above,
To rule the happy realms of Love;
Who in the dewy rear of day,
Advancing thy distinguish'd ray,
Dost other lights as far outshine
As Cynthia's silver glories thine;
Known by superior beauty there,
As much as Pastorella here.

Exert, bright Star, thy friendly light,
And guide me through the dusky night;
Defrauded of her beams, the Moon
Shines dim, and will be vanish'd soon.
I would not rob the shepherd's fold;
I seek no miser's hoarded gold;
To find a nymph, I 'm forc'd to stray,
Who lately stole my heart away.

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