you alone sustain th' important weight Of Rome's affairs, so various and so great; While you the public weal with arms defend, Adorn with morals, and with laws amend; Shall not the tedious letter prove a crime, That steals one moment of our Cæsar's time? Rome's founder, Leda's twins, the god of wine, By human virtues rais'd to power divine, While they with pious cares improv'd mankind, To various states their proper bounds assign'd; Commanded war's destroying rage to cease, And bless'd their cities with the arts of peace; Complain'd their virtues, and their toils, could raise But slight returns of gratitude and praise. Who crush'd the Hydra, when to life renew'd, And monsters dire with fated toil subdu'd, Found that the monster Envy never dies, Till low in equal death her conqueror lies; For he, who soars to an unwonted height, Oppressive dazzles, with excess of light, The arts beneath him; yet, when dead, shall prove An object worthy of esteem and love. Yet Rome to thee her living honours pays: By thee we swear, to thee our altars raise, While we confess no prince so great, so wise, Hath ever risen, or shall ever rise.
But when your people raise their Cæsar's name
Above the Greek and Roman chiefs in fame,
In this one instance they are just and wise,
Yet other things they view with other eyes;
With cold contempt they treat the living bard;
The dead alone can merit their regard.
To elder bards so lavish of applause,
They love the language of our ancient laws;
On Numa's hymns with holy rapture pore,
And turn our mouldy records o'er and o'er;
Then swear, transported, that the sacred Nine
Pronounc'd on Alba's top each hallow'd line.
But if, because the world with justice pays
To the first bards of Greece its grateful praise,
In the same scale our poets must be weigh'd,
To such disputes what answer can be made?
Since we have gain'd the height of martial fame,
Let us in peaceful arts assert our claim;
The anointed Greeks no longer shall excel,
And neither wrestle, sing, or paint so well.
But let me ask, Since poetry, like wine,
Is taught by time to mellow and refine,
When shall th' immortal bard begin to live?
Say, shall a hundred years completely give
Among your ancients a full right of claim,
Or with the worthless moderns fix his name?
Some certain point should finish the debate.
"Then let him live a hundred years complete."
What if we take a year, a month, a day,
From this judicious sum of fame away,
Shall he among the ancients rise to fame,
Or sink with moderns to contempt and shame?
"Among the ancients let the bard appear,
Though younger by a month, or even a year."
I take the grant, and by degrees prevail
(For hair by hair I pull the horse's tail),
And while I take them year by year away,
Their subtile heaps of arguments decay,
Who judge by annals, nor approve a line
Till death has made the poetry divine.
"Ennius, the brave, the lofty, and the wise,
Another Homer in the critic's eyes,
Forgets his promise, now secure of fame,
And heeds no more his Pythagoric dream.
No longer Nævius or his plays remain;
Yet we remember every pleasing scene:
So much can time its awful sanction give
In sacred fame to bid a poem live.
"Whate'er disputes of ancient poets rise,
In some one excellence their merit lies:
What depth of learning old Pacuvius shows!
With strong sublime the page of Accius glows;
Menander's comic robe Afranius wears;
Plautus as rapid in his plots appears
As Epicharmus; Terence charms with art,
And grave Cæcilius sinks into the heart.
These are the plays to which our people crowd,
Till the throng'd play-house crack with the dull
These are esteem'd the glories of the stage,
From the first drama to the present age."
Sometimes the crowd a proper judgment makes,
But oft they labour under gross mistakes,
As when their ancients lavishly they raise
Above all modern rivalship of praise.
But that sometimes their style uncouth appears,
Or their harsh numbers rudely hurt our ears,
Or that full flatly flows the languid line-
He, who owns this, hath Jove's assent and mine.
Think not I mean, in vengeance, to destroy
The works, for which I smarted when a boy.
But when as perfect models they are prais'd,.
Correct and chaste, I own I stand amaz'd.
Then if some better phrase, or happier line,
With sudden lustre unexpected shine,
However harsh the rugged numbers roll,
It stamps a price and merit on the whole.
I feel my honest indignation rise,
When, with affected air, a coxcomb cries,
The work, I own, has elegance and ease,
But sure no modern should presume to please:
Then for his favourite ancients dares to claim
Not pardon only, but rewards and fame.
When flowers o'erspread the stage, and sweets
The crowded theatre, should I presume
The just success of Atta's plays to blame,
The senate would pronounce me lost to shame.
What! criticise the scenes that charm'd the age
When Æsop and when Roscius trod the stage!
Whether too fond of their peculiar taste,
Or that they think their age may be disgrac'd,
Should they, with awkward modesty, submit
To younger judges in the cause of wit,
Or own, that it were best, provoking truth!
In age t' unlearn the learning of their youth!
He, to whom Numa's hymns appear divine,
Although his ignorance be great as mine,
Not to th'illustrious dead his homage pays,
But envious robs the living of their praise.
Did Greece, like Rome, her moderns disregard,
How had she now possest one ancient bard?
When she beheld her wars in triumph cease,
She soon grew wanton in the arms of peace;
Now she with rapture views th' Olympic games,
And now the sculptor's power her breast inflames;
Sometimes, with ravish'd soul and ardent gaze,
The painter's art intensely she surveys;
Now hears, transported, music's pleasing charms,
And now the tragic Muse her passions warms.
Thus a fond girl, her nurse's darling joy,
Now seeks impatient, and now spurns her toy.
For what can long our pain or pleasure raise?
Such are the effects of happiness and ease.
For many an age our fathers entertain'd
Their early clients, and the laws explain'd;
Instructed them their cautious wealth to lend,
While youth was taught with reverence to attend,
And hear the old point out the prudent ways
To calm their passions, and their fortunes raise.
Now the light people bend to other aims;
A lust of scribbling every breast inflames;
Our youth, our senators, with bays are crown'd,
And rhimes eternal at our feasts go round.
Even I, who verse and all its works deny,
Can faithless Parthia's lying sons out-lie,
And, ere the rising sun displays his light,
I call for tablets, papers, pens, and-write.
A pilot only dares a vessel steer;
A doubtful drug unlicens'd doctors fear;
Musicians are to sounds alone confin'd,
And each mechanic hath his trade assign'd:
But every desperate blockhead dares to write;
Verse is the trade of every living wight.
And yet this wandering phrensy of the brain
Hath many a gentle virtue in its train.
No cares of wealth a poet's heart controul;
Verse is the only passion of his soul.
He laughs at losses, flight of slaves, or fires;
No wicked scheme his honest breast inspires
To hurt his pupil, or his friend betray;
Brown bread and roots his appetite allay;
And though unfit for war's tumultuous trade,
In peace his gentle talents are display'd,
If you allow, that things of trivial weight
May yet support the grandeur of a state.
He forms the infant's tongue to firmer sound, Nor suffers vile abscenity to wound His tender ears; then with the words of truth Corrects the passions and the pride of youth. Th'illustrious dead, who fill his sacred page, Shine forth examples to each rising age; The languid hour of poverty he cheers, And the sick wretch his voice of comfort hears. Did not the Muse inspire the poet's lays, How could our youthful choir their voices raise In prayer harmonious, while the gods attend, And gracious bid the fruitful shower descend; Avert their plagues, dispel each hostile fear, And with glad harvests crown the wealthy year? Thus can the sound of all-melodious lays Th' offended powers of heaven and hell appease. Our ancient swains, of vigorous, frugal kind, At harvest-home us'd to unbend the mind With festal sports; those sports, that bade them bear, With cheerful hopes, the labours of the year.
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