Bad poets are our jest: yet they delight, Just like their betters, in whate'er they write, Hug their fool's paradise, and if you're slack To give them praise, themselves supply the lack.

But he who meditates a work of art, Oft as he writes, will act the censor's part: Is there a word wants n.o.bleness and grace, Devoid of weight, unworthy of high place?

He bids it go, though stiffly it decline, And cling and cling, like suppliant to a shrine: Choice terms, long hidden from the general view, He brings to day and dignifies anew, Which, once on Cato's and Cethegus' lips, Now pale their light and suffer dim eclipse; New phrases, in the world of books unknown, So use but father them, he makes his own: Fluent and limpid, like a crystal stream, He makes Rome's soil with genial produce teem: He checks redundance, harshnesses improves By wise refinement, idle weeds removes; Like an accomplished dancer, he will seem By turns a Satyr and a Polypheme; Yet all the while 'twill be a game of skill, Where sport means toil, and muscle bends to will.

Yet, after all, I'd rather far be blind To my own faults, though patent to mankind, Nay, live in the belief that foul is fair, Than see and grin in impotent despair.

There was an Argive n.o.bleman, 'tis said, Who all day long had acting in his head: Great characters on shadowy boards appeared, While he looked on and listened, clapped and cheered: In all things else he fairly filled his post, Friendly as neighbour, amiable as host; Kind to his wife, indulgent to his slave, He'd find a bottle sweated and not rave; He'd scorn to run his head against a wall; Show him a pit, and he'd avoid the fall.

At last, when quarts of h.e.l.lebore drunk neat, Thanks to his kin, had wrought a cure complete, Brought to himself again, "Good friends," quoth he, "Call you this saving? why, 'tis murdering me; Your stupid zeal has spoilt my golden days, And robbed me of a most delicious craze."

Wise men betimes will bid adieu to toys, And give up idle games to idle boys; Not now to string the Latian lyre, but learn The harmony of life, is my concern.

So, when I commune with myself, I state In words like these my side in the debate: "If no amount of water quenched your thirst, You'd tell the doctor, not go on and burst: Experience shows you, as your riches swell Your wants increase; have you no friend to tell?

A healing simple for a wound you try; It does no good; you put the simple by: You're told that silly folk whom heaven may bless With ample means get rid of silliness; You test it, find 'tis not the case with you: Then why not change your Mentor for a new?

Did riches make you wiser, set you free From idle fear, insane cupidity, You'd blush, and rightly too, if earth contained Another man more fond of what he gained.

Now put the matter thus: whate'er is bought And duly paid for, is our own, we're taught: Consult a lawyer, and he'll soon produce A case where property accrues from use.

The land by which you live is yours; most true, And Orbius' bailiff really works for you; He, while he ploughs the acres that afford Flour for your table, owns you for his lord; You pay your price, whate'er the man may ask, Get grapes and poultry, eggs and wine in cask; Thus, by degrees, proceeding at this rate, You purchase first and last the whole estate, Which, when it last was in the market, bore A good stiff price, two thousand say, or more.

What matters it if, when you eat your snack, 'Twas paid for yesterday, or ten years back?

There's yonder landlord, living like a prince On manors near Aricia, bought long since; He eats bought cabbage, though he knows it not; He burns bought sticks at night to boil his pot; Yet all the plain, he fancies, to the stone That stands beside the poplars, is his own.

But who can talk of property in lands Exposed to ceaseless risk of changing hands, Whose owner purchase, favour, lawless power, And lastly death, may alter in an hour?

So, with heirs following heirs like waves at sea, And no such thing as perpetuity, What good are farmsteads, granaries, pasture-grounds That stretch long leagues beyond Calabria's bounds, If Death, unbribed by riches, mows down all With his unsparing sickle, great and small?

"Gems, marbles, ivory, Tuscan statuettes, Pictures, gold plate, Gaetulian coverlets, There are who have not; one there is, I trow, Who cares not greatly if he has or no.

This brother loves soft couches, perfumes, wine, More than the groves of palmy Palestine; That toils all day, ambitious to reclaim A rugged wilderness with axe and flame; And none but he who watches them from birth, The Genius, guardian of each child of earth, Born when we're born and dying when we die, Now storm, now sunshine, knows the reason why I will not h.o.a.rd, but, though my heap be scant, Will take on each occasion what I want, Nor fear what my next heir may think, to find There's less than he expected left behind; While, ne'ertheless, I draw a line between Mirth and excess, the frugal and the mean.

'Tis not extravagance, but plain good sense, To cease from getting, grudge no fair expense, And, like a schoolboy out on holiday, Take pleasure as it comes, and s.n.a.t.c.h one's play.

"So 'twill not sink, what matter if my boat Be big or little? still I keep afloat, And voyage on contented, with the wind Not always contrary, nor always kind, In strength, wit, worth, rank, prestige, money-bags, Behind the first, yet not among the lags.

"You're not a miser: has all other vice Departed in the train of avarice, Or do ambitious longings, angry fret, The terror of the grave, torment you yet?

Can you make sport of portents, gipsy crones, Hobgoblins, dreams, raw head and b.l.o.o.d.y bones?

Do you count up your birthdays year by year, And thank the G.o.ds with gladness and blithe cheer, O'erlook the failings of your friends, and grow Gentler and better as your sand runs low?

Where is the gain in pulling from the mind One thorn, if all the rest remain behind?

If live you cannot as befits a man, Make room, at least, you may for those that can.

You've frolicked, eaten, drunk to the content Of human appet.i.te; 'tis time you went, Lest, when you've tippled freely, youth, that wears Its motley better, hustle you down stairs."

THE ART OF POETRY.

TO THE PISOS, FATHER AND SONS.

HUMANO CAPITI.

Suppose some painter, as a tour de force, Should couple head of man with neck of horse, Invest them both with feathers, 'stead of hair, And tack on limbs picked up from here and there, So that the figure, when complete, should show A maid above, a hideous fish below: Should you be favoured with a private view, You'd laugh, my friends, I know, and rightly too.

Yet trust me, Pisos, not less strange would look, To a discerning eye, the foolish book Where dream-like forms in sick delirium blend, And nought is of a piece from end to end.

"Poets and painters (sure you know the plea) Have always been allowed their fancy free."

I own it; 'tis a fair excuse to plead; By turns we claim it, and by turns concede; But 'twill not screen the unnatural and absurd, Unions of lamb with tiger, snake with bird.

When poets would be lofty, they commence With some gay patch of cheap magnificence: Of Dian's altar and her grove we read, Or rapid streams meandering through the mead; Or grand descriptions of the river Rhine, Or watery bow, will take up many a line.

All in their way good things, but not just now: You're happy at a cypress, we'll allow; But what of that? you're painting by command A shipwrecked sailor, striking out for land: That crockery was a jar when you began; It ends a pitcher: you an artist, man!

Make what you will, in short, so, when 'tis done, 'Tis but consistent, h.o.m.ogeneous, one.

Ye worthy trio! we poor sons of song Oft find 'tis fancied right that leads us wrong.

I prove obscure in trying to be terse; Attempts at ease emasculate my verse; Who aims at grandeur into bombast falls; Who fears to stretch his pinions creeps and crawls; Who hopes by strange variety to please Puts dolphins among forests, boars in seas.

Thus zeal to 'scape from error, if unchecked By sense of art, creates a new defect.

Fix on some casual sculptor; he shall know How to give nails their sharpness, hair its flow; Yet he shall fail, because he lacks the soul To comprehend and reproduce the whole.

I'd not be he; the blackest hair and eye Lose all their beauty with the nose awry.

Good authors, take a brother bard's advice: Ponder your subject o'er not once nor twice, And oft and oft consider, if the weight You hope to lift be or be not too great.

Let but our theme be equal to our powers, Choice language, clear arrangement, both are ours.

Would you be told how best your pearls to thread?

Why, say just now what should just now be said, But put off other matter for to-day, To introduce it later by the way.

In words again be cautious and select, And duly pick out this, and that reject.

High praise and honour to the bard is due Whose dexterous setting makes an old word new.

Nay more, should some recondite subject need Fresh signs to make it clear to those who read, A power of issuing terms till now unused, If claimed with modesty, is ne'er refused.

New words will find acceptance, if they flow Forth from the Greek, with just a twist or so.

But why should Rome capriciously forbid Our bards from doing what their fathers did?

Or why should Plautus and Caecilius gain What Virgil or what Varius asks in vain?

Nay, I myself, if with my scanty wit I coin a word or two, why grudge me it, When Ennius and old Cato boldly flung Their terms broadcast, and amplified our tongue?

To utter words stamped current by the mill Has always been thought right and always will.

When forests shed their foliage at the fall, The earliest born still drops the first of all: So fades the elder race of words, and so The younger generations bloom and grow.

Death claims humanity and human things, Aye, e'en "imperial works and worthy kings:"

What though the ocean, girdled by the sh.o.r.e, Gives shelter to the ships it tossed before?

What though the marsh, once waste and watery, now Feeds neighbour towns, and groans beneath the plough?

What though the river, late the corn-field's dread, Rolls fruit and blessing down its altered bed?

Man's works must perish: how should words evade The general doom, and flourish undecayed?

Yes, words long faded may again revive, And words may fade now blooming and alive, If usage wills it so, to whom belongs The rule, the law, the government of tongues.

For metres, Homer shows you how to write Heroic deeds and incidents of fight.

Complaint was once the Elegiac's theme; From thence 'twas used to sing of love's young dream: But who that dainty measure first put out, Grammarians differ, and 'tis still in doubt.

Archilochus, inspired by fiery rage, Called forth Iambics: now they tread the stage In buskin or in sock, conduct discourse, Lead action on, and awe the mob perforce.

The glorious G.o.ds, the G.o.ds' heroic seed, The conquering boxer, the victorious steed, The joys of wine, the lover's fond desire, Such themes the Muse appropriates to the lyre.

Why hail me poet, if I fail to seize The shades of style, its fixed proprieties?

Why should false shame compel me to endure An ignorance which common pains would cure?

A comic subject steadily declines To be related in high tragic lines.

The Thyestean feast no less disdains The vulgar vehicle of comic strains.

Each has its place allotted; each is bound To keep it, nor invade its neighbour's ground.

Yet Comedy sometimes will raise her note: See Chremes, how he swells his angry throat!

And when a tragic hero tells his woes, The terms he chooses are akin to prose.

Peleus or Telephus, suppose him poor Or driven to exile, talks in tropes no more; His yard-long words desert him, when he tries To draw forth tears from sympathetic eyes.

Mere grace is not enough: a play should thrill The hearer's soul, and move it at its will.

Smiles are contagious; so are tears; to see Another sobbing, brings a sob from me.

No, no, good Peleus; set the example, pray, And weep yourself; then weep perhaps I may: But if no sorrow in your speech appear, I nod or laugh; I cannot squeeze a tear.