And though the priests are mute, and temples still, God never wants a voice to speak his will. When first we from the teeming womb were
With inborn precepts then our souls were fraught,
And then the Maker his new creatures taught.
Then when he form'd, and gave us to be men,
He gave us all our useful knowledge then.
Canst thou believe the vast Eternal Mind
Was e'er to Syrts or Libyan sands confined?
That he would choose this waste, this barren
To teach the thin inhabitants around; [ground,
And leave his truths in wilds and deserts drown'd?
Is there a place that God would choose to love
Beyond this earth, the seas, yon heaven above;
And virtuous minds-the noblest throne for Jove?
Why seek we further then ?-Behold around,
How all thou seest does with the god abound;
Jove is alike in all, and always to be found.
Let those weak minds who live in doubt and fear
To juggling priests for oracles repair:
One certain hour of death, to each decreed,
My fix'd, my certain soul from doubt has freed.
The coward and the brave are doom'd to fall,
And when Jove told this truth, he told us all.'
So spoke the hero; and, to keep his word,
Nor Ammon nor his oracle explored;
But left the crowd at freedom to believe,
And take such answers as the priest should give.
FROM THE LATIN OF MARTIAL.
THE girl that was to ear and sight
More soft of tone, of skin more white
Than plumaged swans, that yield in death
The sweetest murmur of their breath;
Smooth as Galesus' soft-fleeced flocks;
Dainty as shells on Lucrine rocks;
As Red Sea pearls; bright ivory's glow;
Unsullied lilies; virgin snow ;
Whose locks were tipp'd with ruddy gold,
Like wool that clothes the Boetic fold;
Like braided hair of girls of Rhine;
As tawny field-mouse sleek and fine;
Whose vermil mouth breathed Pæstum's rose,
Or balm fresh honeycombs disclose;
Or amber yielding odour sweet
From the chafing hand's soft heat;
By whom the peacock was not fair;
Nor squirrels pets, nor phoenix rare;
Erotion crumbles in her urn;
Warm from the pile her ashes burn:
Ere yet had closed her sixteenth year,
The Fates accursed have spread her bier;
And with her all I doted on,
My loves, my joys, my sports, are gone.
Yet Pætus, who, like me distress'd,
Is fain to beat his mourning breast,
And tear his hair beside a grave,
Asks, Blush you not to mourn a slave?
I mourn a high, rich, noble wife:
And yet I bear my lot of life!'
Thy fortitude exceeds all bounds:
Thou hast two hundred thousand pounds :
Thou bear'st-'tis true-thy lot of life;
Thou bear'st-the jointure of thy wife.
FROM THE LATIN OF MARTIAL.
THEY tell me, Cotilus, that you're a beau :
What this is, Cotilus, I wish to know.
'A beau is one who, with the nicest care,
In parted locks divides his curling hair;
One who with balm and cinnamon smells sweet,
Whose humming lips some Spanish air repeat;
Whose naked arms are smooth'd with pummice-
And toss'd about with graces all his own: [stone,
A beau is one who takes his constant seat,
From morn till evening, where the ladies meet;
And ever, on some sofa hovering near,
Whispers some nothing in some fair one's ear;
Who scribbles thousand billets-doux a day;
Still reads, and scribbles; seals and sends away:
A beau is one who shrinks, if nearly press'd
By the coarse garment of a neighbour guest;
Who knows who flirts with whom, and still is found
At each good table in successive round:
A beau is one-none better knows than he
A race-horse and his noble pedigree'—
Indeed?-why, Cotilus, if this be so,
What teasing trifling thing is called a beau!
FROM THE LATIN OF MARTIAL.
THE Sources of a happy life,
Dear friend, are these alone-
A purse not fill'd by busy strife,
But made by will our own.
A pleasant farm, a cheerful fire,
A soul unruffled by desire;
No lawsuits of the noisy town,
No painful duties of the gown;
Pure vigorous health, associates free,
Endear'd by sweet equality;
No rules of ceremonious art,
But manners flowing from the heart;
A plain, yet hospitable board,
And bumpers temperately pour'd—
A careless night, a joyous bed,
By modest love with roses spread;
Slumbers that make the darkness fly,
Content that never breathes a sigh,
And not a fear nor wish to die.
FROM THE LATIN OF MARTIAL.
IF, my dear Martial, fate allow'd
A safe retreat from folly's crowd;
If, far from care and busy strife,
Together we could lead our life-
True happiness we would not rate
By frequent visits to the great;
Nor hear the wrangling lawyer bawl,
Nor range proud statues round our hall:
Our chairs should take us to the play,
The walks, the baths should wile the day,
The field, the porch, the tennis court,
And study interchanged with sport.
But how unlike our real fate
Is this imaginary state!
We live not for ourselves-alas!
Youth's joyous suns neglected pass,
Change into night, and never more
Return to bless us as before.
Oh! who that held enjoyment's power
Would waste in pain one precious hour?
ON THE MAUSOLEUM OF AUGUSTUS.
FROM THE LATIN OF MARTIAL.
FILL high the bowl with sparkling wine,
Cool the bright draught with summer snow,
Amidst my locks let odours flow,
Around my temples roses twine.
See yon proud emblem of decay,
Yon lordly pile that braves the sky!
It bids us live our little day,
Teaching that gods themselves may die.
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