human
Can you continue this poem for me?
  "Whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as
'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own features,
form and pressure."
But in her course of Italian conquest, she had finally come into
His first public work, to which we have referred above, was the
tragedians.
everywhere.
sail-winged ships.
The mighty mass glides on,
Like some loud-panting monster of the deep;
Back roll the waves, in eddying masses whirled.
It rushes on, besprinkling all the sea
With flying spray like backward streaming breath;
As when one sees the cloud-rack whirled along,
Or some huge mass of rock reft off and driven
By furious winds, or seething whirlpools, high
Upbeaten by the ever-rushing waves;
Or else when Ocean crashes on the shore,
Or Triton, from the caverns of the sea,
Far down beneath the swelling waters' depths,
A rocky mass to upper heaven uprears.
By chance before the dawn, harbinger of burning rays, when the
husbandmen bring forth the oxen from their rest into the fields,
that they may break the red, dew-sprinkled soil with the plough,
and turn up the clods from the soft soil.
however, the case of Varius), intended for dramatic reading and
declamation, rather than for presentation upon the stage.
As to their style, even a cursory reading reveals their extreme
abstruse mythological allusions. Add to these features the dreary
punishment of her false lord.
_Nurse._    Be silent now, I pray thee, and thy plaints confine
To secret woe. The man who heavy blows can bear
In silence, biding still his time with patient soul,
Full oft his vengeance gains. 'Tis hidden wrath that harms;
But hate proclaimed oft loses half its power to harm.
_Medea._    But small the grief is that can counsel take and hide
Abroad and work their will.
_Nurse._                    O cease this mad complaint,
My mistress; scarce can friendly silence help thee now.
_Nurse._    Then valor be approved, if for it still there's room.
_Medea._    But it must always be that valor finds its place.
_Nurse._    The king must be revered.
_Medea._                               My father was a king.
_Nurse._    Dost thou not fear?
_Medea._                   Not though the earth produced the foe.
_Nurse._    Thou'lt perish.
_Medea._                    So I wish it.
_Nurse._                              Thy children!
_Medea._                                   Whose, thou know'st.
_Nurse._    And dost thou still delay?
_Medea._                            I go, but vengeance first.
_Nurse._    Th' avenger will pursue.
_Medea._                        Perchance I'll stop his course.
_Medea._    Though fate may strip me of my all, myself am left.
But who flings wide the royal palace doors? Behold,
'Tis Creon's self, exalted high in Grecian sway.
Medea, baleful daughter of the Colchian king,
Has not yet taken her hateful presence from our realm.
On mischief is she bent; well known her treacherous power.
For who escapes her? Who may pass his days in peace?
This cursed pestilence at once would I have stayed
assistant
Sure, a continuation for this poem could be:
  By force of arms: but Jason's prayers prevailed. She still
May live, but let her free my borders from the fear
Her presence genders, and her safety gain by flight.
But lo, she comes with fierce and threatening mien to seek
An audience with us.
Slaves! defend us from her touch
And pestilential presence! Bid her silence keep,
And learn at length obedience to the king's
And monstrous!
_Medea._               What the crime, my lord, or what the guilt
_Creon._                        Let the guiltless question thus.
_Medea._    Unrighteous kingdoms never long endure.
_Medea._                           Yea, but let him take me hence
_Creon._                           Too late thy prayer, for fixed
_Medea._               Who sits in judgment and denies
His ear to either suitor, though his judgment right
Appear, is still himself unrighteous.
But come, I'll give thee grace to plead thy goodly cause.
To swerve not from the proposed course they once
have taken,
Full well I know, for I have tasted royalty.
For, though by present storms of ill I'm overwhelmed,
An exile, suppliant, lone, forsaken, all undone,
I once in happier times a royal princess shone,
And traced my proud descent from heavenly Phoebus' self.
Then princes humbly sought my hand in wedlock, mine,
Who now must sue.--
O changeful Fortune, thou my throne
Hast reft away, and given me exile in its stead.
Trust not in kingly realms, since fickle chance may strew
Their treasures to the winds. Lo _this_ is regal, this
The work of kings, which time nor change cannot undo:
To succor the afflicted, to provide at need
A trusty refuge for the suppliant. This alone
I brought of all my Colchian treasure, this renown,
This very flower of fame,--that by my arts I saved
The bulwark of the Greeks, the offspring of the gods.
My princely gift to Greece is Orpheus, that sweet bard,
Who can the trees in willing bondage draw, and melt
The crag's hard heart. Mine too are Boreas' winged sons,
And Leda's heaven-born progeny, and Lynceus, he
Whose glance can pierce the distant view; yea, all the
Save Jason; for I mention not the king of kings,
The leader of the leaders: he is mine alone,
My labor's recompense. The rest I give to you.
Nay, come, O king, arraign me, and rehearse my crimes.
But stay! for I'll confess them all. The only crime
Of which I stand accused is this--the _Argo_ saved.
Suppose my maiden scruples had opposed the deed;
Suppose my filial piety had stayed my hand:
Then had the mighty chieftains fall'n, and in their fate
All Greece had been o'erwhelmed; then this thy son-in-law
Had felt the bull's consuming breath, and perished there.
Nay, nay, let Fortune when she will my doom decree;
I glory still that kings have owed their lives to me.
But what reward I reap for all my glorious deeds
Is in thy hands. Convict me, if thou wilt, of sin,
But give him back for whom I sinned. O Creon, see,
I own that I am guilty. This much thou didst know,
When first I clasped thy knees, a humble suppliant,
And sought the shelter of thy royal clemency.
Some little corner of thy kingdom now I ask
In which to hide my grief. If I must flee again,
O let some nook remote within thy broad domain
Be found for me!
The state from fear; abiding in some other land,
Outwear the patience of the gods.
_Medea._                                     Thou bidst me flee?
Then give me back my bark in which to flee. Restore
The partner of my flight. Why should I flee alone?
I came not thus. Or if avenging war thou fear'st,
Then banish both the culprits; why distinguish me
From Jason? 'Twas for him old Pelias was o'ercome;
For him the flight, the plunder of my father's realm,
My sire forsaken and my infant brother slain,
And all the guilt that love suggests; 'twas all for him.
Deep-dyed in sin am I, but on my guilty soul
The sin of profit lieth not.
_Creon._                                   Why seek delay
By speech? Too long thou tarriest.
her hapless babes.
_Creon._                         Then go in peace; for I to them
A father's place will fill, and take them to my breast.
_Medea._    Now by the fair hopes born upon this wedding day,
And by thy hopes of lasting sovereignty secure
From changeful fate's assault, I pray thee grant from flight
A respite brief, while I upon my children's lips
A mother's kiss imprint, perchance the last.
_Creon._                                             A time
Thou seek'st for treachery.
_Medea._                               What fraud can be devised
In one short hour?
_Creon._                      To those on mischief bent, be sure,
_Medea._    Too gracious thou. But let my respite further shrink,
_Creon._                                Thy life shall surely pay
But the voice of Hymen calls away
To solemnize the rites of this his festal day.
The chorus sings in reminiscent strain of the old days before the
_Nurse._    My foster daughter, whither speedest thou abroad?
O stay, I pray thee, and restrain thy passion's force.
As some wild bacchanal, whose fury's raging fire
The god inflames, now roams distraught on Pindus' snows,
And now on lofty Nysa's rugged slopes; so she
Now here, now there, with frenzied step is hurried on,
Her face revealing every mark of stricken woe,
With flushing cheek and sighs deep drawn, wild cries
and tears,
And laughter worse than tears. In her a medley strange
Of doubts and fears is seen, and overtopping wrath,
Bewailings, bitter groans of anguish.--Whither tends
This overburdened soul? What mean her frenzied threats?
When will the foaming wave of fury spend itself?
No common crime, I fear, no easy deed of ill
She meditates. Herself she will outvie. For well
I recognize the wonted marks of rage. Some deed
Is threatening, wild, profane and hideous. Behold,
Her face betrays her madness. O ye gods, may these
Our fears prove vain forebodings!
_Medea._                                For thy hate, poor soul,
Dost thou a measure seek? Let it be deep as love.
And shall I tamely view the wedding torches' glare?
And shall this day go uneventful by, this day
So hardly won, so grudgingly bestowed? Nay, nay;
While, poised upon her heights, the central earth shall
The heavens up; while seasons run their endless round,
And sands unnumbered lie; while days and nights and sun
And stars in due procession pass; while round the pole
The ocean-fearing bears revolve, and tumbling streams
Flow downward to the sea: my grief shall never cease
To seek revenge, and shall forever grow. What rage
Of savage beast can equal mine? What Scylla famed?
What sea-engulfing pool? What burning AEtna placed
On impious Titan's heaving breast? No torrent stream,
Nor storm-tossed sea, nor breath of flame fanned by
the gale,
Can check or equal my wild storm of rage. My will
Is set on limitless revenge!
He feared the power of Creon and Acastus' wrath?--
True love is proof against the fear of man. But grant
He was compelled to yield, and pledged his hand in fear:
He might at least have sought his wife with one last word
Of comfort and farewell. But this, though brave in heart,
He feared to do. The cruel terms of banishment
Could Creon's son-in-law not soften? No. One day
Alone was given for last farewell to both my babes.
But time's short space I'll not bewail; though brief in
hours,
In consequence it stretches out eternally.
This day shall see a deed that ne'er shall be forgot.--
But now I'll go and pray the gods, and move high heaven
But I shall work my will!
They seek to cure! If, now, I wish to keep the troth
I plighted to my lawful bride, my life must pay
The forfeit; if I shrink from death, my guilty soul
Must perjured be. I fear no power that man can wield,
But in my heart paternal love unmans me quite;
For well I know that in my death my children's fate
Is sealed. O sacred Justice, if in heaven thou dwell'st,
Be witness now that for my children's sake I act.
Nay, sure am I that even she, Medea's self,
Though fierce she is of soul, and brooking no restraint,
Will see her children's good outweighing all her wrongs.
With this good argument my purpose now is fixed,
In humble wise to brave her wrath.
Of me her fury flames anew! Hate, like a shield,
She bears, and in her face is pictured all her woe.
_Medea._    Thou seest, Jason, that we flee. 'Tis no new thing
To suffer exile; but the cause of flight is strange;
For with thee I was wont to flee, not from thee. Yes,
I go; but whither dost thou send me whom thou driv'st
From out thy home? Shall I the Colchians seek again,
My royal father's realm whose soil is steeped in blood
My brother shed? What country dost thou bid me seek?
What way by sea is open? Shall I fare again
Where once I saved the noble kings of Greece and thee,
Thou wanton, through the threatening jaws of Pontus' strait,
The blue Symplegades? Or shall I hie me back
To fair Thessalia's realms? Lo, all the doors which I,
For thee, have opened wide, I've closed upon myself.
But whither dost thou send me now? Thou bidd'st me flee,
But show'st no way or means of flight.
The king's own son-in-law commands, and I obey.
Come, heap thy torments on me; I deserve them all.
Let royal wrath oppress me, wanton that I am,
With cruel hand, and load my guilty limbs with chains;
And let me be immured in dungeons black as night:
Still will my punishment be less than my offense.--
O ingrate! Hast thou then forgot the brazen bull,
And his consuming breath? the fear that smote thee, when,
Upon the field of Mars, the earth-born brood stood forth
To meet thy single sword? 'Twas by my arts that they,
The monsters, fell by mutual blows. Remember, too,
The long-sought fleece of gold I won for thee, whose guard,
The dragon huge, was lulled to rest at my command;
My brother slain for thee. For thee old Pelias fell,
When, taken by my guile, his daughters slew their sire,
Whose life could not return. All this I did for thee.
In quest of thine advantage have I quite forgot
Mine own.
And now, by all thy fond paternal hopes,
By thine established house, by all the monsters slain
For thee, by these my hands which I have ever held
To work thy will, by all the perils past, by heaven,
And sea that witnessed at my wedlock--pity me!
Since thou art blessed, restore me what I lost for thee:
That countless treasure plundered from the swarthy tribes
Of India, which filled our goodly vaults with wealth,
And decked our very trees with gold. This costly store
I left for thee, my native land, my brother, sire,
My reputation--all; and with this dower I came.
If now to homeless exile thou dost send me forth,
Give back the countless treasures which I left for thee.
_Medea._    I thought my exile punishment; 'tis now, I see,
A gracious boon!
_Medea._    Not so. 'Tis for Creuesa's love thou sayest this;
Thou wouldst remove the hated wanton once thy wife.
_Jason._    Dost thou reproach me with a guilty love?
_Medea._                                               Yea, that,
Commits the sin. All men proclaim thy wife defiled;
Do thou thyself protect her and condone her sins.
Let her be guiltless in thine eyes who for thy gain
Has sinned.
_Jason._    But gifts which sin has brought 'twere shame to take.
_Medea._            My children! Them I do refuse, reject,
Renounce! Shall then Creuesa brothers bear to these
My children?
_Jason._                But the queen can aid thy wretched sons.
_Medea._    May that day never dawn, that day of shame and woe,
When in one house are joined the low-born and the high,
The sons of that foul robber Sisyphus, and these
The sons of Phoebus.
_Jason._                      Wretched one, and wilt thou, then
Involve me also in thy fall? Begone, I pray.
_Medea._    The king hath yielded to my prayer.
_Jason._                                What wouldst thou then?
_Medea._    Of thee? I'd have thee dare the law.
_Jason._                                        The royal power
Doth compass me.
_Medea._                         A greater than the king is here:
And of this royal strife let Jason be the prize.
_Jason._    Outwearied by my woes I yield. But be thou ware,
Medea, lest too often thou shouldst tempt thy fate.
_Medea._    Yet Fortune's mistress have I ever been.
While Creon threatens instant death.
_Medea._                                     Then flee them both.
Nor yet to stain thy pious hands with kindred blood.
Come, flee with me.
_Jason._                         But what resistance can we make,
If Creon and Acastus join in common cause?
_Medea._    Add, too, the Colchian armies with my father's self
To lead them; join the Scythian and Pelasgian hordes.
In one deep grief of ruin will I whelm them all.
_Jason._    Yet on the scepter do I look with fear.
Of vengeance loose, and shake the lofty firmament
With rending storms! At random hurl thy vengeful bolts,
Selecting neither me nor Jason with thy aim,
That thus whoever falls may perish with the brand
Of guilt upon him. For thy hurtling darts can take
No erring flight.
_Jason._                       Recall thee and in calmness speak
With words of peace and reason. Then if any gift
From Creon's royal house can compensate thy woes,
Take that as solace of thy flight.
As comrades of my flight, that in their childish breasts
Their mother's tears may flow. New sons await thy home.
_Jason._    My heart inclines to yield to thee, but love forbids.
Though Creon's self demand. My very spring of life,
My sore heart's comfort and my joy are these my sons;
And sooner could I part with limbs or vital breath,
Or light of life.
Reveals the place to strike.
At least ere I depart
Grant me this last request: let me once more embrace
My sons. E'en that small boon will comfort my sad heart.
And this my latest prayer to thee: if, in my grief,
My tongue was over-bold, let not my words remain
To rankle in thy heart. Remember happier things
Of me, and let my bitter words be straight forgot.
Not one shall linger in my soul; and curb, I pray,
Thy too impetuous heart, and gently yield to fate.
For resignation ever soothes the woful soul.
He's gone! And can it be? And shall he thus depart,
Forgetting me and all my service? Must I drop,
Like some discarded toy, out of his faithless heart?
It shall not be. Up then, and summon all thy strength
And all thy skill! And this, the fruit of former crime,
Count nothing criminal that works thy will!
But lo,
We're hedged about; scant room is left for our designs.
Now must the attack be made where least suspicion makes
The least resistance. Now Medea, on! And do,
And dare thine utmost, yea, beyond thy utmost power!
of my grief,
And all the devious wanderings of my checkered course,
Assist me now in these my plans. There is a robe,
The glory of our Colchian realm, the precious gift
Of Phoebus' self to King AEetes as a proof
Of fatherhood; a gleaming circlet, too, all wrought
With threads of gold, the yellow gold bespangled o'er
With gems, a fitting crown to deck a princess' head.
These treasures let Medea's children bear as gifts
To Jason's bride. But first imbue them with the power
Of magic, and invoke the aid of Hecate;
The woe-producing sacrifices then prepare,
And let the sacred flames through all our courts resound.
My spirit trembles, for I feel the near approach
Of some unseen disaster. Swiftly grows her grief,
Its own fires kindling; and again her passion's force
Hath leaped to life. I oft have seen her, with the fit
Of inspiration in her soul, confront the gods,
And force the very heavens to her will. But now,
A monstrous deed of greater moment far than these
Medea is preparing. For, but now, did she
With step of frenzy hurry off until she reached
Her stricken home. There, in her chamber, all her stores
Of magic wonders are revealed; once more she views
The things herself hath held in fear these many years,
Unloosing one by one her ministers of ill,
Occult, unspeakable, and wrapt in mystery.
ingredients for the hell-broth are ready.
These deadly, potent herbs she takes and sprinkles o'er
With serpent venom, mixing all; and in the broth
She mingles unclean birds, a wailing screech-owl's heart,
A ghastly vampire's vitals torn from living flesh.
Her magic poisons all she ranges for her use:
The ravening power of hidden fire is held in these,
While deep in others lurks the numbing chill of frost.
Now magic runes she adds, more potent far.
But lo!
Her voice resounds, and as with maddened step she comes
She chants her charms, while heaven and earth convulsive
rock.
The things herself hath held in fear these many years,
Thou radiant moon,
Night's glorious orb, my supplications hear and come
To aid; put on thy sternest guise, thou goddess dread
Of triple form! Full oft have I with flowing locks,
And feet unsandaled, wandered through thy darkling groves,
And by thy inspiration summoned forth the rain
From cloudless skies; the heaving seas have I subdued,
And sent the vanquished waves to ocean's lowest depths.
At my command the sun and stars together shine,
The heavenly law reversed; while in the Arctic Sea
The Bears have plunged. The seasons, too, obey my will:
I've made the burning summer blossom as the spring,
And hoary winter autumn's golden harvests bear.
The Phasis sends his swirling waves to seek their source;
And Ister, flowing to the sea with many mouths,
His eager water checks and sluggish rolls along.
The billows roar, the mad sea rages, though the winds
All silent lie. At my command primeval groves
Have lost their leafy shade, and Phoebus, wrapped in gloom,
Has stood in middle heaven; while falling Hyades
Attest my charms.
Take now Creuesa's bridal robe, and steep in these
My potent drugs; and when she dons the clinging folds,
Let subtle flames go stealing through her inmost heart.
But now, in more hurried strain, we hasten on the denouement.
Give added force to these my deadly gifts,
And strictly guard the hidden seeds of flame;
Let them escape detection of the eye,
But spring to instant life at human touch.
Let burning streams run through her veins;
In fervent heat consume her bones,
And let her blazing locks outshine
Her marriage torches!--Lo, my prayer
Is heard: thrice have replied the hounds,
The baying hounds of Hecate.
Now all is ready: hither call
My sons, and let them bear the gifts
As costly presents to the bride. [_Enter sons._]
Go, go, my sons, of hapless mother born,
And win with gifts and many prayers
The favor of the queen!
Begone, but quick your way retrace,
That I may fold you in a last embrace.
opposite direction._]
Lo, all is lost! The kingdom totters from its base!
The daughter and the father lie in common dust!
_Chorus._    By what snare taken?
_Messenger._             By gifts, the common snare of kings.
_Chorus._    What harm could lurk in them?
_Messenger._                          In equal doubt I stand;
And, though my eyes proclaim the dreadful deed is done,
I scarce can trust their witness.
_Chorus._    What the mode of death?
_Messenger._ Devouring flames consume the palace at the will
Of her who sent them; there complete destruction reigns,
While men do tremble for the very city's doom.
_Chorus._    Let water quench the fire.
_Messenger._                  Nay, here is added wonder:
The copious streams of water _feed_ the deadly flames;
And opposition only fans their fiery rage
To whiter heat. The very bulwarks feel their power.
O haste thee, leave this land of Greece in headlong
flight!
portrays--an incarnate fury.
_Medea._    Why dost thou falter, O my soul? 'Tis well begun;
But still how small a portion of thy just revenge
Is that which gives thee present joy? Not yet has love
Been banished from thy maddened heart if 'tis enough
That Jason widowed be. Pursue thy vengeful quest
To acts as yet unknown, and steel thyself for these.
Away with every thought and fear of God and man;
Too lightly falls the rod that pious hands upbear.
Give passion fullest sway; exhaust thy ancient powers;
And let the worst thou yet hast done be innocent
Beside thy present deeds. Come, let them know how slight
Were those thy crimes already done; mere training they
For greater deeds. For what could hands untrained in crime
Accomplish? Or what mattered maiden rage? But now,
I am Medea; in the bitter school of woe
My powers have ripened.
O the bliss of memory!
My infant brother slain, his limbs asunder rent,
My royal father spoiled of his ancestral realm,
And Pelias' guiltless daughters lured to slay their sire!
But here I must not rest; no untrained hand I bring
To execute my deeds.
But now, by what approach,
Or by what weapon wilt thou threat the treacherous foe?
Deep hidden in my secret heart have I conceived
A purpose which I dare not utter. O I fear
That in my foolish madness I have gone too far.--
I would that children had been born to him of this
My hated rival. Still, since she hath gained his heart,
His children too are hers.--
That punishment would be most fitting and deserved.
Yes, now I see the final deed of crime, and thou,
My soul, must face it. You, who once were called my sons,
Must pay the penalty of these your father's crimes.--
My heart with horror melts, a numbing chill pervades
My limbs, and all my soul is filled with sinking fear.
Now wrath gives place, and, heedless of my husband's sins,
The tender mother-instinct quite possesses me.
And could I shed my helpless children's blood? Not so,
O say not so, my maddened heart! Far from my hand
And thought be that unnamable and hideous deed!
What sin have they that shedding of their wretched blood
Would wash away?
Their sin--that Jason is their sire,
And, deeper guilt, that I have borne them. Let them die;
They are not mine.--Nay, nay, they are my own, my sons,
And with no spot of guilt.--Full innocent they are,
'Tis true: my brother too was innocent. O soul,
Why dost thou hesitate? Why flow these streaming tears
While with contending thoughts my wavering heart is torn?
As when conflicting winds contend in stubborn strife,
And waves, to stormy waves opposed, the sea invade,
And to their lowest sands the briny waters boil:
With such a storm my heart is tossed. Hate conquers love,
And love puts impious hate to flight. O yield thee, grief,
To love! Then come, my sons, sole comfort of my heart,
Come cling within thy mother's close embrace. Unharmed
Your sire may keep you, while your mother holds you too.
But flight and exile drive me forth! And even now
My children must be torn away with tears and cries.--
Then let them die to Jason since they're lost to me.
Once more has hate resumed her sway, and passion's fire
Is hot within my soul. Now fury, as of yore,
Reseeks her own. Lead on, I follow to the end!
I would that I had borne twice seven sons, the boast
Of Niobe! But all too barren have I been.
Still will my two sufficient be to satisfy
My brother and my sire.
She suddenly falls distraught, as one who sees a dreadful vision.
But whither hastes that throng
Of furies? What their quest? What mean their brandished
fires?
Whom threats this hellish host with horrid, bloody brands?
I hear the writhing lash of serpents huge resound.
Whom seeks Magaera with her deadly torch?--Whose shade
Comes gibbering there with scattered limbs?--It is my
brother!
Revenge he seeks; and we will grant his quest. Then come,
Within my heart plunge all your torches--rend me--burn!
For lo, my bosom open to your fury's stroke.
O brother, bid those vengeful goddesses depart
And go in peace down to the lowest shades of Hell.
And do thou leave me to myself, and let this hand
That slew thee with the sword now offer sacrifice
Unto thy shade.
What sudden uproar meets my ear?
'Tis Corinth's citizens on my destruction bent.
Unto the palace roof I'll mount, and there complete
This bloody sacrifice.
But thee, poor senseless corse, within mine arms I'll bear.
Now gird thyself, my heart, with strength. Nor must this
Lose all its just renown because in secret done;
But to the public eye my hand must be approved.
Ho, all ye loyal sons who mourn the death of kings!
Come, let us seize the worker of this hideous crime.
Now ply your arms and raze her palace to the ground.
_Medea._    Now, now have I regained my regal power, my sire,
My brother! Once again the Colchians hold the spoil
Of precious gold, and by the magic of this hour
I am a maid once more! O heavenly powers appeased
At length! O festal hour! O nuptial day! On! on!
Accomplished is the guilt, but not the recompense.
Complete the task while yet thy hands are strong to act.
Why dost thou linger still? Why dost thou hesitate
Upon the threshold of the deed? Thou canst perform it.
Now wrath has died within me, and my soul is filled
With shame and deep remorse. Ah me, what have I done,
Wretch that I am? Wretch that thou art, well mayest thou
mourn,
For thou hast done it!--At that thought delirious joy
O'ermasters me and fills my heart which fain would grieve.
And yet, methinks, the act was almost meaningless,
Since Jason saw it not; for naught has been performed
If to his grief be added not the woe of sight.
_Jason._    [_discovering her._] Lo, there she stands upon the
lofty battlements!
Bring torches! Fire the house! That she may fall ensnared
By those devices she herself hath planned.
Their funeral rites prepare. Already for thy bride
And father have I done the service due the dead;
For in their ruined palace have I buried them.
One son of thine has met his doom; and this shall die
Before his father's face.--
_Jason._    By all the gods, and by the perils of our flight,
And by our marriage bond which I have ne'er betrayed,
I pray thee spare the boy, for he is innocent.
If aught of sin there be, 'tis mine. Myself I give
To be the victim. Take my guilty soul for his.
Go now, and take thee maids for wives, thou faithless one;
Abandon and betray the mother of thy sons.
_Jason._    And yet, I pray thee, let one sacrifice atone.
_Medea._    If in the blood of one my passion could be quenched,
No vengeance had it sought. Though both my sons I slay,
The number still is all too small to satisfy
My boundless grief.
_Jason._                      Then finish what thou hast begun--
I ask no more--and grant at least that no delay
Prolong my helpless agony.
_Medea._                                 Now hasten not,
Relentless passion, but enjoy a slow revenge.
This day is in thy hands; its fertile hours employ.
_Jason._    O take my life, thou heartless one.
No more atonement, passion, can I offer thee.
Now hither lift thy tearful eyes, ungrateful one.
Dost recognize thy wife? 'Twas thus of old I fled.
The heavens themselves provide me with a safe retreat.
Twin serpents bow their heads submissive to the yoke.
For there suddenly appears in the air a chariot drawn by dragons.
Now, father, take thy sons; while I, upon my car,
With winged speed am borne aloft through realms of air.
_Jason._    [_calling after as she vanishes_].
Speed on through realms of air that mortals never see:
But heaven bear witness, whither thou art gone, no gods
can be.
Menander, only fragments of whose works have come down to us.
villainous slave-driver, Dorio; Nausistrata, wife of Chremes, and
Friend Geta paid me a call yesterday; I've been owing him a
handing over to the rich. What my poor gossip has saved up out of
it, this precious bride will gobble up at one fell swoop, little
thinking how hard Geta had to work to get it. Pretty soon he will
when its birthday comes around, and so on, and so on. The mother
will get it all; the child will be only an excuse. But here comes
_Davus._ But what's the matter with you?
_Geta._ Me? Oh, you don't know in what a fix we are.
faithfulness to the old men I paid for with my bones. Then I just
seemed so then. Phaedria says: "She'll do pretty well." But
lute-player's young man? How is he getting on? _Ge._ Only so so.
The two cousins Antipho and Phaedria now appear, each envying the
They retire to the back of the stage as Demipho enters from the
lifetime!
The old man, beaten to a standstill, can only fall back upon his
obstinate determination, and vow that he won't have it.
_Dem._ No, no; it shall not be, it cannot be! I won't permit this
sweetheart_].
_Dem._ Did you ever hear of any one suffering more outrageous
treatment than I have? I beg you to help me. _Ge._ [_apart to
Demipho_]. By all the powers! Does Demipho say that Phanium isn't
Well, why don't you speak? _Phor._ [_aside_]. By George! I'm in a
express my disgust at his folly. _Phor._ Then do you, who are so
wise, go before the magistrates and ask them to reopen the case.
wrong? Or can't I get even what is my legal right? _Phor._ Well,
See here, Phormio, we have said enough. Unless you take immediate
And if you touch that girl except as becomes a free-born citizen,
hysterical to be of any help in the matter, and Antipho tells the
From this it develops that Chremes has had a wife and daughter in
fellow getting at? _Ge._ "Do you say that the law will make him
Where _can_ I find those women now, I wonder?
Demipho and Geta appear in a brief scene, in which the former
Nausistrata is also on the stage.
besides, I've found that she's related to us, after all. _Dem._
matter? All right, so be it. But what about the daughter of our
gesticulating:
believe it. _Ge._ Isn't it enough if I say that you are fairly
dripping with joy? _Ant._ You're just killing me. _Pho._ [_coming
explanation of it, Phormio. You don't suppose that I could hear
promised for my wife, I'll marry her: but if you want her to stay
these very things I'll tell his real wife. _Chr._ Good gracious,
don't do that! _Pho._ Oho! You were the man, were you, Chremes?
agreed on is no go"--that's your style. [_He turns to go away_].
_Chr._ [_apart_]. How in the world did he find that out? _Dem._ I
outrageously? _Chr._ [_all in a tremble_]. I'm so rattled that I
Now I'll have to use my voice. Nausistrata! Come out here! _Chr._
tongue-tied_]. Won't you answer me? _Pho._ How can he answer you,
nothing that you are so afraid. _Chr._ [_with chattering teeth_].
forbid. _Pho._ But it's so, just the same. _Naus._ O wretched me!
wasn't through any scorn or dislike of you that he did it. And
besides, the other woman is dead who was the cause of all this
revenge enough. She has something to nag him with as long as he
upon my word, you've earned it. _Pho._ Do you want to begin right
Fare you well, my friends, and give us your applause.
RIBBECK, _Die Roemische Tragoedie_.
WORDSWORTH, _Fragments and Specimens of Early Latin_, pp. 567 and
SIMCOX, _History of Latin Literature_, Vol. I, pp. 31-44.
SELLAR, _Roman Poets of the Republic_, pp. 47-150.
NEWTON (and others), _Seneca, his Tenne Tragedies Translated into
CUNLIFFE, _The Influence of Seneca on Elizabethan Tragedy_.
SIMCOX, _History of Latin Literature_, Vol. II, pp. 24-28.
SIMCOX, _History of Latin Literature_, Vol. I, pp. 45-61.
Satire has always shone among the rest,
And is the boldest way, if not the best,
To tell men freely of their foulest faults,
To laugh at their vain deeds and vainer thoughts.
fascinating stories as they had never been told before; while the
And that is he whom we call Jove, whom Grecians call
For this, those things are Jove considered which I name to you,
Since by these elements do men and cities, beasts.
And all things else exist.
Now list to this warning, give diligent heed,
Whether seeking for pleasure or pelf:
Don't wait for your neighbors to help in your need,
But just go and do it yourself!
If you wish a thing well done,
You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!
vouchsafed to him.
Behold, O friends, old Ennius' carved stone,
Who wrote your father's deeds with lambent pen;
Let no tears deck my funeral, for lo,
My soul immortal lives on lips of men.
But now, from morning to night, on holidays and work days, in the
practice have they all devoted themselves: to cheat as guardedly
as possible, to strive craftily, to vie in flattery, to make a
retinue inquire: "+chaire+?" Fie, Albucius! for this thou art my
country's foe, and my own enemy!
"O sorrel, how praiseworthy art thou,
And yet how little art thou really known!"
"O Publius Gallonius, thou spendthrift," said he, "thou art a
wretched fellow. Never in all thy life hast thou dined well,
though all thy wealth on that lobster and that sturgeon thou
consumest."
Virtue, Albinus, consists in being able to give their true worth
to the things on which we are engaged, among which we live. The
virtue of a man is to understand the real meaning of each thing:
to understand what is right, useful, honorable for him; what
things are good, what bad, what is unprofitable, base,
dishonorable; to know the due limit and measure in making money;
to give its proper worth to wealth; to assign what is really due
life. Lastly, it is true worth to look on our country's weal as
the chief good; next to that the weal of our parents; third and
last, our own weal.
half-unconscious audible expression:
Now that's the better course.--I should live better if I acted
along that line.--So-and-so didn't do the right thing that
time.--I wonder if I shall ever be foolish enough to do the like.
The following outline of one of his "sermons" will afford a good
illustration of his style and method of handling a discourse. Its
The excuse of those who toil early and late is, that when they
herein they show their insincerity; for, while the ant lives upon
gain-getter never stops so long as there is more to be gotten.
"But," you say, "it is so delightful to have a whole river to
"But one _must_ have money. A man's social standing depends upon
his bank account." It's useless to argue with such a man. He can
see nothing but the almighty dollar. If he did but know it, he is
poor in such possessions!
you are doing nothing to preserve.
But, to get back to the original proposition, no one is content
his share of its blessings.
introduces as best fitted to conduct the discussion of a theme.
The persons of the drama: Horace; the Bore; Aristius Fuscus, a
friend of Horace; an adversary of the Bore; Horace's slave-boy; a
enters Bore, who grasps his hand with great show of affection and
_Bore._ How are you, my dear old fellow? _Horace_ [_stiffly_].
Fairly well, as times go. I trust all is well with you? [_As the
Bore follows him up, Horace attempts to forestall conversation,
and to dismiss his companion with the question of formal leave:_]
acquaintance. I am really worth knowing; I'm a scholar. _Horace._
sure. [_He tries desperately to get rid of the Bore, goes faster,
I'll follow you. Where are you going from here? _Horace_ [_trying
way. I'm going to visit a man--an entire stranger to you. He lies
gardens. _Bore._ O, I have nothing else to do, and I'm a good
myself, you will find me a more valuable friend than Viscus or
Varius. There's no one can write more poetry in a given time than
himself would envy me. _Horace_ [_interrupting, tries to frighten
all. I've buried every one of them. _Horace_ [_aside_]. Lucky
dogs! Now I'm the only victim left. Finish me up; for a dreadful
fate is dogging my steps, which an old Sabine fortune-teller once
him to death. So then, if he be wise, when he shall come to man's
which the courts of justice were held. The hour for opening court
bond to appear in a certain suit, and that if he fails to appear
this suit will go against him by default_]. Won't you kindly
know where. _Bore._ I'm in doubt what to do, whether to leave you
brief meditation_]. No, I don't believe I will. [_He takes the
lead, and Horace helplessly follows. The Bore starts in on the
subject which is uppermost in his mind._] How do you and Maecenas
you, if only you would introduce yours truly. Strike me dead, if
you wouldn't show your heels to all competitors in no time.
_Horace._ Why, we don't live there on any such basis as you seem
to think. There is no circle in Rome more free from self-seeking
on the part of its members, or more at variance with such a
feeling. It makes no difference to me if another man is richer or
You don't really mean that? I can scarcely believe it. _Horace._
And yet such is the case. _Bore._ You only make me more eager to
be admitted. _Horace_ [_with contemptuous sarcasm_]. O, you have
only to wish it: such is your excellence, you'll be sure to gain
your point. To tell the truth, Maecenas is a soft-hearted fellow,
friendship more carefully. _Bore_ [_taking Horace's suggestion in
with him. You can't get anything in this life without working for
meet and exchange greetings_]. _Horace_ [_to Fuscus_]. Hello!
where do you come from? _Fuscus._ Where are you going? [_Horace
pretends not to understand._] _Horace_ [_to Fuscus_]. Didn't you
have no such scruples myself. _Fuscus._ But I have. I'm just one
of the plain people--not as strong-minded as you are. You really
must excuse me; I'll tell you some other time. [_Fuscus hurries
away, with a wicked wink, leaving his friend in the lurch._]
Bore's adversary at law comes running up._] _The Adversary_ [_to
Bore, in a loud voice._] Where are you going, you bail-breaking
_Horace_ [_left alone_]. Saved, by the grace of Apollo!
Yes, Lucilius _is_ rough--anybody will admit that. I also admit
success of the old Greek comedy. "But," you say, "Lucilius was so
requires any great skill, nor is it a thing to be desired. This
I have looked over the literary field and found it occupied by
men who could write better than I in each department--comedy,
tragedy, epic, pastoral. Satire alone promised success to me; but
criticizing him I take the same license which he himself used
careful, and take more pains with his work, if he were now among
themselves no better than the rabble whom they court.
concealed in a most unpretentious personality, a rich store of
recognition.
The rank is but the guinea's stamp;
The man's the gowd for a' that.
As for myself, a freedman's son confessed;
A freedman's son, the public scorn and jest,
That now with you I joy the social hour,--
That once a Roman legion owned my power;
But though they envied my command in war
Justly, perhaps, yet sure 'tis different far
To gain your friendship, where no servile art
Where only men of merit claim a part.
Nor yet to chance this happiness I owe;
Friendship like yours it had not to bestow.
First my best Vergil, then my Varius, told
Among my friends what character I hold;
When introduced, in few and faltering words
(Such as an infant modesty affords),
I did not tell you my descent was great,
Or that I wandered round my country seat
On a proud steed in richer pastures bred;
But what I really was I frankly said.
Short was your answer, in your usual strain;
I take my leave, nor wait on you again,
Till, nine months past, engaged and bid to hold
A place among your nearer friends enrolled.
An honor this, methinks, of nobler kind,
That, innocent of heart and pure of mind,
Though with no titled birth, I gained his love,
Whose judgment can discern, whose choice approve.
If some few venial faults deform my soul
(Like a fair face when spotted with a mole),
If none with avarice justly brand my fame,
With sordidness, or deeds too vile to name;
If pure and innocent, if dear (forgive
These little praises) to my friends I live,
My father was the cause, who, though maintained
By a lean farm but poorly, yet disdained
The country schoolmaster, to whose low care
The mighty captain sent his high-born heir,
With satchel, copy-book, and pelf to pay
The wretched teacher on th' appointed day.
To Rome by this bold father was I brought,
To learn those arts which well-born youth are taught;
So dressed and so attended, you would swear
I was some senator's expensive heir;
Himself my guardian, of unblemished truth,
Among my tutors would attend my youth,
And thus preserved my chastity of mind
(That prime of virtue in its highest kind)
Not only pure from guilt, but even the shame
That might with vile suspicion hurt my fame;
Nor feared to be reproached, although my fate
Should fix my fortune in some meaner state,
From which some trivial perquisites arise,
Or make me, like himself, collector of excise.
For this my heart, far from complaining, pays
A larger debt of gratitude and praise;
Nor, while my senses hold, shall I repent
Of such a father, nor with pride resent,
As many do, th' involuntary disgrace
Not to be born of an illustrious race.
But not with theirs my sentiments agree,
Or language; for if Nature should decree
That we from any stated point might live
Our former years, and to our choice should give
The sires to whom we wished to be allied,
Let others choose to gratify their pride;
While I, contented with my own, resign
The titled honors of an ancient line.
Although this gift of the farm and other favors derived from the
The following satire expresses that deep content which the poet
My prayers with this I used to charge,--
A piece of land not over large,
Wherein there should a garden be,
A clear spring flowing ceaselessly,
And where, to crown the whole, there should
A patch be found of growing wood.
All this and more the gods have sent,
And I am heartily content.
O son of Maia,[B] that I may
These bounties keep is all I pray.
If ne'er by craft or base design
I've swelled what little store is mine,
Nor mean it ever shall be wrecked
By profligacy or neglect;
If never from my lips a word
Shall drop of wishes so absurd
As, "Had I but that little nook,
Next to my land, that spoils its look!"
Or, "Would some lucky chance unfold
A crock to me of hidden gold,
As to the man whom Hercules
Enriched and settled at his ease,
Who, with the treasure he had found,
Bought for himself the very ground
Which he before for hire had tilled!"
If I with gratitude am filled
For what I have--by this I dare
Adjure you to fulfil my prayer,
That you with fatness will endow
My little herd of cattle now,
And all things else their lord may own
Except what wits he has, alone,
And be, as heretofore, my chief
Protector, guardian, and relief!
So, when from town and all its ills
I to my perch among the hills
Retreat, what better theme to choose
Than Satire for my homely muse?
No fell ambition wastes me there,
No, nor the south wind's leaden air,
Nor Autumn's pestilential breath,
With victims feeding hungry death.
The poet proceeds to contrast with his restful country life the
Some chilling news through lane and street
Spreads from the Forum. All I meet
Accost me thus--"Dear friend, you're so
Close to the gods, that you must know;
About the Dacians have you heard
Any fresh tidings?" "Not a word."
"You're always jesting!" "Now may all
The gods confound me, great and small,
If I have heard one word!" "Well, well
But you at any rate can tell
If Caesar means the lands which he
Has promised to his troops shall be
Selected from Italian ground,
Or in Trinacria be found?"
And when I swear, as well I can,
That I know nothing, for a man
Of silence rare and most discreet
They cry me up to all the street.
Thus do my wasted days slip by,
Not without many a wish and sigh:
Oh, when shall I the country see,
Its woodlands green? Oh, when be free,
With books of great old men, and sleep,
And hours of dreamy ease, to creep
Into oblivion sweet of life,
Its agitations and its strife?
When on my table shall be seen
Pythagoras' kinsman bean,
And bacon, not too fat, embellish
My dish of greens, and give it relish?
Oh happy nights, oh feasts divine,
When, with the friends I love, I dine
At mine own hearth-fire, and the meat
We leave gives my bluff hinds a treat!
No stupid laws our feasts control,
But each guest drains or leaves the bowl,
Precisely as he feels inclined.
If he be strong, and have a mind
For bumpers, good! If not, he's free
To sip his liquor leisurely.
And then the talk our banquet rouses!
Not gossip 'bout our neighbors' houses,
But what concerns us nearer, and
Is harmful not to understand;
Whether by wealth or worth, 'tis plain
That men to happiness attain;
By what we're led to choose our friends,--
Regard for them, or our own ends;
In what does good consist, and what
Is the supremest form of that.
"Ho!" cries the country mouse. "This kind
Of life is not for me, I find.
Give me my woods and cavern. There
At least I'm safe! And though both spare
And poor my food may be, rebel
I never will; so, fare ye well!"
Dread sire of gods! when lust's envenomed stings
Stir the fierce nature of tyrannic kings;
When storms of rage within their bosoms roll,
And call in thunder for thy just control;
O then relax the bolt, suspend the blow,
And thus and thus alone thy vengeance show:
In all her charms set Virtue in their eye,
And let them see their loss, despair, and die!
If thy hand, free from ill, the altar touch,
Thou shalt the offended gods appease as much
With gifts of sparkling salt and pious meal
As if thy vows more costly victims seal.
Health to my friend! and while my vows I pay,
O mark, Macrinus, this auspicious day,
Which, to your sum of years already flown,
Adds yet another--with a whiter stone.
Indulge your genius, drench in wine your cares:
It is not yours, with mercenary prayers,
To ask of heaven what you would die with shame,
Unless you drew the gods aside, to name;
While other great ones stand, with downcast eyes,
And with a silent censer tempt the skies!--
Sound sense, integrity, a conscience clear,
Are begged aloud, that all at hand may hear;
But prayers like these (half whispered, half suppressed)
The tongue scarce hazards from the conscious breast:
"O that I could my rich old uncle see
In funeral pomp!--O that some deity
To pots of buried gold would guide my share!
O that my ward, whom I succeed as heir,
Were once at rest! Poor child, he lives in pain,
And death to him must be accounted gain.--
By wedlock thrice has Nerius swelled his store,
And now--he is a widower once more!"
One question, friend, an easy one, in fine:
What are thy thoughts of Jove? "My thoughts?" Yes, thine.
Wouldst thou prefer him to the herd of Rome?
To any individual?--But to whom?
To Statius, for example. Heavens! a pause?
Which of the two would best dispense of laws?
Best shield th' unfriended orphan? Good! Now move
The suit to Statius, late preferred to Jove:
"O Jove! Good Jove!" he cries, o'erwhelmed with shame,
And must not Jove himself "O Jove!" exclaim?
Or dost thou think the impious wish forgiven,
Because, when thunder shakes the vault of heaven,
The bolt innoxious flies o'er thee and thine,
To rend the forest oak and mountain pine?
Because, yet livid from the lightning's scath,
Thy smoldering corpse, a monument of wrath,
Lies in no blasted grove, for public care
To expiate, with sacrifice and prayer;
Must, therefore, Jove, unsceptered and unfeared
Give to thy ruder mirth his foolish beard?
What bribe hast thou to win the powers divine
Thus to thy rod?--The lungs and lights of swine!
O grovelling souls, and void of things divine!
Why bring our passions to the Immortals' shrine,
And judge, from what this carnal sense delights,
Of what is pleasing in their purer sights?
This the Calabrian fleece with purple soils,
And mingles cassia with our native oils;
Tears from the rocky conch its pearly store,
And strains the metal from the glowing ore.
This, this, indeed, is vicious; yet it tends
To gladden life, perhaps, and boasts its ends;
But you, ye priests (for sure ye can), unfold--
In heavenly things, what boots this pomp of gold?
No more, in truth, than dolls to Venus paid,
The toys of childhood, by the riper maid!
No! let me bring the Immortals what the race
Of great Messala, now depraved and base,
On their huge charger, cannot;--bring a mind
Where legal and where moral sense are joined
With the pure essence; holy thoughts that dwell
In the soul's most retired and sacred cell;
A bosom dyed in honor's noblest grain,
Deep-dyed;--with these let me approach the fane,
And heaven will hear the humble prayer I make,
Though all my offering be a barley cake.
professional or profitable use of the talent which he undoubtedly
In Juvenal's later life he seems to have given offense either to
They had besides expelled all the professors of philosophy, and
driven every laudable science into exile, that naught which was
worthy and honest might anywhere be seen. Mighty, surely, was the
had beheld the ultimate consummation of liberty, so did we of
bondage, since through dread of informers and inquisitions of
state, we were bereft of the common intercourse of speech and
attention. Nay, with our utterance we had likewise lost our
memory, had it been equally in our power to forget as to be
middle of our lives so many years were rent; whence from being
young we are arrived at old age, from being old we are nigh come
to the utmost verge of mortality, all in a long course of awful
And even as they refused to have God in their knowledge, God gave
fitting; being filled with all unrighteousness, wickedness,
haughty, boastful, inventors of evil things, disobedient to
they which practice such things are worthy of death, not only do
the same, but also consent with them that practice them.
And this is that which mainly distinguishes him from Horace--his
He tells us that he was fairly driven to write satire by the very
excellent prose version of Leeper.
For who so tolerant of this wrong-headed city, who so callous,
that he can contain himself when lawyer Matho's brand-new litter
and millionaire with a little tablet and a damp seal? Now you are
thirsty, just before she hands him the mild Calenian, puts in a
dash of poison, and, like a superior Lucusta, teaches her
unsophisticated kinswomen to carry their livid husbands to burial
silver, and goblets with goat's figure in relief.... When nature
refuses, sheer scorn produces verse--the best it can.
And now I will at once admit to you,--no false shame shall stop
me,--what class is most in favor with our wealthy men, and whom
most of all I am flying from. I cannot abide, fellow-citizen, a
Greecized Rome.... Your yeoman citizen, Quirinus, dons his Greek
boots and wears a Greek collar upon a neck rubbed with Greek
ointment.... What a quick intellect, what desperate effrontery,
us--why, whom you will--critic, rhetorician, geometer, painter,
trainer, prophet, rope-dancer, doctor, sorcerer. The starveling
Greek knows everything.... Mark how that race, so adroit in
flattery, extols the foolish friend's conversation, the
ill-favored friend's features; how they compare some weakling's
scraggy neck with the throat of a Hercules, or admire a harsh
voice which is not a whit better than the cry of a cock.... The
whole breed of them are actors. If you but smile, your Greek
shakes his sides with heartier merriment; he weeps, if he has
spied a tear in his friend's eye, and yet he feels no grief. If
you ask in winter time for a bit of a fire, he takes an overcoat:
He has dined, has Horace, when he shouts his "Evoe." ... Were
sound forth no more impressive notes.... Historians, is your toil
doubtless, has his pages rising by the hundred, knowing no limit,
your harvest--what does opening up that field yield you? Who will
what public services and the ever-present big packet of documents
The teacher fares no better:
abated of your due, as if you were a-huckstering winter blankets
and white counterpanes.
'Tis only noble to be good.
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.
Of what avail are pedigrees? What boots it, Ponticus, taking rank
of the Horse, if you live a life of shame in the very face of the
right--good: I recognize the noble; I salute you, Gaetulicus be
you, or Silanus, or of whatever other blood you come.... For who
will call "noble" one who shames his race, and challenges notice
by the luster of his name alone?
He is a "noble" steed, whatever grass he comes from, who takes
rank above his fellows--in pace, and who raises the dust upon the
_There_ is no regard for ancestors, no favoritism toward the
shades of the departed.... Therefore, so that we may admire
rendered, and render still, to those who made you all you are.
characterizes the author. Here is the broad thesis:
what are quite the reverse. For in what fear or wish of ours are
we guided by reason's rule? No matter how auspiciously you start
with a plan, do you not live to regret your efforts and the
attainment of your desire? Whole households have been overthrown
ere now, at their own petition, by a too gracious heaven. By the
arts of peace and war alike we strive for what will only hurt us.
brilliant roll of honors; down from the pedestals come their
to one only in the whole world, they are making pipkins, and
unscrupulous struggling for the highest place, and the prayer of
ambition, heard but too well by the malicious gods. It is but
seldom that a king does not take a murderous crowd with him down
to Ceres' son-in-law; seldom that a despot dies without
blood-letting.... Just weigh Hannibal. How many pounds' weight
will you find in that greatest of leaders? This is the man for
whom Africa is too small--Africa, lashed by the Moorish main, and
to the Ethiopian tribes with their towering elephants! He adds
Spain to his empire; he bounds over the Pyrenees; Nature barred
his path with her Alp and her snow; he rives the rocks and bursts
strains forward. "Nothing," cries he, "is gained unless we storm
the city gates with our Punic soldiery, and this hand plants my
standard in the very heart of Rome!" Oh, what a sight! oh, what a
Gaetulian monster! What, then, is his end? Fie, glory! Why, he in
gates--until it may please His Majesty of Bithynia to awake. The
Nemesis of Cannae, the avenger of all that blood--just a ring.[E]
But suppose his faculties be sound, yet still he must conduct his
and of his brother, and on urns filled with what was once his
sisters. This is the forfeit laid upon longevity, to pass to old
age amid bereavement after bereavement, thick-coming griefs, and
one weary round of lamentations, with the garb of the mourner
never laid aside.
That banishment, that jail, Minturnae's swamps, and the bread of
beggary in conquered Carthage, all had their origin in a long
life. What happier being in the world than that Roman could
breathed out his soul in glory, when just stepping down from his
Teutonic car?
Shall men then pray for nothing? If you will take my advice, you
will allow the gods themselves to determine what is meet for us,
and suited to our lot; for the gods will give us--not what is
pleasant, but what is most befitting in each case. Man is dearer
wife. Still, if you must make your petition, and must vow a meat
offering at the shrine, then pray for a healthy mind in a healthy
spirit that regards life's close as one of nature's boons, that
can endure any toil, that is innocent of anger and free from
down-couches of a Sardanapalus.
years; but let the image of your infant son arrest you on the
verge of sin._ For should he some day do a deed to earn the
your steps, and sin every sin in worse degree--you will chide and
change your will. But whence that boldness, whence those parental
cups! So the master storms at the top of his voice, urging them
on, with rod in hand. Poor wretch! are you in such a fidget lest
peace and war; for it will matter much in what lessons and
principles you train him.
We have now reviewed two centuries of Roman preachers, and it may
SELLAR, _The Roman Poets of the Republic_: Early Roman Satire, C.
NETTLESHIP, _The Original Form of the Roman Satura. Lectures and
Show'd me that epic was of all the king,
Round, vast, and spanning all, like Saturn's ring?
The king was in his counting-house counting out his money,
For truly, since to Death's great garner he was gathered in,
Our Romans born have clean forgot to speak their mother tongue.
So having spoken, he called for a man with whom often and gladly
Table he shared, and talk, and all his burden of duties,
When with debate all day on important affairs he was wearied,
Whether perchance in the Forum wide, or the reverend Senate;
One with whom he could frankly speak of his serious matters,--
Trifles also, and jests,--could pour out freely together
Pleasant or bitter words, and know they were uttered in safety.
Many the joys and the griefs he had shared, whether public or
secret!
This was a man in whom no impulse prompted to evil,
Whether of folly or malice; a scholarly man and a loyal,
Graceful, ready of speech, with his own contented and happy;
Tactful, speaking in season, yet courteous, never loquacious.
Versed in the laws was he of the ancients, men or immortals.
Wisely he knew both when he should talk and when to be silent.
So unto him Servilius spoke in the midst of the fighting....
the cliffs of the Muses, or gave any care to style.
Gold for myself I wish not; ye need not proffer a ransom.
Not as hucksters might let us wage our war, but as soldiers:
Not with gold but the sword. Our lives we will set on the issue.
Whether your rule or mine be Fortune's pleasure,--our mistress,--
Every valorous man who is spared by the fortune of battle,
Fully determined am I of his freedom as well to accord him.
Count it a gift. At the wish of the gods in heaven I grant it.
predecessor. Then follow, in the remaining books, the Macedonian,
inactivity of age.
Others, belike, with happier grace
From bronze or stone shall call the face,
Plead doubtful causes, map the skies,
And tell when planets set or rise:
But, Roman, thou, do thou control
The nations far and wide;
Be this thy genius, to impose
The rule of peace on vanquished foes,
Show pity to the humbled soul,
And crush the sons of pride.
But Vergil was not alone an intense patriot. He was also ardently
This, this is he, so oft the theme
Of your prophetic fancy's dream,
Augustus Caesar, god by birth,
Restorer of the age of gold
In lands where Saturn ruled of old,
O'er Ind and Garamant extreme
Shall stretch his reign, that spans the earth.
Look to that land which lies afar,
Beyond the path of sun or star,
Where Atlas on his shoulder rears
The burden of the incumbent spheres.
The muttered voice of many a seer,
And Nile's seven mouths, disturbed with fear,
Their coming conqueror know.
Comrades! for comrades we are, no strangers to hardships already;
find a balm. Why, men, you have even looked on Scylla in her
madness, and heard those yells that thrill the rocks; you have
even made trial of the crags of the Cyclops. Come, call your
spirits back, and banish these doleful fears. Who knows but some
day this too will be remembered with pleasure? Through manifold
chances, through these many perils of fortune, we are making our
way to Latium, where the Fates hold out to us a quiet settlement;
up, and reserve yourselves for brighter days.
But entirely aside from its national, religious, or other
Vergil follows common usage in telling his story in an order not
stout-hearted AEneas himself:
O happy, thrice and yet again,
Who died at Troy like valiant men,
E'en in their parents' view!
O Diomed, first of Greeks in fray,
Why pressed I not the plain that day,
Yielding my life to you,
Where, stretched beneath a Phrygian sky,
Fierce Hector, tall Sarpedon lie:
Where Simois tumbles 'neath his wave
Shields, helms, and bodies of the brave?
Yea, all, like busy bees throughout the flowery mead,
Are all astir with eager toil. O blessed toil!
O happy ye, whose walls already rise! But I,--
When shall I see my city and my city's walls?
Lo, him you ask for! I am he,
AEneas, saved from Libya's sea.
O, only heart that deigns to mourn
For Ilium's cruel care!
That bids e'en us, poor relics, torn
From Danaan fury, all outworn
By earth and ocean, all forlorn,
Its home, it's city share!
We cannot thank you; no, nor they,
Our brethren of the Dardan race,
Who, driven from their ancestral place,
Throughout the wide world stray.
May heaven, if virtue claim its thought,
If justice yet avail for aught,
Heaven, and the sense of conscious right,
With worthier meed your acts requite!
What happy ages gave you birth?
What glorious sires begat such worth?
While rivers run into the deep,
While shadows o'er the hillside sweep,
While stars in heaven's fair pasture graze,
Shall live your honor, name, and praise,
Whate'er my destined home.
strangers.
Of the orb of the wandering moon I sing,
As she wheels through the darkening skies;
Where the storm-brooding band of the Hyades swing,
And the circling Triones arise;
Of the sun's struggling ball
Which the shadows appall
Till the menacing darkness flies;
Of the all-potent forces that dwell in the air,
With its measureless reaches of blue;
The soft, floating clouds of gossamer there,
And the loud-wailing storm-rack too;
Of the rain and the winds
And the lightning that blinds
When its swift-darting bolt flashes through;
Of the marvels deep hid in the bowels of earth,
In the dark caves of Ocean confined,
Where the rivers in snow-trickling rills have their birth,
And the dense tangled mazes unwind;
In the deep underland,
In the dim wonderland,
Where broods the vast cosmical mind.
Of the manifold wonders of life I sing,
Its mysterious striving to scan,
In the rippling wave, on the fluttering wing,
In beast and all-dominant man.
'Tis the indwelling soul
Of the god of the whole,
Since the dawn of creation began.
Meanwhile the queen, deeply moved with pity first, and now with
"Ah! fly, goddess-born!" cries he, "and escape from these
flames--the walls are in the enemy's hands--Troy is tumbling from
Pergamus could be defended by force of hand, it would have been
defended by mine, in my day. Your country's worship and her gods
are what she intrusts to you now--take them to share your
destiny--seek for them a mighty city, which you shall one day
build when you have wandered the ocean over."
"Aye," cries he, "for a crime, for an outrage like this, may the
gods, if there is any sense of right in heaven to take cognizance
blood. But he whom your lying tongue calls your sire, Achilles,
dealt not thus with Priam his foe--he had a cheek that could
crimson at a suppliant's rights, a suppliant's honor. Hector's
lifeless body he gave back to the tomb, and sent me home to my
realms in peace." So said the poor old man, and hurled at him a
dart unwarlike, unwounding, which the ringing brass at once shook
boss. Pyrrhus retorts: "You shall take your complaint, then, and
carry your news to my father, Pelides. Tell him about my shocking
die." With these words he dragged him to the very altar, palsied
and sliding in a pool of his son's blood, wreathed his left hand
in his hair, and with his right flashed forth and sheathed in his
Pergamus in ruins before his eyes--upon him, once the haughty
ruler of those many nations and kingdoms, the sovereign lord of
"Whence this strange pleasure in indulging frantic grief, my
heaven above. You have long years of exile, a vast expanse of
ocean to traverse--and then you will arrive at the land of
Hesperia, where Tiber, Lydia's river, rolls his gentle volumes
by heaven's mighty mother. And now farewell, and continue to love
of the thousand things I longed to say, she left me and vanished
into unsubstantial air. Thrice, as I stood, I essayed to fling my
caught at it in vain--impalpable as the wind, fleeting as the
wings of sleep.
prepared in heart as in fortune to follow me over the sea to any
land where I might take them to settle. And now the morning star
was rising over Ida's loftiest ridge with the day in its
train--Danaan sentinels were blocking up the entry of the gates,
and no hope of succor appeared. I retired at last, took up my
father, and made for the mountains.
The banquet-hall of Dido has remained throughout this recital in
Sons of Dardanus, strong to endure, the land which first gave you
back, restored to its fruitful bosom; seek for your old mother
till you find her. There it is that the house of AEneas shall set
Listen, lords of Troy, and learn where your hopes are. Crete lies
Mount Ida, and there the cradle of our race. It has a hundred
peopled cities, a realm of richest plenty. Thence it was that our
empire. Ilion and the towers of Pergamus had not yet been reared;
propitiate the winds, and make for the realm of Gnossus--the
voyage is no long one--let but Jupiter go with us, and the third
day will land our fleet on the Cretan shore.
We, the followers of you and your fortune since the Dardan land
sank in flame--we, the comrades of the fleet which you have been
guiding over the swollen main--we it is that will raise to the
dwellers, and not abandon the task of flight for its tedious
length. Change your settlement; it is not this coast that the
Delian god moved you to accept--not in Crete that Apollo bade you
land old in story, strong in arms and in the fruitfulness of its
Iasius, the first founder of our line. Quick! rise, and tell the
glad tale, which brooks no question, to your aged sire; tell him
that he is to look for Corythus and the country of Ausonia.
Jupiter bars you from the fields of Dicte.
What, is it war for the oxen you have slain and the bullocks you
ancestral realm? Take, then, into your minds these my words, and
known to you. For Italy, I know, you are crowding all sail: well,
against us drive you to gnaw and eat up your very tables.
And now the stars were fled, and Aurora was just reddening in the
Italy. "Italy!" Achates was the first to cry. Italy, our crews
welcome with a shout of rapture. Then, my father Anchises
wreathed a mighty bowl with a garland, and filled it with wine,
and called on the gods, standing upon the tall stern: "Ye powers
that rule sea and land and weather, waft us a fair wind and a
smooth passage, and breathe auspiciously!"
From here one more short course would have brought them to their
Thus father AEneas, alone, amid the hush of all around, was
My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs;
She wished she had not heard it, yet she wished
That heaven had made her such a man. She thanked me,
And bade me if I had a friend that loved her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her.
O sister, what dread visions of the night invade
My troubled soul! What of this stranger lodged within
Our halls, how noble in his mien, how brave in heart,
Of what puissant arms! From heav'n in truth his race
Must be derived, for fear betokens low-born souls.
Alas, how tempest-tossed of fate was he! How to
The dregs the bitter cup of war's reverses hath
He drained! If in my soul the purpose were not fixed
That not to any suitor would I yield myself
In wedlock, since the time when he who won my love
Was reft away, perchance I might have yielded now.
For sister, I confess it, since my husband's fate,
Since that sad day when by his blood my father's house
Was sprinkled, this of all men has my feelings moved.
Again I feel the force of passion's sway. But no!
May I be gulfed within earth's yawning depths; may Jove
Almighty hurl me with his thunders to the shades,
The pallid shades of Erebus and night profound,
Before, O constancy, I violate thy laws!
He took my heart who first engaged my maiden love.
Still may he keep his own, and in the silent tomb
Preserve my love inviolate.
And to what glory shalt thou see thy city rise,
What strong, far-reaching sway upreared on such a tie!
Assisted by the Trojan arms, our youthful state
Up to the very pinnacle of fame shall soar.
And can it be that thou art building here the walls
Of Tyrian Carthage, and uprearing her fair towers,
Forgetful! Jove himself, the ruler of the gods,
Who holds the heavens and earth and moves them at his will,
To thee from bright Olympus straight hath sent me here.
He bade me bear on speeding pinions these commands:
What dost thou here? or with what hopes dost thou delay
Upon the Libyan shores? If thou, indeed, art moved
By no regard of thine own glorious destiny,
Respect at least the budding hopes of him, thy son,
Who after thee shall hold the scepter; for to him
Are due the realms of Italy, the land of Rome.
departure. He cries aloud:
O Jove, and I had near forgot my destiny,
To oblivion lulled amid the sweets of this fair land!
But now my heart's sole longing is for Italy,
Which waits me by the promise of the fates. But how
From this benumbing passion shall I free myself?
How face the queen and put away her clinging love?
Bid them equip the vessels quickly for the sea,
And frame for this our sudden voyage some fitting cause."
And didst thou hope that thou couldst hide thy fell design,
O faithless, and in silence steal away from this
My land? Does not our love, and pledge of faith once given,
Nor thought of Dido, doomed to die a cruel death,
Detain thee? Can it be that under wintry skies
Thou wouldest launch thy fleet and urge thy onward way
'Mid stormy blasts across the sea, O cruel one?
But what if not a stranger's land and unknown homes
Thou soughtest; what if Troy, thy city, still remained:
Still wouldst thou fare to Troy along the wave-tossed sea?
Is't I thou fleest? By these tears and thy right hand--
Since in my depth of crushing woe I've nothing left--
And by our marriage bond and sacred union joined,
If ever aught of mercy I have earned of thee,
If I have ever giv'n thee one sweet drop of joy,
Have pity on my falling house, and change, I pray,
Thy cruel purpose if there still is room for prayer.
For thee the Libyan races hate me, and my lords
Of Tyre; for thee my latest scruple was o'ercome;
My fame, by which I was ascending to the stars,
My kingdom, fates,--all these have I giv'n up for thee.
And thou, for whom dost thou abandon me, O guest?--
Since from the name of husband this sole name remains.
What wait I more? Is't till Pygmalion shall come,
And lay my walls in ruins, or the desert prince,
Iarbus, lead me captive home? O cruel fate!
If only ere thou fledst some pledge had been conceived
Of thee, if round my halls some son of thine might sport,
To bear thy name and bring thine image back to me,
Then truly should I seem not utterly bereft.
The ancient founder of thy race, thou faithless one;
But Caucasus with rough and flinty crags begot,
And fierce Hyrcanian tigers suckled thee. For why
Should I restrain my speech, or greater evil wait?
Did he one sympathetic sigh of sorrow heave?
Did he one tear let fall, o'ermastered by my grief?
Now neither Juno, mighty queen, nor father Jove
Impartial sees; for faith is everywhere betrayed.
That shipwrecked beggar in my folly did I take
And cause to sit upon my throne; I saved his fleet,
His friends I rescued--Oh, the furies drive me mad!
Now 'tis Apollo's dictate, now the Lycian lots,
And now "the very messenger of heaven sent down
By Jove himself" to bring this mandate through the air!
A fitting task is that for heaven's immortal lords!
Such cares as these disturb their everlasting calm!
I seek not to detain nor answer thee; sail on
To Italy, seek fated realms beyond the seas.
For me, if pious prayers can aught avail, I pray
That thou amid the wrecking reefs mayst drain the cup
Of retribution to the dregs and vainly call
Upon the name of Dido. Distant though I be,
With fury's torch will I pursue thee, and when death
Shall free my spirit, will I haunt thee everywhere.
O thou shalt meet thy punishment, perfidious one;
My soul shall know, for such glad news would penetrate
The lowest depths of hell.
Ye gods! and shall he go and mock our royal power?
Why not to arms, and send our forces in pursuit,
And bid them hurry down the vessels from the shore?
Ho there, my men, quick, fetch the torches, seize your arms,
And man the oars!--What am I saying? where am I?
What madness turns my brain? O most unhappy queen,
Is it thus thy evil deeds are coming back to thee?
Such fate was just when thou didst yield thy scepter up.--
Lo, _there's_ the fealty of him who, rumor says,
His country's gods with him in all his wandering bears,
And on his shoulders bore his sire from burning Troy!
Why could I not have torn his body limb from limb,
And strewed his members on the deep? and slain his friends,
His son Aschanius, and served his mangled limbs
To grace his father's feast?--Such conflict might have had
A doubtful issue.--Grant it might, but whom had I,
Foredoomed to death, to fear? I might have fired his camp,
His ships, and wrapped in common ruin father, son,
And all the race, and given myself to crown the doom
Of all.--O Sun, who with thy shining rays dost see
All mortal deeds; O Juno, who dost know and thus
Canst judge the grievous cares of wedlock; thou whom wild
And shrieking women worship through the dusky streets,
O Hecate; and ye avenging Furies--ye,
The gods of failing Dido, come and bend your power
To these my woes and hear my prayer. If yonder wretch
Must enter port and reach his land decreed by fate,
If thus the laws of Jove ordain, this order holds;
But, torn in war, a hardy people's foeman, far
From friends and young Iulus' arms, may he be forced
To seek a Grecian stranger's aid, and may he see
The death of many whom he loves. And when at last
A meager peace on doubtful terms he has secured,
May he no pleasure find in kingdom or in life;
But may he fall untimely, and unburied lie
Upon some solitary strand. This, this I pray,
And with my latest breath this final wish proclaim.
Then, O my Tyrians, with a bitter hate pursue
The whole accursed race, and send this to my shade
As welcome tribute. Let there be no amity
Between our peoples. Rise thou from my bones,
O some avenger, who with deadly sword and brand
Shall scathe the Trojan exiles, now, in time to come,
Whenever chance and strength shall favor. Be our shores
To shores opposed, our waves to waves, and arms to arms,
Eternal, deadly foes through all posterity.
Sweet pledges of my lord, while fate and god allowed,
Accept this soul of mine, and free me from my cares.
For I have lived and run the course that Fortune set;
And now my stately soul to Hades shall descend.
A noble city have I built; my husband's death
Have I avenged, and on my brother's head my wrath
Inflicted. Happy, ah too happy, had the keels
Of Troy ne'er touched my shores!--And shall I perish thus?--
But let me perish. Thus, oh thus, 'tis sweet to seek
The land of shadows.--May the heartless Trojan see,
As on he fares across the deep, my blazing pyre,
And bear with him the gloomy omens of my death.
runs wild through the convulsed city. With wailing and groaning,
and screams of women, the palace rings; the sky resounds with
mighty cries and beating of breasts--even as if the foe were to
burst the gates and topple down Carthage or ancient Tyre, and the
My son, more dear, while life remained,
E'en than that life to me,
My son, long exercised and trained
In Ilium's destiny,
My errand is from Jove the sire,
Who saved your vessels from the fire,
And sent at last from heaven above
The wished-for token of his love.
Hear and obey the counsel sage
Bestowed by Nautes' reverend age:
Picked youths, the bravest of the brave,
Be these your comrades o'er the wave,
For haughty are the tribes and rude
That Latium has to be subdued.
But ere you yet confront the foe,
First seek the halls of Dis below,
Pass deep Avernus' vale, and meet
Your father in his own retreat.
Not Tartarus' prison-house of crime
Detains me, nor the mournful shades:
My home is in the Elysian clime,
With righteous souls, 'mid happy glades.
The virgin Sibyl with the gore
Of sable sheep shall ope the door;
Then shall you learn your future line,
And what the walls the Fates assign.
And now farewell: dew-sprinkled Night
Has scaled Olympus' topmost height:
I catch their panting breath from far,
The steeds of morning's cruel star.
Obscure they went thro' dreary shades, that led
Along the waste dominions of the dead.
Thus wander travelers in wood by night,
By the moon's doubtful and malignant light,
When Jove in dusky clouds involves the skies,
And the faint crescent shoots by fits before their eyes.
A sordid god: down from his hoary chin
A length of beard descends, uncomb'd, unclean:
His eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire;
A girdle foul with grease binds his obscene attire.
He spreads his canvas; with his pole he steers;
The freights of flitting ghosts in his thin bottom bears.
He looked in years; yet in his years were seen
A youthful vigor, and autumnal green.
Son of Anchises! offspring of the gods!
(The Sibyl said) you see the Stygian floods,
The sacred streams, which heav'n's imperial state
Attests in oaths, and fears to violate.
The ghosts rejected are th' unhappy crew
Depriv'd of sepulchres and fun'ral due:
The boatman, Charon: those, the buried host,
He ferries over to the farther coast;
Nor dares his transport vessel cross the waves
With such whose bones are not compos'd in graves.
A hundred years they wander on the shore;
At length, their penance done, are wafted o'er.
They reach the fields where souls of slain warriors dwell, still
They, who brothers' better claim disown,
Expel their parents, and usurp the throne;
Defraud their clients, and, to lucre sold,
Sit brooding on unprofitable gold;
Who dare not give, and e'en refuse to lend,
To their poor kindred, or a wanting friend--
Vast is the throng of these; nor less the train
Of lustful youths, for foul adult'ry slain--
Hosts of deserters, who their honor sold,
And basely broke their faith for bribes of gold;
All these within the dungeon's depth remain,
Despairing pardon, and expecting pain.
To tyrants, others have their countries sold,
Imposing foreign lords, for foreign gold;
Some have old laws repeal'd, new statutes made,
Not as the people pleas'd, but as they paid.
With incest some their daughters' bed profan'd.
All dar'd th' worst of ills, and what they dar'd, attain'd.
Learn righteousness, and dread th' avenging deities.
Where long extended plains of pleasure lay.
The verdant fields with those of heav'n may vie,
With ether vested, and a purple sky--
The blissful seats of happy souls below:
Stars of their own, and their own suns, they know.
There airy limbs in sports they exercise,
And on the green contend the wrestlers' prize.
Some, in heroic verse, divinely sing;
Others in artful measures lead the ring.
Here patriots live, who, for their country's good,
In fighting fields were prodigal of blood;
Priests of unblemish'd lives here make abode,
And poets worthy their inspiring god;
And searching wits of more mechanic parts,
Who grac'd their age with new-invented arts;
Those who to worth their bounty did extend,
And those who knew that bounty to commend.
The heads of these, with holy fillets bound,
And all their temples were with garlands crown'd.
approaching, he cries out joyfully to him:
And are you come at last? Has love fulfilled a father's hopes and
counting over the days. Nor has my longing played me false. Oh,
the lands and the mighty seas from which you have come to my
presence! the dangers, my son, that have tossed and smitten you!
Oh, how I have feared lest you should come to harm in that realm
world--Augustus Caesar.
There are two gates of Sleep: the one, as story tells, of horn,
supplying a ready exit for true spirits; the other gleaming with
conducts his son and the Sibyl, and dismisses them by the gate of
comrades; then sails along the shore for Caieta's haven. The
anchor is cast from the prow; the keels are ranged on the beach.
The sea was just reddening in the dawn, and Aurora was shining
down from heaven's height in saffron robe and rosy car, when all
at once the winds were laid, and every breath sank in sudden
sleep, and the oars pull slowly against the smooth unmoving wave.
mighty forest. Among the trees Tiber, that beauteous river, with
his gulfy rapids and the burden of his yellow sand, breaks into
the main. Around and above, birds of all plumes, the constant
tenants of bank and stream, were filling the air with their notes
With these words, fierce as flame, he plunged the steel into the
breast that lay before him. That other's frame grows chill and
motionless, and the soul, resenting its lot, flies groaningly to
the shades.
SELLAR, _The Roman Poetry of the Augustan Age_: _Vergil_.
CONINGTON, _Miscellaneous Writings_: Early Roman Epic Poetry, pp.
"+  +" indicates Greek transliteration.
Pg 051, "his" changed to "has" (all that has passed)