Part 7 (2/2)

Yet to no other air, nor better place Ow'd he his birth, than the cold, homely Thrace; Which shows a man may be both wise and good, Without the brags of fortune, or his blood.

But envy ruins all: what mighty names Of fortune, spirit, action, blood, and fame, Hath this destroy'd? yea, for no other cause Than being such; their honour, worth and place, Was crime enough; their statues, arms and crowns Their ornaments of triumph, chariots, gowns, And what the herald, with a learned care, Had long preserv'd, this madness will not spare.

So once Seja.n.u.s' statue Rome allow'd Her demi-G.o.d, and ev'ry Roman bow'd To pay his safety's vows; but when that face Had lost Tiberius once, its former grace Was soon eclips'd; no diff'rence made--alas!-- Betwixt his statue then, and common bra.s.s, They melt alike, and in the workman's hand For equal, servile use, like others stand.

Go, now fetch home fresh bays, and pay new vows To thy dumb Capitol G.o.ds! thy life, thy house, And state are now secur'd: Seja.n.u.s lies I' th' lictors' hands. Ye G.o.ds! what hearts and eyes Can one day's fortune change? the solemn cry Of all the world is, ”Let Seja.n.u.s die!”

They never lov'd the man, they swear; they know Nothing of all the matter, when, or how, By what accuser, for what cause, or why, By whose command or sentence he must die.

But what needs this? the least pretence will hit, When princes fear, or hate a favourite.

A large epistle stuff'd with idle fear, Vain dreams, and jealousies, directed here From Caprea does it; and thus ever die Subjects, when once they grow prodigious high.

'Tis well, I seek no more; but tell me how This took his friends? no private murmurs now?

No tears? no solemn mourner seen? must all His glory perish in one funeral?

O still true Romans! State-wit bids them praise The moon by night, but court the warmer rays O' th' sun by day; they follow fortune still, And hate or love discreetly, as their will And the time leads them. This tumultuous fate Puts all their painted favours out of date.

And yet this people that now spurn, and tread This mighty favourite's once honour'd head, Had but the Tuscan G.o.ddess, or his stars Destin'd him for an empire, or had wars, Treason, or policy, or some higher pow'r Oppress'd secure Tiberius; that same hour That he receiv'd the sad Gemonian doom, Had crown'd him emp'ror of the world and Rome But Rome is now grown wise, and since that she Her suffrages, and ancient liberty Lost in a monarch's name, she takes no care For favourite or prince; nor will she share Their fickle glories, though in Cato's days She rul'd whole States and armies with her voice.

Of all the honours now within her walls, She only dotes on plays and festivals.

Nor is it strange; for when these meteors fall, They draw an ample ruin with them: all Share in the storm; each beam sets with the sun, And equal hazard friends and flatt'rers run.

This makes, that circled with distractive fear The lifeless, pale Seja.n.u.s' limbs they tear, And lest the action might a witness need, They bring their servants to confirm the deed; Nor is it done for any other end, Than to avoid the t.i.tle of his friend.

So falls ambitious man, and such are still All floating States built on the people's will: Hearken all you! whom this bewitching l.u.s.t Of an hour's glory, and a little dust Swells to such dear repentance! you that can Measure whole kingdoms with a thought or span!

Would you be as Seja.n.u.s? would you have, So you might sway as he did, such a grave?

Would you be rich as he? command, dispose, All acts and offices? all friends and foes?

Be generals of armies and colleague Unto an emperor? break or make a league?

No doubt you would; for both the good and bad An equal itch of honour ever had.

But O! what state can be so great or good, As to be bought with so much shame and blood?

Alas! Seja.n.u.s will too late confess 'Twas only pride and greatness made him less: For he that moveth with the lofty wind Of Fortune, and Ambition, unconfin'd In act or thought, doth but increase his height, That he may loose it with more force and weight; Scorning a base, low ruin, as if he Would of misfortune make a prodigy.

Tell, mighty Pompey, Cra.s.sus, and O thou That mad'st Rome kneel to thy victorious brow, What but the weight of honours, and large fame After your worthy acts, and height of name, Destroy'd you in the end? The envious Fates, Easy to further your aspiring States, Us'd them to quell you too; pride, and excess.

In ev'ry act did make you thrive the less.

Few kings are guilty of grey hairs, or die Without a stab, a draught, or treachery.

And yet to see him, that but yesterday Saw letters first, how he will sc.r.a.pe, and pray; And all her feast-time tire Minerva's ears For fame, for eloquence, and store of years To thrive and live in; and then lest he dotes, His boy a.s.sists him with his box and notes.

Fool that thou art! not to discern the ill These vows include; what, did Rome's consul kill Her Cicero? what, him whose very dust Greece celebrates as yet; whose cause, though just, Scarce banishment could end; nor poison save His free-born person from a foreign grave?

All this from eloquence! both head and hand The tongue doth forfeit; petty wits may stand Secure from danger, but the n.o.bler vein With loss of blood the bar doth often stain.

} Carmen _O fortunatam natam me Consule Romam._ } Ciceronianum }

Had all been thus, thou might'st have scorn'd the sword Of fierce Antonius; here is not one word Doth pinch; I like such stuff, 'tis safer far Than thy Philippics, or Pharsalia's war.

What sadder end than his, whom Athens saw At once her patriot, oracle, and law?

Unhappy then is he, and curs'd in stars Whom his poor father, blind with soot and scars, Sends from the anvil's harmless chine, to wear The factious gown, and tire his client's ear And purse with endless noise. Trophies of war, Old rusty armour, with an honour'd scar, And wheels of captiv'd chariots, with a piece Of some torn British galley, and to these The ensign too, and last of all the train The pensive pris'ner loaden with his chain, Are thought true Roman honours; these the Greek And rude barbarians equally do seek.

Thus air, and empty fame, are held a prize Beyond fair virtue; for all virtue dies Without reward; and yet by this fierce l.u.s.t Of fame, and t.i.tles to outlive our dust, And monuments--though all these things must die And perish like ourselves--whole kingdoms lie Ruin'd and spoil'd: put Hannibal i' th' scale, What weight affords the mighty general?

This is the man, whom Afric's s.p.a.cious land Bounded by th' Indian Sea, and Nile's hot sand Could not contain--Ye G.o.ds! that give to men Such boundless appet.i.tes, why state you them So short a time? either the one deny, Or give their acts and them eternity.

All aethiopia, to the utmost bound Of t.i.tan's course,--than which no land is found Less distant from the sun--with him that ploughs That fertile soil where fam'd[52] Iberus flows, Are not enough to conquer; pa.s.s'd now o'er The Pyrrhene hills, the Alps with all its store Of ice, and rocks clad in eternal snow, --As if that Nature meant to give the blow-- Denies him pa.s.sage; straight on ev'ry side He wounds the hill, and by strong hand divides The monstrous pile; nought can ambition stay.

<script>