Part 17 (1/2)
'Tis not rich furniture and gems, With cedar roofs and ancient stems, Nor yet a plenteous, lasting flood Of gold, that makes man truly good.
Leave to inquire in what fair fields A river runs which much gold yields; Virtue alone is the rich prize Can purchase stars, and buy the skies.
Let others build with adamant, Or pillars of carv'd marble plant, Which rude and rough sometimes did dwell Far under earth, and near to h.e.l.l.
But richer much--from death releas'd-- s.h.i.+nes in the fresh groves of the East The ph[oe]nix, or those fish that dwell With silver'd scales in Hiddekel.
Let others with rare, various pearls Their garments dress, and in forc'd curls Bind up their locks, look big and high, And s.h.i.+ne in robes of scarlet dye.
But in my thoughts more glorious far Those native stars and speckles are Which birds wear, or the spots which we In leopards dispersed see.
The harmless sheep with her warm fleece Clothes man, but who his dark heart sees Shall find a wolf or fox within, That kills the castor for his skin.
Virtue alone, and nought else can A diff'rence make 'twixt beasts and man; And on her wings above the spheres To the true light his spirit bears.
CASIMIRUS, [LYRICORUM] LIB. IV. ODE XV.
Nothing on earth, nothing at all Can be exempted from the thrall Of peevish weariness! The sun, Which our forefathers judg'd to run Clear and unspotted, in our days Is tax'd with sullen eclips'd rays.
Whatever in the glorious sky Man sees, his rash audacious eye Dares censure it, and in mere spite At distance will condemn the light.
The wholesome mornings, whose beams clear Those hills our fathers walk'd on here, We fancy not; nor the moon's light Which through their windows s.h.i.+n'd at night We change the air each year, and scorn Those seats in which we first were born.
Some nice, affected wand'rers love Belgia's mild winters, others remove, For want of health and honesty, To summer it in Italy; But to no end; the disease still Sticks to his lord, and kindly will To Venice in a barge repair, Or coach it to Vienna's air; And then--too late with home content-- They leave this wilful banishment.
But he, whose constancy makes sure His mind and mansion, lives secure From such vain tasks, can dine and sup Where his old parents bred him up.
Content--no doubt!--most times doth dwell In country shades, or to some cell Confines itself; and can alone Make simple straw a royal throne.
CASIMIRUS, [LYRICORUM] LIB. IV. ODE XIII.
If weeping eyes could wash away Those evils they mourn for night and day, Then gladly I to cure my fears With my best jewels would buy tears.
But as dew feeds the growing corn, So crosses that are grown forlorn Increase with grief, tears make tears' way, And cares kept up keep cares in pay.
That wretch whom Fortune finds to fear, And melting still into a tear, She strikes more boldly, but a face Silent and dry doth her amaze.
Then leave thy tears, and tedious tale Of what thou dost misfortunes call.
What thou by weeping think'st to ease, Doth by that pa.s.sion but increase; Hard things to soft will never yield, 'Tis the dry eye that wins the field; A n.o.ble patience quells the spite Of Fortune, and disarms her quite.
THE PRAISE OF A RELIGIOUS LIFE BY MATHIAS CASIMIRUS. [EPODON ODE III.]
IN ANSWER TO THAT ODE OF HORACE, BEATUS ILLE QUI PROCUL NEGOTIIS, &c.
Flaccus, not so! that worldly he Whom in the country's shade we see Ploughing his own fields, seldom can Be justly styl'd the blessed man.
That t.i.tle only fits a saint, Whose free thoughts, far above restraint And weighty cares, can gladly part With house and lands, and leave the smart, Litigious troubles and loud strife Of this world for a better life.
He fears no cold nor heat to blast His corn, for his accounts are cast; He sues no man, nor stands in awe Of the devouring courts of law; But all his time he spends in tears For the sins of his youthful years; Or having tasted those rich joys Of a conscience without noise, Sits in some fair shade, and doth give To his wild thoughts rules how to live.
He in the evening, when on high The stars s.h.i.+ne in the silent sky, Beholds th' eternal flames with mirth, And globes of light more large than Earth; Then weeps for joy, and through his tears Looks on the fire-enamell'd spheres, Where with his Saviour he would be Lifted above mortality.
Meanwhile the golden stars do set, And the slow pilgrim leave all wet With his own tears, which flow so fast They make his sleeps light, and soon past.
By this, the sun o'er night deceas'd Breaks in fresh blushes from the East, When, mindful of his former falls, With strong cries to his G.o.d he calls, And with such deep-drawn sighs doth move That He turns anger into love.