ELL me, Mæcenas, if you can,
How comes it, that no mortal man
Is with his lot in life content,
Whether he owes it to the bent
Of his free choice, or fortune's whim?
And why is there such charm for him
In the pursuit his neighbour plies?
"O happy, happy merchants!" cries
The soldier crippled with the banes
Of age, and many hard campaigns.
"A soldier's is the life for me!"
The merchant shouts, whilst on the sea
His argosies are tossing far;
"For, mark ye, comes the tug of war,
Host grapples host, and in a breath
'Tis glorious victory or death!"
The lawyer deems the farmer blest,
When roused at cock-crow from his rest
By clients-those prodigious bores-
Thundering réveillé on his doors;
Whilst he, by business dragged to town
From farmy field and breezy down,
Vows happiness is only theirs,
Who dwell in crowded streets and squares.
The cases of this kind we see,
So multitudinous they be,
Would tire e'en Fabius' self, that fount
Of endless babble, to recount.
But to my point at once I'll come,
Lest you should think me wearisome.
Suppose some god to say, "For you
What you're so eager for I'll do.
Be you a merchant, man of war!
You for the farm renounce the bar!
Change places! To your clients you,
You to your fields! What's here to do?
Not stir? 'Tis yours, and yet you scorn
The bliss you pined for night and morn."
Heavens! Were it not most fitting, now,
That Jove at this should fume, and vow,
He never, never would again
Give credence to the prayers of men?
But to proceed, and not to seem
To skim the surface of my theme,
Like one who has no higher views
Than with quaint fancies to amuse :—
Yet why should truth not be impressed
Beneath the cover of a jest,
As teachers, gentlest of their tribe,
Their pupils now and then will bribe
With cakes and sugar-plums to look
With favour on their spelling-book?
Still, be this as it may, let us
Treat a grave subject gravely-thus:
The man who turns from day to day
With weary plough the stubborn clay,
Yon vintner-an exceeding knave,
The soldier, sailor rashly brave,
Who sweeps the seas from pole to pole, All, to a man, protest their sole Incentive thus to toil and sweat
Is a bare competence to get,
On which to some calm nook they may
Retire, and dream old age away.
Just as the tiny ant-for this
Their favourite illustration is-
Whate'er it can, away will sweep,
And add to its still growing heap,
Sagacious duly to foresee,
And cater for the time to be.
True sage, for when Aquarius drear
Enshrouds in gloom the inverted year,
She keeps her nest, and on the hoard
Subsists, her prudent care has stored;
Whilst you nor summer's fervent heat
From the pursuit of wealth can beat,
Nor fire, nor winter, sword, nor wrack;
Nothing can daunt, or hold you back,
As long as lives the creature, who
Can brag he's wealthier than you.
Where is the pleasure, pray unfold,
Of burying your heaps of gold
And silver in some darkling hole,
With trepidation in your soul?
Diminish them, you say, and down
They'll dwindle to a paltry crown.
But say you don't, what beauty lies
In heaps, however huge their size?
Suppose your granaries contain
Measures ten thousandfold of grain,
Your stomach will not, when you dine,
Hold one iota more than mine.
Like the poor slave, that bears the sack
Of loaves upon his aching back,
You'll get no more, no, not one jot,
Than does his mate, who carries nought.
Or say, what boots it to the man,
Who lives within boon Nature's plan,
Whether he drive his ploughshare o'er
A thousand acres or five score?
But then, you urge, the joy is deep
Of taking from a bulky heap.
Still, if we're free to pick out all
Our needs require from one that's small,
What better with your barns are you,
Than we with our poor sack or two?
Let us imagine, you desire
Some water, and no more require
Than might be in a jar ta'en up,
Or ev❜n in, shall we say, a cup?
"I will not touch this trickling spring,
But from yon rolling river bring
What store I want," you proudly cry.
Well, be it so! But by-and-by
Those who still strive and strain, like you,
For something more than is their due,
By surly Aufidus will be
Swept with its banks into the sea;
Whilst he, who all-abundant thinks
What for his wants suffices, drinks
His water undefiled with mud,
Nor sinks unpitied in the flood.
But most men, blinded and controlled
By the delusive lust of gold,
Say that they never can obtain
Enough; because a man, they're fain
To think, is prized, and prized alone
For just so much as he may own.
What's to be done with fools like these?
Let them be wretched, if they please!
They have their comforts, it appears,
Like that rich knave, who met the jeers
Of the Athenian mob with this:
"The people hoot at me, and hiss,
But I at home applaud myself,
When in my chest I view my pelf."
See Tantalus, parched sinner, gasp
To catch the stream that slips his grasp!
Nay, smile not! change the name; of you
The story will be quite as true.
With panting breath and sleepless eye,
Upon your hoarded bags you lie,
And can no more their stores abridge,
Than if to touch were sacrilege,
But gaze and gloat on them, as though
They were mere pictures. Would you know,
What money can avail, and what
The uses may from it be got?
Buy bread, some herbs, a flask of wine,
To these add whatsoe'er, in fine,
Our human nature, if denied,
Feels pinched for and unsatisfied.
That's common-sense. But, day and night,
To watch and ward, half dead with fright,
To live in dread of thieves and fire,
Nay, let your very servants tire
Your soul with panic, lest they strip
Your house, and give yourself the slip,
If these the joys that riches give,
Heaven keep me beggared while I live!
|