Nor ivory, nor a fretted ceiling adorned with gold, glitters in my
house: no Hymettian beams rest upon pillars cut out of the extreme parts
of Africa; nor, a pretended heir, have I possessed myself of the palace
of Attalus, nor do ladies, my dependants, spin Laconian purple for my
use. But integrity, and a liberal vein of genius, are mine: and the man
of fortune makes his court to me, who am but poor. I importune the gods
no further, nor do I require of my friend in power any larger
enjoyments, sufficiently happy with my Sabine farm alone. Day is driven
on by day, and the new moons hasten to their wane. You put out marble to
be hewn, though with one foot in the grave; and, unmindful of a
sepulcher, are building houses; and are busy to extend the shore of the
sea, that beats with violence at Baiae, not rich enough with the shore
of the mainland. Why is it, that through avarice you even pluck up the
landmarks of your neighbor's ground, and trespass beyond the bounds of
your clients; and wife and husband are turned out, bearing in their
bosom their household gods and their destitute children? Nevertheless,
no court more certainly awaits its wealthy lord, than the destined limit
of rapacious Pluto. Why do you go on? The impartial earth is opened
equally to the poor and to the sons of kings; nor has the life-guard
ferryman of hell, bribed with gold, re-conducted the artful Prometheus.
He confines proud Tantalus; and the race of Tantalus, he condescends,
whether invoked or not, to relieve the poor freed from their labors.

* * * * *



ODE XIX.

ON BACCHUS.