Of widows, orphans, mothers, sisters, sires, Forbear! no other pestilence has driven Such myriads o'er th' irremeable deep. Why this so fatal, the sagacious Muse
Through nature's cunning labyrinths could trace: But there are secrets which who knows not now, Must, ere he reach them, climb the heapy Alps Of science; and devote seven years to toil. Besides, I would not stun your patient ears With what it little boots you to attain.
He knows enough, the mariner, who knows Where lurk the shelves, and where the whirlpools
What signs portend the storm: to subtler minds He leaves to scan, from what mysterious cause Charybdis rages in th' Ionian wave;
Whence those impetuous currents in the main Which neither oar nor sail can stem; and why The roughening deep expects the storm, as sure As red Orion mounts the shrouded Heaven.
In ancient times, when Rome with Athens vied For polish'd luxury and useful arts;
All hot and reeking from th' Olympic strife, And warm Palestra, in the tepid bath
Th' athletic youth relax'd their weary limbs. Soft oils bedew'd them, with the grateful pow'rs Of nard and cassia fraught, to soothe and heal The cherish'd nerves. Our less voluptuous clime Not much invites us to such arts as these. 'T is not for those, whom gelid skies embrace, And chilling fogs; whose perspiration feels Such frequent bars from Eurus and the North;
'T is not for those to cultivate a skin
Too soft: or teach the recremental fume
Too fast to crowd through such precarious ways. For through the small arterial mouths, that pierce In endless millions the close-woven skin, The baser fluids in a constant stream Escape, and viewless melt into the winds. While this eternal, this most copious waste Of blood, degenerates into vapid brine, Maintains its wonted measure, all the powers Of health befriend you, all the wheels of life With ease and pleasure move: but this restrain'd Or more or less, so more or less you feel The functions labour: from this fatal source What woes descend is never to be sung.
To take their numbers, were to count the sands That ride in whirlwind the parch'd Libyan air; Or waves that, when the blustering North embroils The Baltic, thunder on the German shore. Subject not then, by soft emollient arts,
This grand expense, on which your fates depend, To every caprice of the sky; nor thwart
The genius of your clime: for from the blood Least fickle rise the recremental steams,
And least obnoxious to the styptic air,
Which breathe through straiter and more callous The temper'd Scythian hence, half-naked treads His boundless snows, nor rues th' inclement Heaven; And hence our painted ancestors defied
The east; nor curs'd, like us, their fickle sky.
The body, moulded by the clime, endures
The equator heats or hyperborean frost :
Except by habits foreign to its turn, Unwise you counteract its forming pow'r. Rude at the first, the winter shocks you less By long acquaintance: study then your sky, Form to its manners your obsequious frame, And learn to suffer what you cannot shun. Against the rigors of a damp cold heav'n To fortify their bodies, some frequent
The gelid cistern; and, where nought forbids, I praise their dauntless heart: a frame so steel'd Dreads not the cough, nor those ungenial blasts That breathe the tertian or fell rheumatism ; The nerves so temper'd never quit their tone, No chronic languors haunt such hardy breasts, But all things have their bounds; and he who
By daily use the kindest regimen
Essential to his health, should never mix With human kind, nor art nor trade pursue.
He not the safe vicissitudes of life
Without some shock endures; ill-fitted he To want the known, or bear unusual things. Besides, the powerful remedies of pain (Since pain in spite of all our care will come) Should never with your prosperous days of health Grow too familiar: for by frequent use
The strongest medicines lose their healing power, And even the surest poisons theirs to kill.
Let those who from the frozen Arctos reach Parch'd Mauritania, or the sultry west, Or the wide flood that laves rich Indostan, Plunge thrice a day, and in the tepid wave
Untwist their stubborn pores; that full and free Th' evaporation through the soften'd skin May bear proportion to the swelling blood. So may they 'scape the fever's rapid flames; So feel untainted the hot breath of Hell. With us, the man of no complaint demands The warm ablution just enough to clear The sluices of the skin, enough to keep The body sacred from indecent soil. Still to be pure, ev'n did it not conduce (As much it does) to health, were greatly worth Your daily pains. 'T is this adorns the rich; The want of this is poverty's worst woe; With this external virtue, age maintains A decent grace; without it, youth and charms Are loathsome. This the venal graces know; So doubtless do your wives: for married sires, As well as lovers, still pretend to taste; Nor is it less (all prudent wives can tell) To lose a husband's than a lover's heart.
But now the hours and seasons when to toil From foreign themes recall my wandering song. Some labour fasting, or but slightly fed To lull the grinding stomach's hungry rage. Where nature feeds too corpulent a frame 'Tis wisely done: for while the thirsty veins, Impatient of lean penury, devour The treasur'd oil, then is the happiest time To shake the lazy balsam from its cells, Now while the stomach from the full repast Subsides, but ere returning hunger gnaws, Ye leaner habits, give an hour to toil;
And ye whom no luxuriancy of growth Oppresses yet, or threatens to oppress.
But from the recent meal no labours please, Of limbs or mind. For now the cordial powers Claim all the wandering spirits to a work
Of strong and subtle toil, and great event: A work of time; and you may rue the day You hurried, with untimely exercise, A half-concocted chyle into the blood.
The body overcharged with unctuous phlegm Much toil demands: the lean elastic less. While winter chills the blood and binds the veins, No labours are too hard: by those you 'scape The slow diseases of the torpid year;
Endless to name; to one of which alone, To that which tears the nerves, the toil of slaves Is pleasure: Oh! from such inhuman pains May all be free who merit not the wheel!
But from the burning Lion when the Sun
Pours down his sultry wrath; now while the blood Too much already maddens in the veins, And all the finer fluids through the skin
Explore their flight; me, near the cool cascade Reclin'd, or saunt'ring in the lofty grove, No needless slight occasion should engage To pant and sweat beneath the fiery noon. Now the fresh morn alone and mellow eve To shady walks and active rural sports Invite. But, while the chilling dews descend, May nothing tempt you to the cold embrace Of humid skies; though 't is no vulgar joy To trace the horrours of the solemn wood
« PrejšnjaNaprej » |