Elegies of old age made English from the Latin of Cn. Cornelivs Gallvs.

ELEGY I.

The ARGUMENT.

In this Elegy, under the representation of an Old Man, the Poet seems to repine at Fate for impo∣sing Life on him too long, and aggravates the Mi∣series of his Age, by giving a Character of him∣self, as he was when young, by the remembrance of those happy Days past; after which he describes the several Diseases and inconvenienc••es attending him now Old, concluding the Elegy with a reflecti∣on on the happiness of those who dye before their Age becomes a burthen to them.

WHy, envious Age, do'st with a ling'ring stay, My wasting Life to growing Pains betray, And the kind Stroak of welcome Death delay?

Why wilt thou not inlarge my Soul to Ease, And the vext Pris'ner from his Jayl release? To me 'tis worst of Punishments to live, And Death alone a peacefull Rest can give. Cold and Disease inhabit me all o'er, And what I was in Youth, I'm now no more; A trembling Faintness loosens ev'ry Limb, And dizz'd Vertigoes through my Brains do swim: Light, which to all the World do's Joy dispence, To me, unhappy Mourner, gives Offence; Ev'n Mirth but serves my Sorrows to inrage; Mirth, which can Youthfull Griefs so well assuage, Becomes th' Antiperistasis of Age. But then to live of mere Necessity, And wish for Death, is worse than 'tis to dye.

While gracefull Youth remain'd, & vig'rous sence, The wond'ring World prais'd my fam'd Eloquence. Oft with Success Poetick Lyes I feign'd, And sure Renown by pleasant Fictions gain'd:

Oft the contended Lawrel was my own, And the rich Bays around my Temples shone.

But all these Pleasures, all these Joys are past, And a dead Numbness all my Vitals wast. Ah! what an uncouth part of Life remains To Aged Men, fill'd with Disease, and Pains. But Nature to my Youth excessive kind, With all these Gifts a gracefull Beauty joyn'd. Beauty, which of it self has Power to move, And claim from Men Respect, from Women Love. But I had Vertue too, which do's out-shine The brightest Gold dug out of Indian Mine, And renders Wit more noble and divine.

If e'er invited by the op'ning Hound, I did the Woods with eager Chase surround; The frighted Game by me alone was slain, And shunn'd the vigour of my Arms in vain;

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Or when with Youthfull heat and warmth inflam'd I gave Pursuit to ruthfull Beasts untam'd. Not without prais'd Success did I imploy My deadly Arrows, certain to destroy. Sometimes, when I beheld the brave Resort, Where active Wrestlers strove in manly sport. The bold Engagements I would often chuse, And artfull strength, with sinewie Limbs could use: Sometimes I have with practis'd Racers run, And oft the Goal from fleetest Coursers won. Buskin'd sometimes, in Sophoclean Verse, I could a Noble Tragedy reherse. While trading Players blush't to be out-done In gracefull Action, and a moving Tone. Nor did I lose the least degree of Praise, Because my Skill was good so many ways; But rather found it heighten'd my Desert, As various Works shews most the Master's Art.

If in one Grace alone we Pleasure find, When 'tis with other noble Vertues joyn'd, Twill more exalt, and more affect the Mind.

But then a hardy Suff'rance there was found, Which all my other manly Vertues crown'd; A Suff'rance which invincible remain'd, Against all Ills, and worst of Harms disdain'd; For unconcern'd, from Injury secure, With a bare Front all Storms I could endure. Harmless as drops of Oyl around my Head, The violent Rain was innocently shed; Ev'n roughest Winds assaulted me in vain, Like sturdy Oaks, I could their Rage sustain. The Sun in Cancer, or in Capricorn, By me unprejudic'd alike was born. And Tybers colder Streams I durst invade In hoary Frosts, fearless, and undismay'd: Nor did the doubtfull Dangers of the Sea, From Voyages deter, or frighten me.

To me short Sleeps could long Refreshments give, And mod'rate Meals my Hunger could relieve. Yet if a jolly drunken Friend I found, Inclin'd to pass the moving Goblets round, And spend the happy hours of some smooth day, In chasing with brisk Wine, dull Cares away. My stronger Brains could undisorder'd bear, Of strongest Liquors, an unmeasur'd share. My sturdiest Guest with Ease I overcame, Though he, with others, gain'd a Victor's Fame. Had Father Bacchus ventur'd in for one, Not Father Bacchus had unconquer'd gon. Thus 'tis no very easie thing to find, Two Contrarieties within one Mind, By the soft tye of Concord's bands confin'd. And so 'tis fam'd, that the great Socrates, Possessing opposite Varieties, Was gayly Pleasant, and severely Wise.

That he was skill'd, and that he could excell, As well in drinking, as in reas'ning well. And Cato oft would rigid Thoughts decline, To sate his Sences with delicious Wine; Nought in it self is good, or bad, we know, And Circumstances only make things so: For what's perform'd with grace, with wit, and sence, Cannot be call'd a vice by no Pretence; 'Tis that can only Ill and Vicious be, That's slubber'd o'er, and acted slovenlie.

Unmov'd, and fearless, Fate's worst spite I bore, And on my Brows no heavy Sorrows wore; Pomp and Adversitie to me were one, No Grief for this, no Joy for that was shewn. A gen'rous Poverty I always lov'd, And Avarice by full Content remov'd. I all things had, because I nought desir'd, Enjoy'd my own, my Neighbours ne'er requir'd.

Thou, dolefull Age, alone do'st me subdue, Who conquers all things else, must yield to you. To thee we run, all sading things are thine, And with thy Evil last all things decline.

Thus in my Youth adorn'd Hetruria strove, With her best Beauties for my Nuptial Love; But Hymen's Fetters I unfit to bear, Did Liberty to golden Bonds prefer. When e'er I walk't the stately Streets of Rome, Gay in my vernal Strength, and youthfull Bloom Each longing Maid gaz'd with a wishing Eye, To see my prom'sing Parts as I past by: Blushing a Nymph, my Visits would receive, Yet of her Joy many dear Tokens give; And smiling, into some fly Corner run, As if she would my gratefull Kindness shun; Where, undiscover'd, long she could not be, But laugh aloud to be found out by me;

More pleas'd with being caught, than close conceal'd, And only hid, that she might be reveal'd. So I to all seem'd pleasing, kind, and fair, A Lover only, nor would more declare; For kindly Nature had bestow'd on me A modest, and a chast Severitie. No Beauty of sufficient force could prove, To make me with a wedded Life in love; Nor any Nymph appear'd so fair to me, That I should buy her with my Libertie: Howe'er a Face might charming seem before, The thoughts of Hymen made it so no more.

Thus while I was so nice in choice of one, Exactly perfect, I remain'd alone. The Short I lov'd not, and the Tall did hate; The Lean disdain'd, and loath'd the fulsome Fat. I only lik'd the Medium of all these; The Middle still is best, and best do's please.

Soft Luxury do's there the Body grace, And there do's Love his sacred Temple place. I did i'th' Slender, not the Lean delight; Flesh satiates best the fleshy Appetite. As Body is by Body gently prest, The height of Pleasure then must be confest, When the kind Touch no meager Bones molest. The Pale, and clear Complexion I abhorr'd, Unless with Nature's Roses richly stor'd; For Venus claims that Flower as her own, Because in all her Votaries 'tis shewn. The untry'd Virgin blushes forth a Rose, And modestly a Shame for loving shews. Experienc'd Lovers too this Flower bear, And in their Cheeks after Joys tasted wear. The golden Hair, and white declining Neck, Denote a Wit, and claim a just Respect. Black Brows, a Forehead large, and sparkling Eyes, Would oft my Heart with Love, and Awe surprize.

I lov'd the Ruby, moist, and swelling Lip, Where I could Kisses tast, and Nectar sip. A long round Neck made Gold appear more sine, And Jewels with a double Lustre shine.

But all these Pleasures, which to Youth were dear, Offends distastfull Age, but ev'n to hear; For diff'rent Things, oblige our diff'rent Years, What once was decent, now a Crime appears. The wanton Boy loves light Inconstancie, And Age affects a settled Gravitie. But gracefull Youth arriv'd to manly growth, Remains the Golden Mean betwixt 'em both. This heedfull Silence best becomes, and that Delights in noisie Mirth, and empty Chat. Time conquers all things, and we must submit To all the cruel Tyrannies of it. He suffers nought in certain Paths to range, But with himself do's ev'ry Being change.

Now therefore since my Age do's burthen me, And useless is, come Death and set me free; But oh! in vain I beg for Libertie!

On what hard terms poor Mortals Life receive; Who, when opprest, cannot themselves relieve, By Death at Pleasure, but must tortur'd live! 'Tis to the Miserable sweet to dye, But courted Death from them do's coyly fly, And where unwelcome, there approaches nigh. But I, while living, tread in Paths of Death, And faintly draw a meer departing Breath: For Age to me the Ʋse of Sence denies, And grants but an imperfect Exercise, Of all my Reasonable Faculties. My Hearing fails me, and do's each day wast, Nor can my Gust relish the best Repast, With me ev'n balmy Kisses lose their tast. My sunken Eyes can scarce discover day, The Sun methinks shines with a glimm'ring Ray.

Now not the most transporting Bliss can be By my unactive Touch convey'd to me. No Pleasure more in gratefull scents I take, For Smelling do's my frigid Nose forsake, Me senceless thus, who'd not for Dead mistake! No use have I of former Memorie, Ev'n what I was is now forgot by me; As if of Lethe I had drunk, each day My Mind do's with my languid Corps decay.

No Verses now I sing, that Pleasure's done, And my sweet tunefull Voice, alas, is gone. Delicious Poems I no longer feign, To please an Audience with my Commick Vein. No more throng'd Theatres (while I complain) Applaud my Numbers, and my Tragick strain; But Avarice for Gold, and worldly Care, Draw me to scold at the litigious Bar; Which cruel Trouble makes me seem no more, Than the faint Image of my self before;

For Death-like Paleness now takes up that Place, Which White and Red before had in my Face; Like gather'd Fruit my Age dries up my Skin, And shrinks, and stiffens ev'ry Nerve within. My Eyes, which heretofore with Love could smile, And yielding Hearts of tender Maids beguile; Now with continual flowing Rheums are sore, And day and night in Tears, their Fate deplore: Now brisly Woods for Brows impending grow, Which did before like Summer Garlands show. Strangely methinks, and most imperfectlie, My Eyes, I know not how, in Torment see: For being dim'd with moist Rheumatick Tears, Each thing to me so frightfully appears; As what past by without, is sadly seen By melancholy, and despairing Men, From the deep Cavern of a darksome Den. Thus poor Old Men by their own Horrours fed, Both to themselves, and others become dead; For who'd not guess, when Reason's gon, Life fled?

If Books I take, with hopes in them to find, Something to ease, or to delight my Mind. 'Tis still in vain, for my deceitfull Eyes Shows ev'ry Letter in a doubling size, And ev'ry Leaf grows dull, and magnifies. The clearest Light through Clouds I only see, For ev'n those very Clouds are made by me: An obscure Dusk deprives me of the Day, And takes it unassisted by the Night away. Thus I amidst Tartarian Darkness dwell, And ev'ry Object represents my Hell. Who then would live such a curst Wretch to be, Like me tormented to that vast Degree, To hope Relief from a worse Miserie?

I'm now possest of ev'ry Ill Disease, Feasts, and Delights of Epicure displease, And that I still may live, to live I cease. Me, whom no Hardship could abuse of old, Want, or Excess of Food, of Heat, or Cold.

Now what should nourish me, do's cause my Pain, And even Food becomes my certain Bane. Would I be fill'd, eating creates my Grief; Would I abstain, ev'n that gives no Relief. The Dish that pleas'd my Palate just before, Is now thrown by, and can delight no more. No Pleasure more in gentle Love I find, Though Venus self should offer to be kind; Ev'n Wine for me has no more Charms in store, Which can relieve the bad, inrich the Poor. Sick Nature but remains weak, and opprest, And with its own worst Evil is distrest. Those Diet-drinks which cleans'd me heretofore, And well-prov'd Physick, now can work no more. All which, to others sick, some Ease can give, Cannot the sad Disease of Age relieve: For how should Physick in that Case prevail, When even that do's with the Body fail; And that same Cup from whence I Med'cines sip, Receives Infection from my putrid Lip.

These ineffectual Props are rais'd in vain, A fierce precipitating Ruin to sustain.

No Shows or Triumphs can obleige my sight, I cannot now ev'n counterfeit Delight. Beauty, the chiefest Magazene of Love, And a good Dress, which Beauty can improve; To Age becomes the object of his Rage, But even Life offends capricious Age; Nay Banquets, Singing, and gay Jests displease Unhappy those, whose Pleasure is Disease! What solid Bliss can unus'd Riches grant, For much, though I possess, yet more I want. To me 'tis Pain to touch my own Estate, And hoarded Gold a Crime to violate. So Tantalus do's in deep Water stand, But for his Thirst cannot one drop command▪ I make my self but Custos of my own, For others to enjoy when I am gon.

So was the Dragon in the Garden plac'd, To watch the golden Fruit, but not to tast. Thus I solicitous, with Care opprest, To my teiz'd Mind refuse a needfull Rest; Still coveting, and craving still for more, I ne'er abate, if not increase my Store, And maugre all, imagine I am poor.

Nor are these all the Plagues that wait on me, For I become my own worst Enemie. Doubtfull, and trembling, credulous of Ill, And fearfull of my own best Actions still. Yet in my Notions obstinately wise, I praise the past, the present Age despise; None learn'd but me, or skilfull I believe, O•• my own Prudence only positive, By wilfull Doatage most my self deceive. Much do I talk, and talk it o'er, and o'er, And yet am troublesome by telling more.

I drivle out a slav'ring Speech so long, You'd wish a present Palsie seiz'd my Tongue. To Death y'are tired, yet unweary'd I Persist to kill you with Garrulitie. Oh miserable Age, which canst but give, Strength to Mankind to become talkative! In ev'ry Place my loud Complaints are heard; They're heard indeed, but never gain Regard. Nothing can please me, nothing can suffice; Now this I covet, that anon despise. Old-men to Infants we may well compare, Whose changing Wills as fond, and peevish are. When e'er I make my self a Witty Fool, And my grave Tail is very ridicule. If my tir'd Audience do's but laugh aloud, I'm mightily oblieg'd, and mighty proud; I smile with them, and flatt'ring my Conceit, Heighten their Laugh with the same strains of Wit. A pleasing Joy o'er-spreads my wrinkled Face, And I am tickled with my own Disgrace.

Thus these are the First Fruits of Death, with these Down to the Grave I march by slow degrees. My Form, my Dress, my Colour, Shape, and Meen, Are not the same, which heretofore they've been. My Body now inclin'd, and awkward grown, Lets my large Coat slide from my shoulders down; And what was short before, seems now a Gown. I so contracted, and decreas'd appear, You'd think my very Bones deminish't were. I'm no more privileg'd to look on high, To contemplate the rich, and spacious Sky; But prone to Earth, from whence I came, I tend To shew where I began, there I must end. Three Feet I use, but streight I shall use four, And brought to Childhood, crawl upon the Floor. To its first Principle each thing resolves, What ris' from Nought, to Nought again devolves. Hence 'tis that I, mould'ring to Dust am found, With my old Staff poking the lazy Ground;

And my short steps, moving with weakly pace, But slowly quitting the attractive Place; Seem thus to mutter my Complaints, and pray With belching Jaws to Earth against Delay.

Mother, receive thy Child, pitty his pain, And in thy Bosome cherish me again, For hardly can my Leggs their Load sustain. My loathsome Figure now moves no Delight, And my sad gastly Looks the Boys affright, For fear they shun me, and abhor my Sight. Why to thy Brood do'st shew such Crueltie, To let me thus a common Bugbear be? My bus'ness now with Mankind here is none, The wretched Task of Life by me is done; With all its various Trouble, various Toyl: Receive me therefore to my proper Soil. What Pleasure is't to see me undergo, So many diff'rent Penalties of Wo? Is it a Mother's part to use me so?

Scarce have I Strength thus even to complain, And scarce my Staff my trembling Limbs sustain; But with my Labour, and my Grief opprest, Lolling upon my Couch, I seek for Rest. Where stretch't along upon th' uneasie Bed, I represent an Earthie Body dead; Such as it is, when once the Soul is fled. Thus when I loll, and stretch, who would believe That I am sensible, at all, or live; Though this indeed, what Life I have, do's give. My Life is but one intire Punishment, And all the World but one whole Discontent. Heat burns my Body, Clouds offend my Sight; Nor do's the cold, or clearer Air delight: The Summer Dews are hurtfull to my Head, And as Infections, April Showers I dread. The chearfull Days of the gay blooming Spring, Nor Autumn's jolly Vintage, nor any thing To me the least reviving Joy can bring.

But, wretched I, with Scurf, and Scab o'er-run, And with the Ptisick, and Chin-Cough undone; My miserable Age it self bemoans, With never-ceasing, and continual Groans. And can you think those Creatures live, to whom The Air, by which we breath, and Light become Hatefull, and grievous, sad, and troublesome?

Ev'n Sleep, Death's gentle, gratefull Imagerie, Which, for a Time, do's wretched Mortals free; From the unquiet Thoughts of Miserie, Still flies away, and shuns unhappy me. And if he do's vouchsafe, though late, to close My heavy Eyes, he troubles my Repose With horrid frightfull Dreams, and dreadfull Sights, Of fatal Specters, and of murther'd Sprights. Down Beds, or Beds of Stone are much the same, And seem to me to differ but in name. Though softest Silks my thin light Cov'ring be, Heavy they seem, and troublesome to me.

With many Inconveniencies opprest, Often I rise to break imperfect Rest. Thus urg'd by my weak Bodies sad Defect, I do those very things I would neglect; And striving many Evils to avoid, My Health by many Evils is destroy'd. Thus Age coming on unheeded, and unsought, With multitudes of heavy Mischiefs fraught, Submission to its own sad Weight is taught. Who therefore would a tedious Life desire, And so by piece-meal painfully expire? Then in the Flesh the Soul should bury'd lye; And to live dying better once to dye. Alas! I don't complain, because I'd give A six't Prescription how long Man should live. 'Tis an unpardonable Crime, I know, To circumscribe great Nature by my Law. I only wish that I might meet my Fate, E'er Age should all my Pleasures captivate.

E'er Time with his rank Ills my Life invade; Time, which makes all things wear away, and fade. The sturdy Bull by Time deficient grows, Nor use of former noble Courage knows. The proud, gay, mettled Horse, of late so good, By Age becomes the Scandal of the Stud: This can abate the furious Lyon's Rage, And the fierce Tyger gentle grows with Age. Antiquitie makes even Rocks decay, And ev'ry thing, alas, to Time gives way. Wherefore I rather would anticipate My growing Miseries by swifter Fate, And all my Punishment at once would feel, Nor wait in painfull Expectation still. But who can tell the Sorrows, and the Pain, VVhich not themselves, but others do sustain? Thus poor Old men increase their grievous Care, By minding how much they unpitty'd are, Of those, who cannot in their Suff'rings share. Hence 'tis that Age, forsaken friendless Age, Do's in so many scolding Broyls engage.

Meeting with such Contempts, such Detriments, While none, in his behalf, his Harms resents. The rogu'ish Boys, and wanton Girls agree, Both to despise, abuse, and laugh at me; For Master, me, they think 'tis shame to own, Because with Age I'm despicable grown. They flout my Gate, my Face, and trembling Head, Whose angry Nod they heretofore would dread. Though my dim'd sight small help to me do's give, Yet I shall certainly my Shame perceive. No rude affronts by me unseen can go, But I must mark 'em to compleat my Woe.

Thrice happy, sure, is the deserving He, Who leads his Life in calm Tranquillitie; And e'er with Age his Strength is quite decay'd, Is from the World by timely Death convey'd; For to remember former Happiness, Do's but increase the wretched Man's Distress.