The Table Hercules

Haply at ease, from studious toil set free, The day expiring as I rov'd at large, The call of Vindex, hospitable friend! Drew me to supper; and within the mind It rests yet unconsum'd. No festive toys Of dainty appetite we there devour'd, Viands far-fetch'd, or wines of wondrous age. Ah! wretched those, who nice discernment boast In crane or pheasant; tell how geese grow large; Why Umbrian boars by Tuscan are surpass'd; And on what weeds the richest cockles rest! Love and discourse, from Helicon deriv'd, With social pleasantry, led us to waste The wintry hours, discarding downy sleep, Till a new Castor from Elysium rose, And upon last night's feast Aurora smil'd. Excellent night! would thou hadst match'd, in length, That whence Alcides rose! Thy joys deserve Festivity's red mark and endless fame. A thousand beauties there, of ivory wrought, Of brass, and wax, with mimic life endow'd, I learnt; for who, like Vindex, has an eye That, seeing ancient artists in their touch, Restores the author to the nameless work? How the sine brass, elaborately wrought, Speaks learned Myron's toil; how marble grace Proclaims Praxiteles; whose ivory charms What drew its breath from Polycletus' forge, And lines that own Apelles from afar, He shews: his pastime when he quits the lyre! This passion calls him from Aonian caves. Of these, the guard and genius of the board, Alcides, most with awful love inspir'd My breast, and feasted my insatiate eyes. Such grace adorns the work; in narrow bounds Such majesty; the God, the present God, Lysippus! blest thy sight. Small to be seen, And mighty to be felt, within a foot His wondrous stature: yet may we exclaim, Contemplating his limbs, "This bosom press'd "The Nemean lion; and these arms, "Endu'd with fatal force, the oars of Argo broke! "Can space so brief belie so vast a form? "What skill and knowledge in thy hand and mind, "Great artist! thus to form the table's grace, "And in thy soul conceive colossal shapes! "Not the Telchines in Idaean caves, "Nor Brontes, nor the Lemnian power who points "Arms for the gods, could thus minutely sport." Not fierce this image, nor from feasts averse, But as ador'd, Molorchus! in thy hall; Or in Tegaea, by his priestess seen, Such as from Oeta, risen to the stars. Nectar he quaffs, and smiles at Juno's frown. So mild his visage, as with cordial joy Prompting the banquet, in one hand he holds The goblet, one is mindful of his club, The rock, his seat, his lion-vest conceals. Due fortune grac'd the hallow'd work; since first Pella's young victor, on his festive board Rever'd, and bore it to the west and east, And clasp'd it in that hand which oft bestow'd, Oft seiz'd a crown, and mighty cities crush'd. This for the morrow's battle he invok'd; To this, when Victor all his triumph told, Whether from Bacchus' yoke he India freed, Or the beleaguer'd Babylon o'erthrew; Or trampled on the liberties of Greece In martial rage. Of all his numerous feats, Only his Theban triumph sought excuse. He, when the Fates cut short his bright career, The deadly cup exhausted; and his brow, Dark with Death's shadow, on this soften'd bronze Fix'd his rais'd eyes, and press'd the social god. Next, as the treasure of the Libyan chief, The statue shone. The hand of Hannibal Fierce and fallacious, new libations pour'd To this brave power: but him, with Latian blood Deform'd, and bearing desolating fire 'Gainst Rome, the god abhorr'd; and at his feast Mourn'd as the partner of an impious camp; Then most, when sacrilegious he destroy'd Herculean towers; and just Saguntum's shrines Subverting, sir'd her sons to glorious rage. The Punic chieftain dead, the hallow'd bronze Shar'd no plebeian house, but Sylla's feast Adorn'd; accustom'd to be nobly lodg'd, And happy in a line of splendid hosts. Now, too, (if morals and the human heart Claim from the gods attention,) now no pomp Waits thee, Alcides! but the blameless thoughts Of thy refin'd possessor; the pure train Of truth and friendship! These Vestinus knew, Whose death outshone his fires, to Vindex dear; So dear, he lives by honouring the dead. Here, then, Alcides! bravest of the gods, Share joyous quiet; see nor wars nor strife, But peaceful wreaths, the laurel and the lyre! Your present host in solemn verse shall tell How great, in Thrace, in Ilion, on the snows Of Stymphalus, in Erymanthian dales, You scatter'd terror; how Iberia's chief Fear'd you; and how the lord of bloody shrines. He too shall sing the precincts of the dead, Owning your power, and nymphs of various climes. You, neither Ammon's son, nor Punic chief, Nor savage Sylla, could applaud in strains So just; nor could'st thou, author of the work, Lysippus! wish a more accomplish'd judge.