Classic and Contemporary Poetry
HIPPOCRATES TO THE AMBASSADORS OF ARTAXERXES, by DAVID MACBETH MOIR Poet's Biography First Line: Return, and tell your sire, the persian king Last Line: "and greece regards him as a worthy son!" Alternate Author Name(s): Delta Subject(s): Artaxerxes I, Persian King (d. 425 B.c.); Gifts & Giving; Hippocrates (460-377 B.c.); Hypocrisy; Artaxerxes Longimanus | ||||||||
I. RETURN, and tell your Sire, the Persian King, That dazzling proffers here you vainly bring: What is the pomp of wealth, the pride of state, Pages around, and slaves within the gate, With all the vain magnificent parade Which floats in Grandeur's showy cavalcade, To him who daily bends the patient knee Before the shrine of meek Philosophy, And strives to fill up Life's contracted span With kindliest offices to fellow-man? Sabæan perfumes, robes of Tyrian dye, And fountain jets that cool the glowing sky While music, mirth, and dancing, from the breast Drive every dream of sorrow and unrest May to submission lull luxurious Ease, And fashion thraldom to what mould you please; But to the soul determined, yet serene, Which treasures wisdom from each passing scene, And scruples never from itself to steal Soft slumber's hours, to serve the common-weal, Shorn of their rainbow hues, State's honours fade, And sink to insignificance and shade! II. Tell Artaxerxes that, from day to day, Even to the rudest hut I bend my way, Where, save my own, no friendly feet intrude. Where Poverty keeps watch with Solitude, And, stretched on pallet low, the sick man lies, With fever-stricken frame and hollow eyes; That, while wild phantoms whirl his throbbing brain, I watch his slumbers, and allay his pain, A balm to stanch the gushing wound apply, And wipe Affection's tear from Sorrow's eye. Up with the sun, to meadows I repair, And cull each virtuous herb that blossoms there; For me no hour is idly seen to shine, Long days of toil, and slumbers brief are mine. III. Gobid your monarch pause, from all apart, And ask this question of his conscious heart, At midnight lonely, when are swept aside The court's bedazzling pageantry and pride At midnight when the clouds are dark and deep, And all the stars sealed up, the world asleep If e'er, when mounted on his molten throne, Beauty, and power, and wealth beneath him shone, Gems, gold, and garments from a thousand coasts, All that the earth presents, or ocean boasts If e'er when Flattery raised her voice aloud, And echoing murmurs circled round the crowd, Far from his spirit fled the fiend Distress, To leave his heart unmingled happiness Ask him if these, the pageants of a king, Can ever to his thoughts such rapture bring, As that I feel, when, as I journey on, The pale youth rises from the wayside stone, With health-rekindling cheek, and palms outspread, To call down bliss on my unworthy head, As that I feel, when some fond mother shows Her cradled infant, lovely in repose, And tells me, that the scion of her heart Preserved to bless her by my timeous art, Taught by parental precept, will repair To lisp my name amid his earliest prayer What time for him Jove's temple-doors are thrown Apart, and Heaven his worship deigns to own Grateful, through all life's after years to be, To one, from lurking death who set him free! IV. If such my joyswith praise from every tongue, Smiles from the old, and greetings from the young, The warrior's reverence as he courses by, And gratitude's warm beam from woman's eye What else is wanting? That which I enjoy The mental calm, which nothing can destroy, The self-applause, whose strength sustains the soul, When o'er the Sun of Life the clouds of Sorrow roll. V. What wish I more? A cheerful home is mine, Around whose threshold hangs the clustering vine; There Contemplation finds a welcome cell, And dove-eyed Peace, and meek Contentment dwell; Raiment my country offers, food, and fire, What more doth Nature craveshould man desire? And could I leave my country, fair and free, Green Cos, the glory of the Ægean sea, Desert the realm of Wisdom and of Worth, Land of my sires, and region of my birth, By such unworthy baubles lured to roam, And make 'mid barbarous hordes my gilded home? No! tell your sovereign that a freeman I Was born, and 'mid the free resolve to die! My skill to lull the tortured into ease, To salve the wound, and medicate disease, Were madly used, if, from the free and brave I turned, and stooped to heal the despot and his slave! VI. Thy monarch's rage I nor despise nor dread; Fall if it must on my devoted head, Better an honoured, though untimely fate, Than glory sold for unavailing state: With sneering lip, O ne'er may scoffer say "Hippocrates to Persia slunk away, For princely gauds his reputation sold, Shamed his old age, and bartered fame for gold!" No! rather be it said" He scorn'd to roam The world for wealth, and died beloved at home; His goal of rest was honourably won, And Greece regards him as a worthy son!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A LOVER TO HIS BETROTHED by DAVID MACBETH MOIR A SHADOW OF TRUTH by DAVID MACBETH MOIR A WOUNDED PTARMIGAN by DAVID MACBETH MOIR ADDRESS TO LITTLE CHILDREN by DAVID MACBETH MOIR AN EVENING SKETCH by DAVID MACBETH MOIR BLOOM AND BLIGHT by DAVID MACBETH MOIR CASA WAPPY; THE CHILD'S PET-NAME, CHOSEN BY HIMSELF by DAVID MACBETH MOIR CASA'S DIRGE by DAVID MACBETH MOIR CHILD'S BURIAL IN SPRING by DAVID MACBETH MOIR CHRISTMAS MUSINGS; ADDRESSED TO INATHE by DAVID MACBETH MOIR CRICHTON CHAPEL by DAVID MACBETH MOIR DE QUINCEY'S REVENGE; A BALLAD IN THREE FITTES by DAVID MACBETH MOIR |
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