Been reading with much enjoyment Juvenal’s Tenth Satire, possibly the gloomiest major poem ever written. George Gilbert Ramsay, who translated it for the Loeb Classical Library, calls it “a profoundly depressing and pessimistic poem.” Just my cup of tea. There’s a 1693 translation, only patchily good, by John Dryden on Google Books. Dr. Johnson used the Tenth Satire as a model for his terrific “Vanity of Human Wishes” (1749).
Here’s what I want to know. After 345 lines of telling us how pointless everything is, Juvenal perks up at the end with an appeal to trust to the Gods. In Dryden’s translation:
What then remains? Are we depriv’d of will,
Must we not wish, for fear of wishing ill?
Receive my counsel, and securely move;
Intrust thy fortune to the Powers above.
Leave them to manage for thee, and to grant
What their unerring wisdom sees thee want:
In goodness as in greatness they excel;
Ah that we lov’d ourselves but half so well!
We, blindly by our headstrong passions led,
Are hot for action, and desire to wed;
Then wish for heirs: but to the gods alone
Our future offspring, and our wives are known;
Th’ audacious strumpet, and ungracious son.
Yet not to rob the priests of pious gain,
That altars be not wholly built in vain;
Forgive the gods the rest, and stand confin’d
To health of body, and content of mind:
A soul, that can securely death defy,
And count it nature’s privilege, to die;
Serene and manly, harden’d to sustain
The load of life, and exercis’d in pain:
Guiltless of hate, and proof against desire;
That all things weighs, and nothing can admire:
That dares prefer the toils of Hercules
To dalliance, banquet, and ignoble ease.
The path to peace is virtue: what I show,
Thyself may freely on thyself bestow:
Fortune was never worshipp’d by the wise;
But, set aloft by fools, usurps the skies.
But would a man of Juvenal’s time and place — he was a Roman, writing around a.d. 120 — really have believed in the rather cheesy Roman pantheon? (Which at that point included three or four dead emperors, whose personal foibles were known to all.) We don’t actually know anything about Juvenal, other than what he tells us in his poems, but is it likely? Wasn’t official Roman religion strictly for the common folk — and not much regarded even by them? That’s been my impression from reading authors like Gibbon and Balsdon. Any classicists out there care to give an opinion?