In Praise of Epictetus

"In Praise of Epictetus"

Ellis Walker (1650-1700)

I.
Great Epictetus, pardon if we praise!
'Tis not thy character to raise:
The top of all fame's pyramid is thine,
Where in her brightest glories thou dost shine;
Where, though unsought by thee,
She gives thee her eternity,
And bears you to the height you scorned to climb.
In speaking all that's good of you, she shows,
That now and then, how to speak truth she knows.
All admire what's truly good,
And that they do so, all would have it understood;
There's then a right, which to ourselves we do
In praising, reading, and translating you.

II.
Thousands have been esteemed for having writ,
And in time's chronicles do justly live,
With all the applause that lettered fame can give.
But you with brave disdain
Despite the common road to fame,
That old stale trick, as known as artifice,
As pimping for acquiring greatness is.
By a great method of your own,
You by not writing are more glorious grown;
For every word that from you fell,
Your hearers have received as from an oracle,
And handed down to us; for so 'twas fit
That your immortal wit,
Should ever live, without your seeking it.

III.
None (as mere men) but you, could ever reach
The pitch of living up to what they teach,
And could you have receded from
Your noble principles resolved upon,
What vast preferments might such parts have had?
What offers had not fortune made?
But blind and foolish though she be,
Full well she knew that she,
With all her outward gifts could nothing add to thee:
You generously brave
Ennoble the opprobrious name of slave;
And show, a wise man may be truly great
In each condition, every state.

IV.
Thine was intrinsic greatness, real worth,
No painted Ixion cloud, no glittering froth,
Not such as doth consist in store
Of houses or of land,
The prey, the sport of fire, or of the stronger hand;
Nor was it varnished over
With riches, which proud churles enslave,
Which knaves hoard up, for some more daring knave,
Nor such as glory in the bended knee
Of sycophant servility,
Which, when the humble wretch his ends doth gain,
He may grow saucy, and detain:
No; 'twas substantial greatness of the soul,
Such as no outward power can control,
Such as can nothing fear, can nothing want:
This we true greatness justly grant.

V.
Experience shows, how well you have confined
All happiness, all greatness, to the mind.
For he, that sees the captive led along,
Pensive, amidst the bellowing throng,
With folded arms, his grandeur laid aside;
And then another with mean flattery
Courting the rascal herd, the senseless mobile,
Stroking the beast that he intends to ride,
And all to gratify his boundless pride:
He, who in history runs over
The worthies that have lived before,
And sees great Diocletian quit his seat,
His princely palace for a cool retreat,
And sees the fierce Pelean youth bestride
The conquered globe, and weep dissatisfied;
He must of force confess,
Nothing without can give true happiness;
And all his heroes of antiquity
Slaves in an eminent degree;
And only Epictetus truly great and free.