Page:Statius (Mozley 1928) v1.djvu/165

who saw thy funeral blushed to be outdone. No servile flames were thine: fragrant harvests of Saba and Cilicia^[1] did the fire consume, and cinnamon stolen from the Pharian bird,^[2] and the juices that drip from Assyrian herbs—and thy master’s tears: these only did the ashes drink, those the pyre ceased not to consume; nor was the Setian wine that quenched the hoary ash, nor the smooth onyx that guarded his bones more grateful to the hapless shade than those tears. Yet can even tears avail him? Why, Ursus, do we surrender to our sorrow? Why dost thou cherish thy loss, and perversely love thy wound? Where is that eloquence that prisoners dragged to judgement knew? Why dost thou vex that dear shade by savage shows of grief? Peerless of soul was he and worthy to be mourned: but thou hast paid that debt, and he is entering the company of the blest and enjoys Elysian peace, and perchance finds there famous ancestors; or haply by the pleasant silences of Lethe Nymphs of Avernus mingle and sport around him, and Proserpine notes him with sidelong glance. Mourn then no more, I pray thee; the Fates, and he himself perhaps, will give thee another Philetus, and gladly he will show him seemly ways and fashions, and teach him a love to match his own.