Statius (Mozley 1928) v1/Silvae/Book 2

Not only our friendship wherein I take such pleasure, my excellent Melior, who are as faultless in your literary judgement as in every phase of life, but also the actual circumstances of the poems I am presenting to you are responsible for the whole of this book of mine being directed towards you, even without an introductory letter. For its first subject is our beloved Glaucias, whose charming infancy—a charm so often bestowed on the unfortunate—is lost to you now; I loved him when I took him in my arms at your house. While that wound was yet fresh, I wrote as you know a poem of consolation, with such dispatch that I felt my promptness owed an apology to your feelings. Nor am I boasting of it now to you who know, but warning others not to criticize too sharply a poem written in distress and sent to one in sorrow, seeing that sympathy must be timely or else superfluous. The Surrentine Villa of my friend Pollio which follows should have been written with greater care if only in honour of his eloquent tongue, but he has displayed a friend’s indulgence. Certainly the trifling pieces on your tree, Melior, and on the parrot were as you know dashed off like epigrams. A like facility of pen was ​demanded by the Tame Lion, for had I not presented him to His Most Sacred Majesty while still lying in the amphitheatre, all the effect would have been missed. Then there is the consolatory piece I wrote on the loss of his slave-boy for our friend Ursus, a youth of blameless life and an accomplished poet, who wastes no time in idleness; I was glad to include it in this book, quite apart from the debt I owe to him, for he will credit you with the honour he derives therefrom. The volume is concluded by the Birthday Ode to Lucan, for which Polla Argentaria, rarest of wives, desired to be held accountable, when we happened to be considering the celebration of the day. I could not show a deeper reverence for so great a poet than by distrusting my own hexameters when about to sing his praises. These pieces, my excellent Melior, such as they are, if you like them, give them to the world: if not, let them return to me.

How can I begin to console thee, Melior, for thy foster-son untimely taken? How can I heartlessly sing before the pyre, while the ashes are still aglow? The lamentable wound gapes wide with sundered veins, and the dangerous path of the great gash lies open.^[1] Even while I relentlessly compose my spells and healing words, thou dost prefer to beat the breast and cry aloud, and hatest my lyre and turnest away with deaf ear. Untimely is my song: sooner would a despoiled lioness or tigress robbed of her cubs give ear to me. Not if the triple chant of the Sicilian maidens^[2] were wafted hither, or the harp that beasts and woodlands understood, would they soothe thy distracted wailing. Demented Grief hath his stand in thy heart; at a touch thy breast heaves and sobs.

Have thy fill of bitterness: none forbids thee. Overcome, by giving it rein, the malady of thy distress. At last is thy luxury of weeping sated? At last art thou wearied out and deignest to hear a ​friend’s entreaty? Now shall I sing? Lo! even in my mouth my song is choked with sobs, the words are blotted by falling tears. For I myself led forth with thee the solemn line of sable mourners and the boyish bier, a crime for the City to behold; I saw the cruel heaps of incense doomed to destruction and the soul wailing above its own corpse^[3]; thee too, as thou didst break through sobbing fathers and mothers that would stay thee, and didst embrace the pyre and prepare to swallow the flames, could I scarce restrain, thy comrade in like case, and offended by restraining. And now, alas! a bard of evil, my fillets unbound and the glory departed from my brow, I reverse my lyre and beat my breast with thee; but be assuaged, I pray thee, and suffer me as partner of thy mourning, if I have so deserved and shared thy sorrow. In the very hour of calamity fathers have heard my voice; by the very pyre have I sung solace to prostrate mothers and loving children—ay, to myself also, when swooning beside kindred flames I mourned, O Nature, what a father! Nor do I sternly forbid thee to lament; nay, let us mingle our tears and weep together.

Long have I sought distractedly, beloved boy, a worthy approach and prelude to thy praises. Here thy boyhood, standing on life’s threshold, calls me, there thy beauty, there a modesty beyond thy years and honour and probity too ripe for thy tender age. Ah! where is that fair complexion flushed by the glow of health, those starry orbs whose glance is radiant with heaven’s light, where the chaste com​posure of that low^[4] brow, the artless curls above and the soft line of lovely hair? Where is the mouth that prattled with fond complainings, those kisses redolent, as he clung, of vernal blossoms, his tears mingled with smiles, and his accents steeped in Hybla’s honey? A serpent would hush its hissing and cruel stepdames be fain to do his bidding. Nothing false do I add to his true beauty. Alas! that milk-white throat! those arms that were ever about his master’s neck! Where now is that not far distant hope of coming manhood, the longed-for glory of his cheeks, that beard that thou oft didst swear by? The remorseless hour and Time the enemy have swept all to ashes: to us is left but to remember. Who will beguile thy thoughts with the merry chatter thou didst love? who will allay thy cares and brooding mind? Who will appease thee when incensed with angry passion and storming at the serving-folk, and divert thee from thy fury to himself? Who, when the feast is begun and the wine poured out, will snatch it away e’en from thy lips and confound all things in delightful rapine? Who will climb on thy couch in the morning and whisper thee awake, and clasping thee tight delay thy going, and from the very gate recall thee to his kisses? Who will be the first to meet thee on thy return, and leap to thy kiss and thy embrace, and put his tiny arms about thy shoulders? Mute is the house, I vow, and lonely the hearth; desolation is in the chambers and a drear silence at the board.

What wonder if thy good foster-father honours thee with so grand a funeral? thou wert to thy lord ​the peaceful haven of his old age, thou wert now his delight, now the sweet object of his care. No outlandish revolving stage^[5] turned thee about, no slave-boy wert thou amid Egyptian wares, to utter studied jests and well-conned speeches, and by impudent tricks to seek and slowly win a master. Here was thy home, here wast thou born, both thy parents have long been loved in their master’s house, and for thy joy were they freed, lest thou shouldst complain of thy birth. Nay, no sooner wert thou taken from the womb, when thy lord exultantly raised thee,^[6] and as thy first cry greeted the shining stars appointed thee for his own and held thee close in his bosom and deemed himself thy sire. May the sanctities of parents forgive my words, and do thou suffer me, O Nature, to whom it is given to hallow the earliest ties between soul and soul throughout the world: bonds of blood and lineage are not all; often do alien or adopted children creep further into our hearts than our own kindred. Of necessity we beget sons, of our pleasure do we choose them. Thus by his winning ways the half-beast Chiron supplanted Haemonian Peleus in young Achilles’ favour. Nor did the aged Peleus accompany his son to the fight at Troy, but ’twas Phoenix that stirred not from his pupil’s side. Far off Evander prayed for Pallas’ victorious return, but faithful Acoetes watched the combat. And when his sire for idleness came not from the shining stars, wave-wandering Dictys tended the winged Perseus.^[7] Why should I speak of mothers surpassed in their affection by foster-nurses? Why of thee, O Bacchus, who when a treacherous doom had ​laid thy mother in ashes nestled more securely in Ino’s bosom?^[8] And when Ilia, fearing her sire no more, reigned a queen in Tuscan waters,^[9] Romulus was burdening Acca’s arms. I have seen myself shoots grafted on another tree grow higher than their own. And already had thy will and purpose, Melior, made thee his sire, though not yet his charm and goodness; nevertheless thou didst love the words even now mingled with his utterance, and his rude infant cries and tears.

He, like a flower that is doomed to perish at the first breath of the South wind, yet with reckless daring lifts high its head in the lush meadow, young as he was had early surpassed his peers in pride of step and countenance, and had far outstripped his years. Did he stand with limbs bent in the locked wrestling-bout, you would have deemed him born of an Amyclaean mother^[10]; Apollo would soon have exchanged for him the son of Oebalus,^[11] Alcides had bartered Hylas; if in Grecian dress he declaimed the Attic speech of fluent Menander, Thalia would have rejoiced and praised his accents, and in wanton mood have disordered his comely locks with a rosy garland; or if he recited the old Maeonian and the toils of Troy, or the mishaps and slow returning of Ulysses, his very father, his very teachers were amazed at his understanding. Truly did Lachesis^[12] touch his cradle with ill-omened hand, and Envy clasped the babe and held him in her bosom: the one fondled his cheeks and luxuriant curls, the other taught him his skill and inspired those words over which we now make moan. His rising years, though ​infancy still was near, had begun to draw level with the toils of Hercules; yet already was he firm of stride, and his height outstripped his dress, and the garments seemed to shrink upon the lad, for what garments, what apparel did not thy kindly lord hasten to procure thee? He constrained not thy breast in a narrow tunic,^[13] nor cramped thy shoulders in a straitening cloak; nor did he drape thee in large, ill-fitting folds, but ever suiting the raiment to thy years now garbed thee in scarlet, now in grass-green clothing, now in the soft blush of purple, or rejoiced to kindle the flash of gems upon thy fingers; unfailing was thy attendant train, unfailing were his gifts; the bordered robe^[14] alone was lacking to thy modest beauty.

Such was the fortune of that house. Suddenly Fate lifted her hand to strike. Wherefore, O goddess, dost thou banefully unsheathe those cruel talons? Doth not his beauty move thee, or his piteous tender age? Fierce Procne would not have had the heart to rend him for her lord, nor would the savage Colchian have persisted in her cruel ire, even though he had been the son of Aeolian Creusa; from him would grim Athamas have turned aside his maddened bow; Ulysses though hating Hector’s ashes and Troy full sore would have wept to hurl him from the Phrygian towers.^[15] ’Tis the seventh day, and already those eyes are dull and cold, and Juno of the underworld hath clasped him and seized ​in her hand the lock of hair. Yet he, though the Fates press hard upon his frail life, beholds thee with his dying vision and murmurs thy name with faltering tongue; to thee he gasps out the last breath from his exhausted frame, thee alone he remembers, thy cry alone he hears, for thee his lips are moved and his last words spoken, as he bids thee not to mourn and consoles thy grief. Yet we thank thee, O Fate, that no lingering death devoured his boyish charm as he lay, that he went inviolate to the shades, just as he was, without touch of harm upon his body.

Why should I tell of the funeral rites, the gifts flung prodigally to the flames, the melancholy pomp of the blazing pyre? How thou didst heap the purples high on the sad pile, how Cilician blooms and gifts of Indian herbs,^[16] and juices of Arabia and Palestine and Egypt^[17] steeped the hair that was to burn? Fain would Melior bring all without stinting, and consume whole fortunes in loathing of his wealth laid desolate; but the grudging fire avails not, and the puny flames are too few to burn the gifts. Awe lays hold upon my heart. O Melior, once so calm, how distraught wert thou in that deadly hour beside the pyre, how I feared thee! Was that the merry, kindly face we knew? Whence that frenzy, those merciless hands, those spasms of wild grief as thou liest prostrate on the ground shunning the cruel light, or fiercely tearest thy clothes and bosom, straining the dear face to thee and kissing the cold lips? The father and sorrowing mother of the dead one were there, but on thee they gazed awe-stricken—what wonder? All the people mourned the deadly blow, and crowds escorted thee on the Flaminian road ​across the Mulvian bridge, while an innocent child is given over to the angry flames, and both by his age and by his beauty wins their tears. Such was Palaemon, when his mother flung herself on him as he lay shipwrecked and cast up from the sea in the Isthmian haven; such too Opheltes, whom the serpent tore as he played in the snake-haunted grass of Lerna, when the greedy fire consumed him.^[18]

But lay aside thy fears, and be no more in dread of threatening Death: Cerberus with triple jaws will not bark at him, no Sister^[19] will terrify him with flames and towering hydras; nay, even the grim sailor of the greedy boat will draw nearer to the barren shores and fire-scorched bank, that the boy’s embarking may be easy.

What message brings the son of Cyllene,^[20] waving a glad wand? Can there be aught of joy in so terrible a time? Well did the lad know the likeness and lofty countenance of noble Blaesus, for often had he seen thee at home twining fresh garlands and pressing that image to thy breast. And when he recognized him among the Ausonian nobles and the lineage of Quirinus pacing the shores of Lethe’s stream, he silently drew near and first walked beside him timidly and plucked at his garment’s edge, then followed him more boldly, for as he more boldly plucked the other spurned him not, but thought him an unknown scion of his house. Soon when he knew that the boy was the darling and favourite of a friend so rare, the solace for his lost Blaesus,^[21] he raised him from the ground and fastened him about his mighty ​shoulders, and a long while carried him rejoicing upon his arm, and offered him such gifts as kindly Elysium bears, sterile boughs and songless birds and pale flowers with bruised blossoms. Nor does he forbid him to remember thee, but fondly blends heart with heart, and takes part in turn in the affection of the lad.

It is the end: he is lost to thee. Wilt thou not now assuage thy pain and lift thy grief-sunken head? All that thou seest is dead or doomed to die; nights and days perish, and the stars, nor does the frame of the solid earth avail her. Our race is of mortal kind, and who should bewail the passing of folk whose end is sure? War claims some, the ocean others; some are victims of love, of madness, or fell desire; these winter’s freezing breath awaits, those the fierce heat of deadly Sirius, others pale Autumn with rain-bringing jaws. All that hath had beginning fears its end. Doomed are we all, ay, doomed: for shades innumerable doth Aeacus shake his urn. But he whom we mourn is happy: gods and men hath he escaped, and doubtful chance and the dangers of our dark life: he is beyond the will of Fate. He prayed not, nor feared nor deserved to die; but we, poor anxious creatures, miserable folk, we know not whence our death shall come, what our life’s end shall be, from what quarter the thunderbolt threatens, what cloud utters the sound of doom. Do these thoughts not move thee? But thou shalt be moved, and willingly. Come hither, Glaucias, who alone canst obtain all thou dost ask; leave that dark threshold, for neither the ferryman nor the comrade of the cruel beast^[22] bars the way to innocent souls; ​soothe thou his heart and forbid his tears to flow; make his nights glad with thy sweet converse and thy living countenance. Tell him thou art not dead, and hasten to commend to him—for thou canst—thy unhappy parents and thy sister left forlorn.

Between the walls that are known by the Sirens’ name and the cliff that is burdened by the shrine of Etruscan Minerva a lofty villa stands and gazes out upon the Dicarchean deep;^[23] there the ground is beloved of Bromius, and the grapes ripen on the high hills nor envy the Falernian wine-pressess. Hither was I glad to come after the four-yearly festival^[24] of my home,—when at last deep quiet had fallen and the dust lay white upon the course, and the athletes had turned them to Ambracian garlands,—drawn by the eloquence of gentle Pollius and bright Polla’s girlish charm to cross my native strait: ​though already fain to direct my steps where runs the worn and well-known track of Appia, queen of the long roads.

Yet the time I spent delighted me. The crescent waters of a tranquil bay break through the curving line of cliff on either hand. The spot is of Nature’s giving: one single beach lies between sea and hill, ending towards the land in overhanging rocks. The first charm of the place is a smoking bath-house with two cupolas, and a stream of fresh water from the land meeting the salt brine. Here would the nimble choir of Phorcus wish to bathe, and Cymodoce with dripping tresses and sea-green Galatea. Before the building the dark-blue ruler of the swelling waves keeps watch, and guards that innocent home; his shrine is it that is wet with friendly spray. Alcides protects the happy fields; in the two deities does the haven rejoice: one guards the land, the other resists the angry billows. A wondrous peace is on the sea: here the weary waves rage no more, and the furious South wind blows more mildly; here the swift hurricane is less daring, and the pools lie tranquil and undisturbed, calm as the spirit of their lord.

Thence a colonnade climbs slantwise up the cliff, vast as a city, and its long line of roof gains mastery over the rugged rocks. Where the sun once shone through clouds of dust, and the way was wild and unlovely, now it is a pleasure to go. Even such, should you scale the lofty height of Bacchic Ephyre,^[25] is the covered way that leads from Lechaeum, of Ino’s fame.^[26]

​Not if Helicon were to grant me all her streams, or Pimplea quench my thirst, or the hoof of the flying steed^[27] abundantly assuage it: not if mystic Phemonoë^[28] were to unlock her pure springs or those wherein my Pollius, under the auspices of Phoebus, hath plunged his deep-immersed urn—not even so could I equal in Pierian strains the countless charms and beauties of the place. Scarcely could my eyes sustain the long array, scarce could my feet avail, while I was led from scene to scene. What a multitude of things! Shall I first admire the genius of the place or of its master? This part of the house looks eastward to Phoebus’ morning rays; that part detains him as he sets, nor allows the exhausted light to disappear, when the day is wearied out and the shadow of the dark mountain falls on the waters, and the proud mansion floats upon the glassy flood. Here the sound of the sea is in the chambers, here they know not the roaring of the waves, but prefer the silence of the land. Here are spots that Nature has favoured, here she has been outdone and given way to the settler and learnt gentleness in ways unknown before. Here, where you now see level ground, was a hill; the halls you enter were wild country; where now tall groves appear, there was once not even soil: its owner has tamed the place, and as he shaped and conquered the rocks the earth gladly gave way before him. See how the cliff learns to bear the yoke, how the dwellings force their entry and the mountain is bidden withdraw. Now let the skill of Methymne’s bard and that sole Theban lyre and the glory of the Getic quill^[29] give way before thee: thou too dost move the rocks, thee too the high woods follow.

​Why should I tell of ancient forms in wax or bronze, or of aught that the colours of Apelles rejoiced to animate, or the hand of Phidias carved, though Pisa still was empty,^[30] yet wondrously withal, or what was bidden live by Myron’s art or Polycletus’ chisel, the bronzes, from the funeral fire of Corinth,^[31] more precious than gold, countenances of chieftains and prophets and sages of old time, whom it is thy care to follow, whose influence thou dost feel in all thy being, untroubled and steadfast in thy tranquil virtue, and ever lord of thy own heart? Why should I recount the numberless summits and the changing views? Each chamber has its own delight, its own particular sea, and across the expanse of Nereus each window commands a different landscape: this one beholds Inarime, from that rugged Prochyta is seen; here the squire of mighty Hector^[32] is outspread, there sea-girt Nesis breathes tainted air; yonder is Euploea, good omen for wandering barks,^[33] and Megalia flung out to repel the curving billows; and thy own Limon grieves that his lord reclines there over against him, and gazes at thy Surrentine mansion from afar. Yet one room there is, one higher than all the rest, which over a straight track of sea brings Parthenope to thy sight: here are marbles chosen from the heart of Grecian quarries;^[34] the stone of Eastern Syene, splashed with veining, and that which Phrygian axes hew in mournful Synnas o’er the fields of wailing Cybele,^[35] whereon the white expanse is bordered by a rim of purple; here too are green blocks quarried from the hill of Lycurgus at ​Amyclae, where the stone counterfeits the grass; here gleam the tawny rocks from Numidia, Thasian marble too and Chian, and Carystian stone that joys to behold the waves:^[36] all turn to salute the Chalcidian towers.^[37] A blessing on thy heart, that thou approvest what is Greek and hauntest Grecian land; nor let the city of Dicarchus that gave thee birth feel envy! We shall prove better owners of our poet-ward.^[38]

Why should I rehearse the wealth of the countryside, the fallows flung out into the sea and the cliffs steeped in Bacchus’ nectar? Often in autumn-time when the grapes are ripening a Nereid climbs the rocks, and under cover of the shades of night brushes the sea-water from her eyes with a leafy vine-spray, and snatches sweet clusters from the hills. Often is the vintage sprinkled by the neighbouring foam; Satyrs plunge into the water, and Pan-gods from the mountain are fain to grasp the sea-nymph as she flies naked through the waves.

Bless with prosperity, O land, thy lord and lady both, unto the years of a Nestor or a Tithonus, nor ever change thy noble servitude! Let not the Tirynthian hall and Dicarchus’ bay outdo thee as a home,^[39] nor thy lords too often gladden the wistful vineyards of Laconian Galaesus. Here where Pollius plies his Pierian craft, whether he ponders the ​Gargettian teacher’s counsels,^[40] or strikes my own lyre, or reunites unequal strains,^[41] or draws the threatening sword of avenging satire: the nimble Siren speeds from these rocks to sweeter lays than hers, and here Tritonia lifts her head and listens. Then the wild winds abate, the seas themselves are forbidden to rage; the dolphins emerge from the deep, and drawn to the music of his harp float gently by the cliffs.

Long mayst thou live, enriched beyond Midas’ wealth and Lydian^[42] gold, blest’ above the diadems of Euphrates^[43] and of Troy; whom neither fickle power nor the shifting mob, nor laws nor camps can vex, whose great heart, raised sublime over all desire, doth quell hope and fear, who art beyond the will of Fate and dost baffle the enmity of Fortune; thee the last day shall find, not bewildered in the maze of things, but sated with life and ready to depart. But we, a worthless folk, slaves at the beck of transient blessings and wishes ever new, are tossed from chance to chance: thou from thy mind’s high citadel dost look down upon our wanderings and laughest at human joys. There was a time when the loyalty of two lands tore thee in twain, and thou wert borne in triumph through two cities, there worshipped, as is meet, by Dicarchus’ folk, here made their own by mine, and bountiful alike to these and those, in the full fire of youth and proud of thy wandering Muse.^[44] But now are the mists dispersed, and thou dost behold the truth—others in their turn are tossed upon that sea—and thy unshaken bark has entered a peaceful haven and a quiet resting-place. Con​tinue thus, nor ever loose thy vessel, her voyage over, to face our storms. And thou, who in wisdom dost surpass the daughters of Latium and in mind art equal to thy lord, whose spirit no cares, whose brow no menace has dismayed, but who art ever bright and happy, while joy untroubled reigns in thy countenance:—for thee no churlish money-chest keeps tight grip of hoarded wealth, no waste of greedy usury tortures thy heart, but open to all are thy riches, and thou dost enjoy them in wise restraint. No union of souls is more blest, such are the minds that Concord has taught. Learn of her in untroubled peace, ye from whose hearts the blending fires are met in a long union, and whose hallowed love keeps fast the laws of chaste affection. Go onward through the years, and outdo the centuries of old and the title-roll of ancient fame.

Enfolding with its overshadowing boughs the clear waters of my elegant Melior’s lake there stands a tree, whose trunk, curving from its base, bends down toward the mere, and then shoots up aloft straight to its summit, as though it grew a second time from the midst of the waves, and dwelt with hidden roots in the glassy stream. Why ask so slight a tale of ​Phoebus? Do you, O Naiads, relate the cause, and you, compliant Fauns—ye will suffice—inspire my song.

Frightened troops of Nymphs were fleeing from Pan; on he came, as though all were his quarry, yet on Pholoe alone was he bent. By copse and stream she fled, shunning now the hairy following limbs, now the wanton horns. Through Janus’ grove,^[45] scene of battles, and Cacus’ deadly haunts; through the fields of Quirinus she came running a-tiptoe and gained the Caelian wilds; there at last wearied out and fordone with fear—where to-day stands the quiet home of hospitable Melior—she gathered her saffron robe closer about her, and sank down on the edge of the snow-white bank. Swiftly follows the shepherd-god, and deems the maid his bride; already he allays the panting of his fevered breast, already he hovers lightly o’er his prey. Lo! with speedy steps Diana approaches, as she ranges the seven hills and tracks the flight of a deer on Aventine; the goddess was vexed to see it, and turning to her trusty comrades: “Shall I never keep this unseemly, wanton brood from lustful rapine? Must my chaste band of followers ever grow fewer?” So speaking she drew a short shaft from her quiver, but sped it not from the bent bow or with the wonted twang, but was content to fling it with one hand, and touched—so ’tis said—the left hand of the drowsy Naiad with the arrow-feathers. She awaking beheld at once the day and her wanton foe, and lest she should bare her snow-white limbs plunged just as she was with all her raiment into the lake, and at the ​bottom of the mere, believing Pan was following, she wrapped the weeds about her. What could the robber do, so suddenly baffled? Conscious of his shaggy hide, and from childhood untaught to swim, he dares not trust himself to the deep waters. Lavish complaint made he of heartless Bromius, of the jealous lake and jealous shaft;^[46] then spying a young plane tree with long stem and countless branches and summit aspiring to heaven he set it by him and heaped fresh sand about it and sprinkled it with the longed-for waters, and thus commanded it: “Live long, O tree, as the memorable token of my vow, and do thou at least stoop down and cherish the secret abode of this hard-hearted nymph, and cover her waters with thy leaves. Let her not, I pray, though she has deserved it, be scorched by the sun’s heat or lashed by cruel hail; only mind thou to bestrew the pool with thickly scattered leaves. Then will I long remember thee and the mistress of this kindly place, and guard both to a secure old age, so that the trees of Jove and Phoebus, and the twy-coloured poplar shade^[47] and my own pines may marvel at thy boughs.” So he spake; and the tree, quickened with the old passion of the god, hangs and broods over the full mere with drooping stem, and searches the waves with loving shadows, and hopes for their embrace; but the breath of the waters put it from them, and suffered not its touch. At length it struggles upward, and poised upon its base cunningly lifts its head without any knot, as though it sank with another root into the bottom of the lake. Now not even the Naiad, Phoebe’s votary, hates it, but her stream invites the boughs she banished.

Such is the gift I bring thee on thy birthday, ​small indeed, but destined perchance to live throughout long ages. Thou in whose tranquil breast dwells courteous dignity and gay, yet thoughtful virtue, refusest slothful ease and unjust power and overweening ambition, but takest the mid-path between duty and pleasure, thou whose loyalty is unstained, whose heart has known no storms, whose life is lived apart, yet ordered and planned for all to see, thou who readily spurnest gold, yet dost excel in setting thy wealth in array and bringing thy riches to the light: long mayst thou flourish and live on in youthfulness of mind and heart to rival Priam and Tithonus, and to surpass the years that thy mother and thy sire took with them to Elysium; this guerdon have they won for thee from the stern Sisters, they and the lofty fame of great-hearted Blaesus, which, preserved from silent oblivion by thy witness, shall flourish once again.^[48]

Parrot, prince of birds, glib-tongued favourite of thy master, parrot that cleverly dost mimic human speech, who has cut short thy chatter by so sudden a stroke? Yesterday, hapless one, thou didst join our feast, though doomed to die, and we saw thee plucking the dainties of the table and moving from couch to couch till after midnight. Greetings also and well-conned words hadst thou repeated. But ​now that minstrelsy hath Lethe’s eternal silence for its portion. Let the well-known tale of Phaethon give place: ’tis not only swans that sing their coming death.^[49]

But how spacious was thy house, how bright its gleaming dome! and the row of silver bars, joined with ivory, and the gate that echoed shrill at the touch of thy beak, and the doors that to-day speak their own complaint! Empty is that happy cage, and silent the chattering of that lordly abode.

Flock hither all ye scholar fowl, to whom Nature has given the noble privilege of speech; let the bird of Phoebus^[50] beat his breast, and the starling, that repeats by heart the sayings it has heard, and magpies transformed in the Aonian contest,^[51] and the partridge, that joins and reiterates the words it echoes, and the sister that laments forlorn in her Bistonian bower:^[52] mourn all together and bear your dead kinsman to the flames, and learn all of you this piteous dirge:

“The parrot, glory and renown of all the airy tribe, green monarch of the East, is dead: whom neither the bird of Juno with jewelled tail, nor the fowl of icy Phasis,^[53] nor those whereon the Numidians prey beneath the moist southern sky, could surpass in beauty. Once he saluted kings and spoke the name of Caesar, was now a sympathetic friend, now a gay companion of the board, so skilful was he to render the words he had been taught! Never wert thou solitary, beloved Melior, when he was set free. But not ingloriously is he sent to the shades: his ashes are rich with Assyrian balm, and the frail ​feathers breathe incense of Arabia and Sicanian saffron; and he will mount a fragrant pyre, a happier Phoenix, free from the weary languor of old age.”

What now has it availed thee to quell thy rage and be tamed, to unlearn crime and human slaughter from thy heart, and endure dominion and obey a lesser lord? To have been wont to leave thy cage and return again to imprisonment, and of thy own will yield up the captured prey, to open thy jaws and let go the inserted hand? Thou art fallen, O skilled slayer of tall beasts, not caught within the enclosing circle of a Massylian hunting-band,^[54] nor flinging thyself with dreaded spring against the spears, nor deceived by the hidden yawning of a pit, but overcome by a beast that fled thee.^[55] The unlucky cage stands open, while behind their barriers all around the quiet lions grew wrathful that so great a wrong should have been suffered. Then all their crests fell, and shame came on them to see the corpse brought back, and they drew down all their brows upon their eyes. Yet when the first stroke o’erthrew thee the unwonted shame o’erwhelmed thee not: thy valour remained, and even in the hour of death thy brave spirit rallied as thou didst fall, nor did all thy fierceness straightway own defeat. Just as the dying warrior who knows his wound is mortal yet goes against the foe, and lifts his hand to strike, and ​threatens even while the weapon falls from his grasp; so he with laboured step and reft of his wonted pride steadies his eyes as with open mouth he pants for breath and for the foe.

Great solace, nevertheless, shall be thine, poor victim, for thy sudden fate, that people and Senate mourned in sorrow to see thee die, as though thou wert some favourite gladiator fallen on the deadly sand; that amid so many beasts of Scythia and Libya, from the banks of Rhine and the tribes of Egypt, beasts so cheaply slain, the loss of one lion alone drew a tear from mighty Caesar’s eye.

Too cruel thou, whoever thou art, who makest distinctions in mourning, and settest bounds to grief! Piteous it is for a parent to burn—ah! fearful thought!—an infant darling or growing son; hard too is it when a consort is snatched away to call the name of the partner of the deserted couch; sad are a sister’s tears and a brother’s groans: yet deeply also, ay deeper far does a stroke less deadly probe the feelings, surpassing mightier blows. ’Tis a slave—for thus doth Fortune confound with undiscerning hand the names of things, nor sees into the heart—a slave whom thou dost mourn, but one that was ​loyal, one whose faithful affection merited these tears, and whose spirit knew a freedom that no line of ancestry could give. Check not thy weeping, feel no shame; let that day of thy lament know no restraining, if the Fates are so cruel—’tis a man thou bewailest, Ursus,—alas! myself I fan thy sorrow!—a man who was thine own, ready to find service sweet, never sullen, eager to give orders to himself. Who would curb the grief that bursts forth at such a death? The Parthian laments his steed slain in the fight, the Molossians their trusty hounds, even birds have had their pyres, and the hind its Maro.^[56] What if he were no real slave? Myself I saw and marked his bearing, how he would have thee only for his lord; but nobler yet was the spirit in his face, and breeding showed clear in his youthful blood. Eagerly would Grecian and Latin dames desire and pray that such a son were theirs. Less comely was proud Theseus, when the cunning maid of Crete drew him back with her anxious thread, or Paris, when in haste to see his Spartan^[57] bride he launched, a shepherd lad, the unwilling pines upon the main. ’Tis truth I tell, nor does wonted licence sway my song: I have seen him, ay, and see him yet, outmatching Achilles when Thetis hid him singing of wars upon the maiden’s strand, or Troilus, when the lance from the Haemonian hero’s arm^[58] caught him as he fled round cruel Phoebus’ walls. How fair thou wert! lo! comelier far than all, lads and men alike, and surpassed only by thy lord!^[59] His glory alone exceeded thine, as the bright moon exceeds the lesser fires, and as Hesper outshines the other ​stars. No womanly charm was in thy countenance, no effeminate grace upon thy brow, as with those whom after the reproach of fading beauty men bid lose their sex,^[60] but an earnest, manly beauty was thine; nor was thy gaze insolent, but thine eye was gentle yet stern with fire, like Parthenopaeus to behold, when now decked in his helm^[61]; simple the ruffled charm of thy locks, thy cheeks not covered yet, but bright with their first down: such are the lads that Eurotas nurtures by Leda’s stream, such the boys that in the unstained freshness of boyhood go to Elis,^[62] and approve their budding youth to Jove. How indeed in song can I trace the growth of modesty in his young mind, of his calm steadiness of character and a spirit riper than his years? Often would he chide his willing lord, and aid him with deep and zealous counsel; he shared thy joys and sorrows, nor ever lived to himself, but guided his looks by thy countenance; worthy was he to exceed in fame the Haemonian Pylades^[63] and the Athenians’ loyalty^[64]; but let not his praise o’erstep his fortune: not more faithfully did Eumaeus, sick at heart, long for the return of tardy Ulysses.

What god, what chance makes choice of wounds so deadly? whence are the Fates so unerring in their power to harm? Ah! how much braver, Ursus, hadst thou been, stripped of thy wealth and ​goodly fortune! if in smoking ruin rich Locri had belched forth Vesuvian fire,^[65] or rivers had submerged thy Pollentian glades, if Lucanian Acir or impetuous Tiber had swung their swollen waters to the right, thou hadst endured the will of heaven with unruflled brow; or if bounteous Crete and Cyrene had forsworn thee and denied their harvests, or wherever lavish Fortune returns to thee with plenteous bosom. But ill-omened Envy, skilled to hurt, saw the vital spot and the path of harm. Just at the gate of full-grown life that most beauteous of youths was striving to link three years to three Elean lustres.^[66] With grim frown the stern Rhamnusian^[67] gave heed, and first she filled out his muscles and set a brilliance in his eyes and raised his head higher than of wont; deadly alas! to the poor lad were her favours: she tortured herself with envy at the sight, and clasping the sufferer struck death into him by her embrace,^[68] and with hooked, relentless fingers tore that pure countenance. Scarce was Phosphor at the fifth rising saddling his dewy steed: already, Philetus,^[69] wert thou beholding the bleak shore of heartless Charon and heartless Acberon, bewailed how bitterly by thy lord! Not more fiercely would thy mother, had she lived, blackened and bruised her arms for thee in lamentation, nor thy father either; verily thy brother ​who saw thy funeral blushed to be outdone. No servile flames were thine: fragrant harvests of Saba and Cilicia^[70] did the fire consume, and cinnamon stolen from the Pharian bird,^[71] 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.

Come to Lucan’s birthday-feast, all ye who on the hills of Isthmian Dione, with hearts fired by poetic frenzy, drink of the spring that the flying hoof struck forth.^[72] Ye who have the privilege of song in your keeping, Arcadian discoverer of the vocal lyre, and thou, Euhan, whirler of thy Bassarids, and Paean and the Hyantian Sisters,^[73] joyfully deck yourselves anew with purple fillets, make your tresses trim and let fresh ivy enwreathe your shining raiment. Flow more abundantly, poetic streams, and be more brightly green, ye woodlands of Aonia,^[74] and if anywhere your shade hath opened and taken in the sunlight, let soft garlands fill the room. Let a hundred fragrant altars stand in the Thespian^[75] groves, and a hundred victims that Dirce laves and Cithaeron pastures: ’tis of Lucan we sing, keep holy silence; this is your day, ye Muses, keep silence, while he who made you glorious in two arts, in the measures of fettered speech and free,^[76] is honoured as the high priest of the Roman choir.

​Happy land—too happy alas !—and blest, that on the verge of Ocean’s waves beholdest Hyperion slope downward to his setting, and hearest the hiss of plunging wheels; even thou, Baetica, whose dripping olive-presses vie with Athens, that is fertile for Tritonis: thou canst account mankind in debt to thee for Lucan!^[77] This is more than to have given Seneca to the world, or to have borne the sweet-tongued Gallio. Let Baetis, more renowned than Grecian Meles,^[78] flow backward and be exalted to the stars; Mantua, dare not to challenge Baetis!

Straightway, while yet a new-born babe he crawled and with earliest accents sweetly whimpered, Calliope took him to her loving bosom. Then first did she lay aside her grief and cease her long lament for Orpheus, and said: “O boy, consecrate to poesy, soon destined to outmatch the bards of old, thou shalt move no rivers or wild herds or Thracian ash-trees with thy music, but with eloquent song shalt draw after thee the seven hills and Martian Tiber and the learned knights and purple Senate. Let others follow the tracks that poets’ wheels have worn, the night of Phrygia’s overthrow, Ulysses’ slow returning path, Minerva’s daring vessel:^[79] thou, dear to Latium and mindful of thy race, more boldly dost unsheathe a Roman epic. And first, while in tender youth, thou ​shalt practise thy pen^[80] on Hector and the chariots of Thessaly and king Priam’s suppliant gold, and shalt unlock the abodes of hell; ungrateful Nero and my own Orpheus shall be set forth by thee to favouring theatres. Thou shalt tell how the impious fires of the guilty monarch ranged the heights of Remus. Then by a charming address thou shalt bestow fame and glory upon chaste Polla. Thereafter more generous in ripened manhood thou shalt thunderously rehearse Philippi, white with Italian bones, and Pharsalian wars, and Cato, grave champion of Freedom, blasted amidst the arms of the divine chief,^[81] and Magnus, favourite of the people. Thou shalt shed reverent tears for the crime of Pelusian Canopus, and raise to Pompey^[82] a memorial loftier than blood-stained Pharos. These lays shalt thou sing as a youth in early prime,^[83] before the age at which Virgil wrote his Gnat. The untutored Muse of bold Ennius shall give way to thine, and the towering frenzy of learned Lucretius, he^[84] too who led the Argonauts through the narrow seas, and he who changes bodies from their former shapes.^[85] What greater praise can I give? the Aeneid itself, as thou singest to Roman folk, shall do thee homage. Nor will I give thee splendour of song alone, but with ​the torches of wedlock^[86] will bestow on thee a poetess suited to thy genius, for beauty, simplicity, graciousness, wealth, lineage, charm, and loveliness worthy of kindly Venus’ or of Juno’s giving, and myself will chant before your gate the festal marriage-hymn. Alas! ye Fates, too stern and cruel! Alas! that the highest never long endure! Why are lofty things most prone to fall? Why by a cruel chance doth greatness ne’er grow old? Even so is the son of the Nasamonian Thunderer,^[87] whose lightning flashed from rising to setting sun,^[88] confined in a narrow tomb at Babylon. Even so did Thetis swoon to see Pelides fall, pierced by the hand of coward Paris. Even so did I upon the banks of murmuring Hebrus follow the head of Orpheus not mute in death. Even so on thee—ah! the impious^[89] frenzied tyrant!—bidden while singing of battles and with lofty utterance solacing the mighty dead to plunge in Lethe’s rushing stream—O crime. O most foul crime!—on thee too shall silence fall.” She spoke, and with shining quill brushed away her lightly-falling tears.

But^[90] thou, whether uplifted in the soaring chariot of fame through the whirling vault of heaven, whither rise more puissant souls, thou lookest down upon the ​earth and laughest at sepulechres; or whether on Elysian shores that thy deserts have won thee thou hast gained the blissful bower of peace, where the heroes of Pharsalus forgather, and as thy noble lay resounds a Pompey or a Cato bears thee company; or whether a mighty shade, inviolable and proud, thou visitest Tartarus and hearest afar the stripes of the guilty and beholdest Nero pale at the sight of his mother’s torch:^[91] be present in shining splendour, and, since Polla calls thee, gain one day, I beg, from the gods of the silent world:^[92] open is that door to husbands returning to their brides. She clothes thee not in the shape of an unreal deity, in the wantonness of lying revels, but worships thy very self and has communion with thee in her being’s inmost depths, and wins but empty solace from thy countenance which carved to thy likeness in gold shines above her couch and broods over her untroubled slumbers. Depart far hence, ye Deaths: here is the well-spring of sustaining life.^[93] Let stubborn sorrow have an end, and tears of happiness now fall, and the mourning of solemn grief be turned to adoration.