Statius (Mozley 1928) v1/Silvae/Book 4

I have found a volume, my dearest Marcellus, that I can dedicate to your loyal friendship. I believe that no work of mine has opened without an invocation of the godhead of our mighty Prince; but this book has three <such poems>, . . . and it is only the fourth that does you honour.^[1] In the first I have paid homage to the seventeenth consulship of our lord Germanicus; in the second I have returned thanks for the privilege of attending his most august banquet; in the third I express my admiration of the Domitian Road, whereby he has ended the serious waste of time caused by the sandy track. To him it is due that you will the sooner receive my letter which I am sending from Naples in this volume. Then follows an Ode to Septimius Severus, who is, as you know, one of the most distinguished young men of equestrian rank, and not only a school-companion of yours, but, even apart from that claim on me, one of my closest friends. As for the Hercules-statuette of our friend Vindex, I can make you responsible for that also, for he has deserved well ​of poetry in general and of myself in particular. I bore ample testimony to my affection for Vibius Maximus on the score both of high character and of poetic gift in the letter which I published about the bringing-out of my Thebaid; but on this occasion I beg him to return from Dalmatia with all speed. Next comes a poem to my fellow-townsman Julius Menecrates, a brilliant youth, noble knight, and the son-in-law of my friend Pollius: I congratulate him on having done honour to our city of Naples by the number of his children.^[2] Pletius Grypus, a youth of senatorial rank, shall have a poem more worthy of him, but in the mean time I have included in this volume some hendecasyllables that we laughed over together at the Saturnalia.

Why then, you will ask, are there more pieces in the fourth book of my Occasional Verses than in the former? Why, that they who, as I hear, have criticized me for publishing this kind of verse may feel that they have accomplished nothing. In the first place, the thing is done, and it is useless to grumble; in the second, I had already presented many of them to our Imperial Master, compared with which publication is a trivial affair. Besides, surely one may write in sportive vein? “Only privately,” say they. But we go to see games of ball, and are admitted to fencing-matches. Finally: whoever of my friends reads anything unwillingly, then and there declares himself an enemy;^[3] very well, why should I take his advice? After all, surely it is I who am being abused; let him hold his peace and ​be glad. But you, Marcellus, will champion this book; if you agree, well, so far so good! otherwise, I must submit to criticism. Farewell!

With happy augury the Imperial consulship^[4] adds yet another to its twice eight terms, and Germanicus^[5] opens a year of glory; he rises with the rising sun and the mighty constellations, himself more brilliant than they and outshining the early Morning Star. Exult, ye laws of Latium, rejoice, ye curule chairs, and let Rome more proudly strike the sky with her sevenfold summit, and Evander’s hill^[6] make louder boast than other heights! Once more the rods and axes have entered the Palace, the twelvefold honour^[7] rejoices to rest idle no more, and the Senate that its prayers are heard and Caesar’s modesty is overcome. Janus himself, great renewer of eternal Time, near whom thou hast set Peace^[8] ​to fetter him, and bidden him bring all warfare to an end, and swear allegiance to the laws of thy new Forum, Janus lifts up his head and from either threshold utters his gratitude. Lo! on this side and on that he raises suppliant hands, and speaks thus with twofold voice: “Hail, great Father of the world, who with me preparest to begin the ages anew, thus would thy Rome ever see thee in my month; thus should eras be born, thus should the year be opened. Give joys perpetual to our annals; let those shoulders many a time be draped in purple folds, and in the bordered robe that thy own Minerva’s hands make haste to weave for thee. Seest thou how the temples gleam more radiant, how the fire leaps higher on the altars, and even my mid-winter sky grows warmer? how tribes and knights and purple-clad Senators rejoice in thy virtues, and every rank shines in the lustre of its consul? What glory so great, I ask, had the year just gone? Come, speak, imperial Rome, recount, Antiquity, with me the long annals, take no note of petty names, but such only as my Caesar would deign to surpass. Thrice and ten times in the lapse of years did Augustus wield the fasces over Latium, but only late by right of merit^[9]: thou as a youth didst outstrip thy grandsires. And how many a time hast thou refused, how many a time forbidden to offer! Yet wilt thou be persuaded, and oft vouchsafe this day to the Senate’s prayers. A longer line awaits thee yet, and as oft again, ay, thrice and four times as often will fortunate Rome grant thee the curule chair. With me shalt thou found a second age, and the altar of thy long-lived sire shall be restored; a thousand trophies shalt thou win, wilt thou but ​permit the triumphs.^[10] Bactra and Babylon are still to be curbed with new tribute, not yet have Indian laurels been laid in the lap of Jove; not yet do the Arabs and Seres make petition, not yet hath the year its full tale of honour: ten months still yearn for thee to name them.”^[11]

So Janus ended, and gladly withdrew into his closed portals. Then all the gods flung wide their temples, and gave signs in the glad vault of heaven, and Jupiter vouchsafed thee, O mighty leader, a perpetual youth and his own years.

He who brought great Aeneas to the Laurentian fields extols the royal banquet of Sidonian Elissa, and he who ended Ulysses’ story with his return after long seafaring portrays in lasting verse the supper of Alcinous:^[12] but I, on whom now for the first time Caesar has bestowed the unwonted rapture of a feast divine, and granted me to ascend to the table of my prince, what skill have I to sing my blessings, what power to express my thankfulness? Not even if Smyrna^[13] and Mantua both were to bind their laurels on my exultant head, could I make worthy utterance. Methinks I recline with Jove in mid-heaven, and take ​the immortal wine proffered by an Ilian hand^[14]! I have lived barren years, but this is my natal day, this day is the threshold of my life. Is it thou, O ruler of the nations and mighty sire of the conquered world, is it thou, O hope of men and care of the gods, whom I behold while I lie at meat? Is it granted me indeed to gaze at those features face to face, amid the feasting and the wine, and lawful not to rise up in thy presence?

An edifice august, huge, magnificent not with an hundred columns, but with as many as would support heaven and the gods, were Atlas eased of his burden. The neighbouring palace of the Thunderer^[15] views it with awe, and the Powers rejoice that thou hast a like abode. Nor wouldst thou hasten to ascend to the great sky; so huge expands the pile, and the reach BF the far-flung hall more unhampered than a plain, embracing beneath its shelter a vast expanse of air, and only lesser than its lord; he fills the house, and gladdens it with his mighty spirit. Libyan mountain and gleaming Ilian stone are rivals there,^[16] and much Syenite and Chian and the marble that vies with the grey-green sea; and Luna also, chosen but to bear the pillars’ weight. Far upward travels the view; scarce does the tired vision reach the summit, and you would deem it the golden ceiling of the sky. Here when Caesar has bidden the Roman chieftains and the ranks of knighthood^[17] recline together at a thousand tables, Ceres herself with robe upgirt and ​Bacchus strive to serve them. So bounteous were the gliding wheels of airy Triptolemus^[18]; so did Lyaeus overshadow the bare hills and sober fields with the branches of his vines.

But no leisure had I to behold the feast or the tables of Moorish wood resting on supports of Indian ivory, or the rows of attendant slaves, so eager was I to gaze upon himself, ay himself, calm-visaged and in majesty serene tempering his rays and gently veiling the glory of his state; yet the splendour that he would fain conceal shone in his countenance. Such as he was, barbarian foes and foreign tribes would have known him had they seen him. Not otherwise does Gradivus recline in the cool vale of Rhodope, his steeds unyoked; even so does Pollux weary from the wrestling-bouts of Therapnae lay down his slippery limbs; so lies Euhan by Ganges’ side while Indians howl;^[19] so stern Alcides, returning after his grim errand, rejoices to lay his side upon the outstretched lion-skin. I speak of trivial things, nor can I yet find any rival to thy countenance, O Germanicus: such is the monarch of the gods, when he visits once more the bounds of Ocean and the Ethiopian board, and, his face suffused with sacred nectar, bids the Muses utter their mystic songs, and Phoebus praise the triumph of Pallene.^[20]

May the gods grant thee—for ’tis said they oft give ear to lesser souls—to surpass, twice and thrice over, the limits of thy sire’s old age! Mayst thou send appointed deities to the sky,^[21] and grant temples and ​abide in thy palace! Many a time mayst thou fling wide the threshold of the year, and many a time with new lictors offer thy greetings to Janus, many a time renew the garlanded festival of the quinquennial games!^[22] The day whereon thou didst vouchsafe to me the sacred blessings of thy feast and board came to me after long time as glorious as that when beneath the hills of Trojan^[23] Alba I sang now of German wars, now of Dacian battles, and thy hand set the golden circlet of Pallas^[24] on my brow.

What fearful sound of hard flint and heavy iron fills the stony Appian way where it draws nigh the sea? Certainly no Libyan^[25] hordes are thundering, no foreign chieftain scours restlessly the Campanian fields in treacherous warfare, nor is Nero hewing a canal,^[26] and making a way for squalid meres through cloven mountains. Nay, he who encircles the warlike threshold of Janus with justice and courts of law,^[27] he who restores to innocent Ceres acres long ​denied her^[28] and a sober countryside, he who forbids the strength of sex to be destroyed, and as Censor will allow grown males no more to fear the punishment of beauteous form,^[29] he who restores the Thunderer to the Capitol,^[30] and sets Peace in her own home, he who consecrates to his father’s line^[31] lights that will aye endure, a Flavian heaven^[32]—’tis he who, brooking ill the slow journeys of his people and the plains that clog every minute of the road, sweeps away tedious windings and lays a new solid paving upon the weary sands, rejoicing to bring the Euboean Sibyl’s home and the dells of Gaurus and sweltering Baiae nearer to the seven hills.

Here on a time the tardy traveller, borne on a single axle,^[33] was balanced on the swaying pole, while the unkindly earth sucked in the wheels, and Latin folk shuddered in mid-plain at the evils of a sea-voyage; nor could carriages run nimbly, but the noiseless track made their course hampered and slow, while the fainting beast, complaining of a too heavy load, crept on beneath its lofty yoke. But ​now a journey that once wore out a solid day is performed in scarce two hours. No swifter fare ye through the heavens, ye birds with outstretched pinions, nor will ye more swiftly sail, ye ships.

The first labour was to prepare furrows and mark out the borders of the road,^[34] and to hollow out the ground with deep excavation; then to fill up the dug trench with other material,^[35] and to make ready a base for the road’s arched ridge, lest the soil give way and a treacherous bed provide a doubtful resting-place for the o’erburdened stones: then to bind it with blocks set close on either side and frequent wedges. Oh! how many gangs are at work together! Some cut down the forest and strip the mountain-sides, some plane down beams and boulders with iron; others bind the stones together,^[35] and interweave the work with baked sand and dirty tufa; others by dint of toil dry up the thirsty pools, and lead far away the lesser streams. These hands could hollow out Athos, and bar with no floating bridge the doleful sea of moaning Helle. These hands, did not the gods forbid the passage,^[36] had made Ino’s puny Isthmus^[37] mingle the sundered seas. The shores are astir and the waving woods, the din travels afar through the cities that lie between, and ​the vine-bearing Massie mount throws back to Gaurus the echoes that scatter on every side. Quiet Cyme marvels at the noise, and the Liternian lake and sluggish Savo.

But Vulturnus,^[38] his yellow head and wide-flung watery tresses entangled in soft sedge, raises his face and leaning against the mighty arch of Caesar’s bridge pours out from his strident throat such words as these: “Gracious benefactor of my plains, who, while I poured o’er trackless vales nor knew how to dwell within my banks didst bind me by the law of a strict channel, now do I, that turbulent and dangerous stream, who once scarce brooked frail vessels, already endure a bridge, and am trodden by travellers underfoot; I who was wont to whirl forest and field to ruin, shame on me! am beginning to be a river. But I give thee thanks, and my servitude is worth the while, because under thy rule and at thy command I have yielded, and because thou wilt be read of perpetually as supreme lord and conqueror of my bank. And now thou honourest me with splendid embankments,^[39] nor sufferest me to be foul, and far and wide dost purge away the evil shame of barren soil; so that the gulf of the Tyrrhenian sea need not cleanse my muddy, sky-polluting stream, like to Cinyphian Bagrada crawling between silent banks through Punic fields: nay, so brightly shall I flow that I shall challenge the calm sea with my sparkling current, or neighbouring Liris with my unstained waters.”

​Thus spoke the river, and therewith a marbled stretch of roadway had arisen with mighty ridge. Its portal and auspicious threshold was an arch that shone with the warlike trophies of the Prince and all Liguria’s mines,^[40] as vast as that which rings the clouds with rain. There the wayfarer turns aside with quickened speed, there the Appian road grieves that she is left. Then swifter and more furious grows the pace, and even the beasts exult in the speed: as when the rowers’ arms are weary and the first breezes fan the sails. Come then all ye who beneath the sky of dawn owe fealty to the Roman Sire, flock hither all ye races on this easy road, come more swiftly than before, ye laurels of the East. Nought hinders your eagerness, nought delays your course: he who leaves Tiber at dawn of day, let him sail the Lucrine lake at earliest eventide.

But what woman is this with snow-white hair and fillet whom I see at the new road’s extremest end, where Apollo’s temple shows Cumae’s ancient site^[41]? Does my vision err? or does the Sibyl bring forth the Chalcidic^[42] bayleaves from her sacred grot? Let us retire; lute, lay by thy song! a holier bard begins, and we must be silent. Lo! how she whirls her head around, and rushing in frenzy far and wide about the new-made track fills all the roadway! Then thus she speaks with virgin mouth: “I said it, he will come—have patience, ye fields and river!—he will come by heaven’s favour, who will raise this ​rotting woodland and these pestilent sands on lofty bridges and a causeway. Lo! a god is he, at Jove’s command he rules for him the happy world; none worthier than he has held this sway since under my guidance Aeneas, eagerly searching out the future, penetrated Avernus’ prescient groves and went forth again. A friend is he to peace, and terrible in arms, more bountiful than Nature and more powerful. Were his the government of the flaming sky, thou India wouldst be moist with abundant showers, Libya would stream with waters, Haemus would be warm. Hail, ruler of men and parent of gods, foreseen by me and fore-ordained was thy godhead. No longer scan those words of mine that the fifteen men^[43] with solemn prayer unroll on mouldering sheets, but face to face, as thou deservest, hear me chant my oracle. I have seen what chain of meritorious years the Fates white-clad are weaving for thee; a mighty roll of centuries awaits thee, longer than son or grandson shalt thou bear the years that Nestor reached, as they say, in tranquil age, as many as old Tithonus counted or I myself asked of the Delian god.^[44] Already the snowy North has paid thee homage, soon the Orient will give thee mighty triumphs. Where wandering Hercules and Euhan^[45] went thou shalt go, beyond the stars and the flaming sun, and the source of Nile and the snows of Atlas, and blest ​in all thy wealth of noble deeds thou shalt mount and again refuse the chariots of war^[46]: so long as the Trojan fire^[47] shall abide and the Tarpeian Father thunder in his reborn shrine, yea, until under thy governance of the earth this road grows older than the Appian’s years.”

Haste at no laggard speed, my letter, o’er the Euboean plains^[48]; set out upon thy road where the famous Appia branches sideward,^[49] and a solid mound is planted on the yielding sands. And when swiftly travelling thou hast reached the towers of Romulus, seek forthwith the right bank of yellow Tiber, where the Lydian shore straitens narrowly the naval basin,^[50] and suburban pleasure-gardens fringe the water. There shalt thou see Marcellus, peerless both in valour and in looks, and thou shalt know him by the mark of his lofty stature. First pay thy greeting in the accustomed manner, then remember to deliver this verse-embodied message:

​“Already the flight of rainy spring sets free the earth and the rushing pole, and scorches the heaven with Icarian bayings^[51]; already the high walls of crowded Rome grow empty. Some sacred Praeneste shelters, some Diana’s ice-cool glade or rugged Algidus or the shades of Tusculum; others are eager for the groves of Tibur or Anio’s cold waves. And thou—what gentler region draws thee from the clamorous city? With what sky art thou baffling the summer suns? And Gallus, thy favourite, thy chiefest care, whom I too love—whether more to be praised for virtue or for wit I know not—does he pass the summer on Latium’s coast, or seek again the walls of Luna rich in mines and his Tyrrhenian home? But if he is close by thy side, my name now is not far from thy converse; ay, ’tis certain; that is why both my ears are buzzing. But do thou, while the angry mane of Cleonae’s star^[52] is blazing, possessed by Hyperion’s exceeding might, set free thy heart from cares and escape from constant toil. The Parthian puts up his noxious arrows and unstrings his bow, and the charioteer refreshes in Alpheus the steeds that Elean labours have exhausted, and my lyre grows weary and is relaxed: timely repose heartens and nourishes strength, valour is increased by a spell of ease. Even so Achilles, when he had sung of Briseis, went forth the fiercer, and putting by his quill burst out against Hector. Thee too will leisure sought once more awhile secretly kindle, and thou wilt go forth refreshed and exultant to thy wonted tasks. Now indeed the Roman courts have ceased to bicker, ’tis the season of idleness and peace, ​and the return of the harvest has emptied the forum. Defendants no more throng thy chambers, no querulous clients pray thee to come forth. Idle is the spear that rules the Hundred Judges,^[53] before whom even now, in all the brilliance of high renown, thy eloquence is pre-eminent and outstrips thy youthful years. Happy thou in thy labours, who carest not for the chaplets of Helicon nor for unwarlike bays from Parnassus’ summit, but thy intellect is keen, and thy mind girt up for mighty deeds endures whatever may befall: we beguile a leisured life with song, and seek the fickle delights of fame. Lo! I myself, in quest of sleep and that genial shore where the stranger Parthenope^[54] found refuge in an Ausonian haven, pluck at my frail strings with feeble fingers, and seated by the threshold of Maro’s shrine take heart and make melody at the mighty master’s tomb.^[55] But thou, if Atropos gives thee a long span of life—and ’tis my prayer she may, and that the godhead of the Latian prince may so appoint, whose zealous worshipper, ay even before the Thunderer, thou art, and who adds another duty to thy year of office, and bids thee renew the hilly courses of the Latin Way—thou perchance shalt go to curb the cohorts of Ausonia, or ’tis thy task to guard the peoples of the Rhine or dark Thule’s shores, or Ister and the dread approaches of the Caspian gate. For it is not only the gift of powerful eloquence that is thine: thou hast limbs that are made for war, and ​thews that with difficulty^[56] put on the heavy corselet; should’st thou prepare to go on foot, thy helmet’s peak will nod high above the ranks; should’st thou bend the jingling reins, the mettlesome charger will do thy bidding. We, singing the deeds of others, fall into old age: thou resplendent in thy armour shalt perform actions meet for song, and set a noble pattern before the youthful Geta,^[57] of whom already his warrior grandsire is demanding worthy feats and grants him to know the triumphs of his house. Up, then, be doing, and overtake thy sire, though he be a man and thou but a lad, happy alike in thy mother’s lineage and thy father’s prowess. Already blissful Glory nourishes thee, and fondles thee in her robe of Tyrian dye, and delights to promise thee all the curule chairs.”

Such, Marcellus, is the song I am singing thee on the Chalcidic strand, where Vesuvius hurls forth broken rage, outpouring fire that would rival Trinacrian flames. Marvellous, but true! Will future ages believe, when once more crops are growing, and these wastes are green again, that cities and peoples lie beneath, and that their ancestral lands have perished by alike fate? And still that peak threatens ruin. Far be that fate from thy Teate, nor may such madness seize the Marrucinian hills!

If now perchance you ask what my muse is attempting, my Thebaid having completed her Sidonian^[58] toils has at last furled her sails in the wished-for haven, and on the ridges of Parnassus and in the ​glades of Helicon has thrown incense on the festal flames and the entrails of a virgin heifer, and hung up my chaplets on a votive tree. And now another band new twined encircles my vacant locks: ay, ’tis Troy I am attempting and great Achilles,^[59] but the Sire that wields the bow calls me elsewhere and points me to the mightier arms of the Ausonian chief. Long since has impulse urged me thither, but fear holds me back. Will my shoulders sustain so great a burden, or will my neck yield under the weight? Tell me, Marcellus, shall I essay the task? or must my bark that knows but lesser seas not yet be trusted to Ionian perils^[60]?

And now farewell, and let not regard for the poet who is wholly devoted to thee pass from thy mind; for neither was the Tirynthian chary of warm-hearted friendship; to thee shall yield the fame of loyal Theseus, and of him who to comfort his slain friend dragged Priam’s mangled son around the walls of Troy.

Happy amid the glories of my small estate, where ancient Alba dwells in her Trojan home, I salute in unwonted strains the brave and eloquent Severus. ​At last harsh winter has fled to the Parrhasian North,^[61] o’erwhelmed by lofty suns; at last the cold winds are softened into mild zephyrs, and sea and land are smiling. Now every tree puts forth her yearly tresses of spring leaves, now are heard the birds’ new plainings and the unpractised songs which they planned in the silent winter. As for me, my thrifty domain and ever-wakeful hearth and rooftree blackened by many a fire console me, and the wine^[62] that I take from the jar where lately it fermented. Here no thousand woolly sheep utter bleatings, no cow lows to its sweet lover; and only to their master’s voice, as he sings, whene’er he sings, do the mute fields re-echo. But this land, after my native country, holds first place in my love: here the maiden queen of battles^[63] favoured my songs with Caesar’s golden crown, when you, striving with all your might, succoured your friend in his joyous hazard, even as Castor trembled at all the noise of the Bebrycian arena.^[64]

​Did Leptis that loses itself in the distant Syrtes beget you? soon shall she bear Indian harvests, and despoil the perfumed Sabaeans of their rare cinnamon. Who would not think that my sweet Septimius had crawled an infant on all the hills of Rome? Who would not say that he had drunk, his weaning done, of Juturna’s fountain^[65]? Nor is your prowess to be wondered at: straightway, still ignorant of Africa and its shallows, you entered the havens of Ausonia, and sailed, an adopted child, on Tuscan waters. Then, still a lad, you grew to manhood among the sons of the Senate, content with the glory of the narrow purple,^[66] but with patrician soul seeking unmeasured labours. Neither your speech nor your dress is Punic,^[67] yours is no stranger’s mind: Italian are you, Italian! Yet in our city and among the knights of Rome are men who might well be foster-sons of Libya.^[68] Pleasing too is your voice in the strident courts, but your eloquence is never venal; your sword sleeps in its scabbard, save when your friends bid you draw it. But oftener do you enjoy the quiet country, now in your father’s home on Veientine soil, now on the leafy heights of Hernica, now in ancient Cures. Here will you plan more ​themes in the words and measures that move unfettered, but remembering me at times strike anew the lyre that lies hid in some shy grotto.

One day when putting aside my tasks with heart unburdened by Phoebus I was wandering aimlessly at sundown in the broad spaces of the Enclosure,^[69] kind Vindex took me off to dine. That feast sank deep into the recesses of my soul,^[70] and remains unconsumed. For it was no wanton dainties of the belly that we devoured, no sweetmeats sought under distant suns, no wines whose ages rival our continuous Annals. Unhappy they whose delight is to know how the bird of Phasis^[71] differs from a crane of wintry Rhodope,^[72] what kind of goose has the largest liver, why a Tuscan boar is richer than an Umbrian, on what seaweed the slippery shell-fish most comfortably recline: as for us, real affection and discourse fetched from the heart of Helicon and merry jests ​persuaded us to sit out a winter’s night and to banish soft sleep from our eyes, until the other Twin^[73] looked forth from Elysium, and Tithonia laughed at yesterday’s banquet. O night of bliss! would it had been Tirynthian, with moon added to moon!^[74] a night to be marked with the Erythraean gems^[75] of Thetis, a night to be long told of, a night whose spirit^[76] will live for ever! There and then did I learn of a thousand beauties of bronze and ancient ivory, and deceiving shapes of wax on the verge of speech. For who ever rivalled the keen glance of Vindex in recognizing the hand of an old master and telling the author of an untitled work? ’Tis he who will show you on what bronzes cunning Myron spent anxious vigils, what marbles the chisel of untiring Praxiteles has made to live, what ivories the thumb of the Pisaean^[77] has smoothed, what statues have been bidden breathe in Polyclitus’ furnaces, what lines confess from afar the old Apelles; for this, whensoe’er he puts his lyre from him, is his leisure, this passion calls him from Aonian^[78] dells.

Amid these treasures was a Hercules, the deity and guardian of his frugal board, with which I fell deeply in love; nor, though long I gazed, were my eyes sated with it; such dignity had the work, such majesty, despite its narrow limits. A god was he, ay, a god! and he granted thee to behold him, Lysippus, small to the eye, yet a giant to the mind! And though his stature be marvellously confined ​within a foot’s height, yet will you be fain to cry, as you cast your eyes o’er his limbs: “This is the breast that crushed the ravager of Nemea, these the arms that bore the deadly club, and broke the oars of Argo.”^[79] To think that a tiny frame should hold the illusion of so mighty^[80] a form! What preciseness of touch, what daring imagination the cunning master had, at once to model an ornament for the table and to conceive in his mind mighty colossal forms! No such work could Telchines in the caves of Ida, or dull Brontes or the Lemnian^[81] who makes bright the armour of the gods have playfully fashioned from some small lump of metal. No wrathful likeness was it, unsuited to the gaiety of the feast, but in such mood as the home of thrifty Molorchus^[82] marvelled to behold, or the Tegean priestess^[83] in Alea’s groves; or as when, sent heavenward from Oeta’s ashes, he joyfully drank the nectar, though Juno still frowned: with even so kindly a countenance, as if rejoicing from his heart, doth he cheer the banquet. One hand holds his brother’s tipsy goblet, but the other forgets not his club; a rocky seat supports him, and the Nemean lionskin drapes the stone.

So divine a work had a worthy fate. It was a deity revered at the merry banquets of the Pellaean monarch,^[84] and alike in East and West it bore him company; gladly did he set it before him, with that same hand that had given crowns and taken them ​away, and had ruined mighty cities. From it he sought courage for to-morrow’s battle, to it he related, triumphant, the glorious fight, whether he had despoiled Bromius of fettered Indians,^[85] or with his strong spear had burst the enclosing walls of Babylon, or overwhelmed in war the lands of Pelops and Pelasgian freedom; and of all that tale of mighty deeds he is said to have asked pardon only for his Theban triumph.^[86] He too, when the Fates cut short his prowess, and he drank the deadly draught, in the very gloom and heaviness of death, was afraid at the altered face of his favourite deity, and at the bronzes that dripped sweat at that last banquet.

Next its marvellous beauty was possessed by the Nasamonian^[87] chief; and Hannibal, that ruthless warrior, haughty and treacherous in fight, paid honours to the valiant god. Yet the god hated him, drenched in Italian blood and threatening Roman homes with terrible flame, ay, even when he set feasting and gifts of wine before him; in sorrow did the god go forth with that cursed troop, especially when his own shrines were impiously fired, when the homes and temples of innocent Saguntum were outraged, and its people filled with righteous frenzy.

And after the death of the Sidonian leader ’twas no plebeian house obtained the peerless bronze. Ever wont to enter famous houses and blest in the lineage of its lords it adorned the feasts of Sulla.

Now too, if deities care to know the hearts and souls of men, no palace, no royal pomp surrounds thee, O Tirynthian, but thy master’s soul is pure and ​innocent of error; old-world loyalty is his, and the unfailing bond of a friendship once begun. Vestinus knows it, who even in youth equalled his mighty sires, and whose spirit Vindex breathes by night and day, and lives in the embrace of that beloved shade. Here then hast thou a welcome resting-place, Alcides, most valiant of gods, nor beholdest battles or savage fights, but the lyre and chaplets and music-loving bays. Here in solemn chant will he recount to thee in what might thou didst terrify Getic and Ilian homes and snowy Stymphalus and Erymanthus with its streaming ridges; how the owner of the Iberian herd, how the Mareotic guardian of the cruel shrine endured thy power; he will sing of the gates of Death penetrated and spoiled by thee, of the weeping maids of Libya and of Scythia.^[88] Neither the ruler of the Macetae^[89] nor barbarous Hannibal nor the uncouth accents of fierce Sulla could e’er have celebrated thee in such strains. And of a surety thou, Lysippus, the author of the gift, wouldst not have chosen to be approved by other eyes than these.

Long time, bold Erato, hast thou had thy fill of the spreading field, but now put off thy heroic labours and contract thy mighty task to narrower circles; ​and thou, Pindar, ruler of the lyric choir, grant me awhile the privilege of unwonted song, if I have hallowed thy own Thebes in Latin strains: ’tis for Maximus that I attempt to refine my verse; now must I take my garlands from unplucked myrtle, now a nobler thirst is mine, a purer stream must be quaffed. When wilt thou return again to pleasant Latium from the Dalmatian mountains, where the miner returns all pale at the sight of Dis and yellow as the gold he has unearthed?^[90] Lo! I, though born in nearer lands, am not held fast by lazy Baiae’s lovely haven, or by the trumpeter known to Hector’s battles.^[91] Without thee my Muse is sluggish, even Thymbra’s lord^[92] is slower than of wont in his coming, and lo! my Achilles halts at the first turning-point of his course: while it is with thee for trusty counsellor that my Thebaid, tortured by endless polishing, attempts with audacious string the joys of Mantuan renown. But we pardon thy delaying, because thou hast established thy empty home with flourishing offspring. O happy day! lo! a second ​Maximus comes to us! Childlessness^[93] must be shunned by every effort; the heir with hostile vows presses hard upon it, asking—ah! for shame!—that his best friend soon may die. Childlessness wins no tears at the grave; in the captured house stands the greedy survivor, eager for the spoils of death, and counts the cost of the very pyre. Long live the high-born babe, and, by a path that few may tread, may he grow into his father’s virtues, and rival his grandsire by his deeds! Thou shalt tell thy child how thou didst lead thy swordsmen to Eastern Orontes, commanding ’neath Castor’s favour^[94] the banners of thy well-curbed squadrons. He shall relate how he followed the swift-flashing brand of invincible Caesar, and imposed a hard law on the fugitive Sarmatians,^[95] to live under one sky.^[96] But first let the lad learn thy skill, whereby retracing all the old age of the world thou dost render again the work of brief Sallust^[97] and the foster-son of Timavus.

Fling wide the thresholds of the gods, Parthenope, and fill the chaplet-hung shrines with clouds of Sheba’s incense and the breathing entrails of victims! lo! by yet a third offspring is the house of illustrious Menecrates increased. Thy noble host of princes grows and atones the loss that mad Vesuvius^[98] caused thee. Nor let Naples in lonely isolation throng her festal altars; let her fellow-haven and the land that gentle Dicarcheus loved and the Surrentine tract dear to the tipsy god enwreathe their shrines with garlands,—that shore where dwells the babe’s maternal grandsire, with his crowd of grandchildren around him, rivalling each other in their likeness to him. Let the uncle too, famed for his Libyan spear,^[99] rejoice, and Polla, who counts them her own sons as she raises them to her loving bosom. A blessing on thee, O youth, who givest in due reward to thy country such bright progeny. Lo! the house rocks with delightful tumult, ringing with the cries of so many masters. Avaunt, black Envy, turn elsewhere thy livid breasts! To these hath white-robed Atropos promised old age and the glory of enduring worth, and their native Apollo vouchsafed the bays of poesy. Therefore was it an omen that the most august sire of the Ausonian City had given thee the glad privilege of triple offspring.^[100] Thrice has Lucina come, and again and yet again visited thy dutiful ​home. Long live that house, I pray, in fruitfulness and never robbed of its hallowed gifts! A blessing on thee also, that thy issue was increased more often by the strength of males, yet the girl too must needs delight her youthful father—for them is prowess more fitting, while she will the sooner bear him grandsons;—so fair a child was Helen, as she walked between her Amyclaean brethren, yet ripe already for her mother’s wrestling-bouts;^[101] so fair is the face of heaven, when on a tranquil night two radiant stars draw near to the moon that shines between them.

But I have a complaint, O rarest of youths, and no gentle one, ay, angry am I even, so far as love admits of anger. Was it right that common report should tell me of such joys? and when thy third infant was wailing, did no letter straightway haste full speed to bid me heap the altar with festal flames and entwine my lyre and wreathe my portals, and bring out a cask sooted with Alban smoke and mark the day with song, but only now, a tardy laggard, do I celebrate my vows? Thine is the fault, thine is the shame of it! But I cannot further prolong my plaint; lo! in a merry crowd thy children surround thee, and defend their sire. Whom wouldst thou not conquer with such a troop?

Gods of our land, whom with mighty omens the Abantian^[102] fleet conveyed o’er the sea to the Ausonian shore, and thou, Apollo, guide of thy far-wandering folk, whose bird seated on thy left shoulder prosperous Eumelis^[103] lovingly beholds and worships, and thou, ​Attic Ceres, for whom in breathless dance we thy mute votaries cease not to wave the mystic torch,^[104] and you, ye Tyndarids, to whom not grim Taygetus, Lycurgus’ mount, nor shady Therapnae gives truer worship: gods of our country, preserve this home with all its souls! May there be those who by speech or wealth shall succour their city that age and many toils have wearied, and keep her as green and youthful as her name! From their father may they learn gentle ways, and from their grandsire splendour that yet is bountiful, and from both the desire of glorious virtue. Assuredly their riches and their birth suffer the maid to enter patrician doors with the first marriage-torches, and the sons, so soon as manhood comes—if only the godhood of invincible Caesar favour the deserving—to tread the threshold of the Senate-house of Romulus.

Yours was indeed a jest, Grypus, to send me a book in return for a book! And yet even that may seem graceful, if after it you send me something worth having; for if, Grypus, you keep on with such jests, they are jests no longer. Look, we can reckon the account. Mine, painted purple, its paper new, adorned with two knobs,^[105] cost me, besides my ​own trouble, well, certainly a ten-a-piece! Yours, moth-eaten and mouldering, like those that are soaked by Libyan olives, or wrap up incense or pepper from the Nile, or cultivate the Byzantine tunny; not containing even your own youthful speeches that you thundered at the three Courts^[106] or the Hundred Judges,^[107] before Germanicus placed the obedient corn-supply under your control, or put you in charge of the posts on all the roads,^[108] but the mumblings of ancient Brutus^[109] out of a wretched book-peddler’s case, that cost you, roughly shall we say, an as of Gaius^[110]—that was your present! Were there then no more felt caps stitched together from rags of tunics, no towels or faded napkins? no writing-paper, or Theban dates, or Carian figs? nowhere a bunch of plums or Syrian figs packed in a collapsible case^[111]? no dry wicks or cast-off jackets of onions? ​no eggs even, or fine flour, or coarse spelt? not the slimy shell of a curving snail that had strayed far on the Cinyphian plains?^[112] no rancid fat or gristly ham? no sausage, no tough haggis? no salt, no pickle, no cheese? or cakes of green saltpetre? or raisin-wine boiled grapes and all? or must made muddy by sweet lees? How unkind, not to give me smelly candles, or a knife, or a tiny notebook! Pray, could you not have sent some tinned grapes, or some plates turned on the wheel at Cumae?^[113] or even one set^[114]—why do you start?—of white cups and pots? No, like a fair dealer with a correct scale, you dock nothing, but give me exactly equal weight. But look! I get up betimes, feeling rather queasy, and bring you my morning greeting: are you to return it at my house? you have regaled me with a luxurious feast: do you expect a similar repast yourself? I am angry with you, Grypus! However, farewell! only do not with your usual wit send me back gibing verses by return of post!