I. Glaucias, the favorite of Atedius Melior

	MELIOR,1 how shall I find prelude for my words of solace at your 
	foster-son’s untimely death? How can I sing unfeelingly, before the pyre, 
	ere the funeral fire has sunk? The veins are still torn; the lamentable 
	wound gapes wide; the perilous avenue of the great gash lies open. 
	
5	And now while I compose you but words and song for salve, 
	you have more a mind for beating your breast; you cry aloud 
	in sorrow, turning with deaf ears in loathing from the lute. 
	Untimely is my song. Sooner would lonely tigress 
	or lioness robbed of her whelps give heed to me. 
10	Not though the song of the three Siren sisters2 should float hither; 
	not though the lyre to which beast and wild wood hearkened were mine,3 
	not even so could the madness of your grief be charmed away. An agony 
	of sorrow fills your soul; at a touch your heart moans and sobs. 
	
	Have your fill of bitterness! No man says you nay. With free 
15	vent assuage the fever and the pain. Is the passion of weeping sated 
	at last? At last for very weariness do you scorn not 
	my kindly entreaties, but brook my song? Even as I speak, 
	see, my eyes are wet, tears fall and blot the page; 
	for indeed I, like you, have paid mournful tribute of the wonted rites, 
20	have seen the cruel doom that all Rome beheld, and have followed 
	the child’s bier to the funeral fire. I have seen the cruel incense of the gods 
	below heaped high, and the ghost that wailed above his own pyre. 
	I have seen you outdoing fathers in your sighs and mothers in beating 
	of the breast,—clasping the fagots and ready to swallow the fire. Scarce could I, 
25	your fellow mourner, hold you back, and angered you by my endeavour. 
	Now, alas, the fillets that deck the Poet’s brow put off,—
	a prophet of sorrow, I change my strains and beat my breast 
	with you. Assuage your grief, and suffer me, I pray, to have part in your tears 
	and lot in your mourning, if such is my desert, if a share in the sorrow 
30	of your heart has been mine. My voice has been heard by fathers 
	when the bolt fell. My song has found solace for mothers 
	and loyal sons weeping beside their dead,—
	I too, sorrowing and outworn for my own loss, have bewailed, 
	O Nature, what a father! I do not sternly debar you from grief; 
35	nay, but let me mingle my tears with yours, and sorrow with you. 
	
	Long while, beloved boy, have I sought for a worthy prelude 
	to thy praises, an avenue to thy dirge, in vain. 
	Now it was thy youth hovering on the threshold of life, 
	and now thy beauty that ravished my thoughts: now thy modesty 
40	so early ripe, now thy shamefaced honour beyond thy tender years. 
	Gone is that clear countenance bright with the flush of health. 
	Gone those starlike eyes,—eyes beamed from heaven; 
	perished the sedate modesty, the low forehead, 
	the crown of natural tresses and wavy line of comely 
45	curls. Lost are the lips, tattling with fond complaints, 
	and kisses balmy as spring blossoms, when he hung, Melior, in your embrace. 
	Lost the laughter and the tears, the speaking voice, sweet 
	as honeycomb from Hybla,4 of a melody to charm the serpent’s 
	hiss or to win abject service even from stern step-dames. 
50	I am adding nought to the true sum of his worth. Alas, the milk-white 
	throat, the arms that ever rested upon his master’s neck! 
	Where now is the near promise of his hastening youth? 
	The longed-for adornment of his cheeks? The beard that Melior 
	did often swear by? All, all has one disastrous day, one merciless 
55	hour, given to the pyre: to us only the memory is left. 
	
	Who now Melior, when you are glad, will soothe your heart 
	with sweet converse? Who will solace your secret care and sadness? 
	When you are fired with bitter anger and wroth with your slaves, who will 
	assuage your passion and turn you aside from choleric heat to thoughts of him? 
60	When you have sipped the wine and tasted the meat, who will snatch 
	these dainties from your lips, and with pretty foray confound the feast? 
	Who will leap upon your bed at dawn and with whispering cries 
	banish sleep, stay you at your outgoing with close-knit embrace 
	and call back even the lictors to caress you again? 
65	Who will meet you at your home-coming, leaping into your arms 
	and to your kiss, and twining his little arms about your shoulders? 
	The sentinel is gone from your door, your home is left desolate: 
	forlorn is your chamber, sad and silent your board. 
	
	What wonder, Glaucias, if thy devoted foster-father honours thee with 
70	a costly funeral? In thee he found as it were a haven of rest in his old age; 
	and now delight and now sweet torment, of thy giving, were his. 
	Thou wast not turned to and fro in the whirling of the slave cage: 
	thou wast not set amid Pharian5 wares, a child for sale. 
	Thou hadst not, with parrot-jest and well-conned words of greeting 
75	on thy lips, to seek, and scarce at last to win, a buyer by pranks of thine. 
	This was thy home, here thy birthplace; dear of old to thy master’s house 
	were thy father and mother; and to give thee joy they were set free, 
	lest thou shouldst weep for loss of family. But as soon as thou wast born 
	it was thy master that with joy upraised thee, and as thy first cry 
80	of greeting went up to the shining stars, his heart claimed thee: 
	he clasped thee to his breast and accounted thee his very son. 
	Suffer me, honoured parents; and thou, Nature, whose it is 
	to knit the first heart-ties throughout the world, 
	forbid not my words: it is not always nearness of blood 
85	or descent from a common stock that makes us kin: 
	often changelings and adopted children steal closer to our hearts 
	than our own people. Sons of our blood are ours perforce; 
	sons of our love it is a joy to choose. Thus it was that half-brute Chiron 
	outdid Peleus of Haemonia in loving-kindness to the boy Achilles.6 
90	The old man Peleus marched not with his son to do battle before Troy, 
	but Phoenix was never sundered from his famed pupil.7 
	Evander was left to long afar off that Pallas might return 
	in triumph, while staunch Acoetes watched the fray.8 
	And it was Dictys the seafarer who tended winged Perseus, 
95	when his father, whose home was amid the shining stars, tarried afar.9 
	Why should I rehearse the roll of foster-mothers that have outdone mothers 
	in their loyal love? Why tell how the babe Bacchus, when his mother 
	had been lured to her lightning-death, was safer leaping in Ino’s arms:10 
	how Acca was still wearily bearing the sturdy Romulus when Ilia, 
100	rescued from her father, reigned a queen beneath the Tuscan waves?11 
	Ere now I have seen boughs upon stranger stock ingrafted 
	overtop their parent tree. Your own will and fancy had made you, 
	Melior, at the first his father, not yet his loyalty and grace: 
	but dear to you already were his lisping cries, 
105	his childish tears, his wailing innocence. 
	
	As a flower, that at the first gale must fall, 
	in the velvet meadows lifts its head defiantly on high, 
	so ere his day in pride of look and bearing the boy had 
	outstripped his playmates and left his years far behind. 
110	If he stood with limbs bent in the locking wrestle, 
	you had thought him the son of a Spartan mother; 
	Apollo had forsaken Oebalides right eagerly for him,12 and eagerly 
	had Alcides bartered the love of Hylas for his.13 If in Greek garb 
	he chanted the Attic lines of rare Menander, 
115	Thalia had joyfully praised his tones and merrily 
	ruffled his fair locks with rosy chaplet.14 
	Anon, if he sang old Homer’s lays,—travail of Troy 
	or hazard of lingering Ulysses,—forthwith even his father, 
	even his masters were astounded at his insight. 
	
120	Be sure Fate laid her baleful hand upon his cradle, 
	and Envy clasped and fondled the boy in her bosom. 
	The one caressed the long curls on his cheeks; 
	the other taught him that skill and breathed in him those words 
	we sigh for now. His years were but growing to the sum 
125	of the labours of Hercules,15—the days of babyhood scarcely past,—
	when already his step was firm; his thews outswelled 
	his garments; the boyish dress seemed to shrink upon him. 
	And what robes, Glaucias, what raiment did not thy fond master 
	eagerly give thee! He would fasten the short cloaks across 
130	the boyish chest and contract the web of the narrow mantle. 
	He never gave thee loose, shapeless folds, but ever suiting 
	the raiment to thy years, clad thee now in Phoenician purple, 
	now in grass-green tunic, now in gay glowing scarlet, 
	and rejoiced to make those hands shine with vivid gems; 
135	and gifts and thronging attendants were there: 
	thy winsome beauty lacked nought but the garb of liberty.16 
	
	Such was the fortune of thy birth. Then on a sudden Fate raised her 
	hand in anger. Ah, goddess, why cruelly bare those fell talons against him? 
	Does not his beauty, does not the pathos of his youth touch your heart? 
140	Procne, cruel though she was, could not have mangled him for her lord; 
	Medea could not have persisted in her savage anger, 
	not though he had been the son of her Corinthian rival;17 
	grim Athamas had turned from him his frenzied arrows;18 
	yes, and despite his bitter hatred of Troy and of dead Hector, Ulysses had 
145	wept when he was about to hurl him from the Phrygian battlements.19 
	
	The seventh day dawned and already his eyes were languid and chill, 
	already the Queen of the shades20 set her hand upon the tress. 
	Yet at the last, even while the Fates strangled the tender life, 
	his dying eyes sought yours, his failing lips whispered 
150	your name: for you he spent the last breath in his dying 
	breast: on you, on you alone he thought and called: 
	moving for you his lips, leaving for you his accents, 
	and forbade your anguish and solaced your pain. 
	Yet we are grateful to the Fates that no lingering death consumed 
155	his boyish beauty as he lay a-dying; that he went down perfect 
	into the underworld, just as he was, with no blighting stain upon him. 
	
	Ask me not now of that burying; of the gifts lavished on 
	the flames; of the funeral fire that prodigal sorrow kindled. 
	Upon a flower-crowned mound the grim pyre was heaped. 
160	Cilician saffron, and gifts of Indian balsam, 
	perfumes of Arabia, of Egypt, and of Palestine steeped 
	thy locks for the fire.21 Nothing would Melior 
	in his profusion deny thee, but in loathing of his orphaned wealth 
	would fain burn all his substance; the jealous fire could not contain 
165	such tribute, the flames were not large enough to consume it. 
	
	My heart was awed. Ah, Melior, once so tranquil, in what frenzy 
	at those last rites by the pyre I beheld you and was afraid! 
	Is this my gay companion, he of the gentle countenance? 
	Whence then this passion, those rending hands, that savage grief? 
170	Stretched on the bare earth you shrink from the agony of life. 
	Now fiercely you pluck at your robe and your heart; 
	now you kiss those loved eyes and snatch cold caresses. 
	There stood the father and there in tears the mother 
	of the dead, but his parents gazed in wonderment on you. 
175	Why marvel, when all the people and all the host that went 
	before over the Mulvian agger along the Flaminian road22 
	were weeping for the innocent child who was given over to 
	the baleful fire, that for his youth and beauty deserved their lamentation. 
	Such was Palaemon, when his mother flung herself upon him as he lay, 
180	after tossing in the waves, cast up by the sea in the Isthmian haven:23 
	and such Opheltes when the greedy fire consumed him, 
	mangled by those fangs as he played in Lerna’s snake-haunted meadows.24 
	
	But fear not. Dread no more menacing death. 
	Cerberus25 with triple jaws will not bark at him. 
185	The Sisters26 with their flames and towering snakes will 
	terrify him not. Nay, even the churlish mariner27 of the greedy skiff 
	will draw nearer to the barren banks and parched shore, 
	that the boy may without hazard step on board. 
	
	What message is this that with joyous wand Cyllene’s son28 is signalling 
190	to me ? On a day so dark can there be aught of gladness? 
	Many a time the boy had marked you twining fresh garlands 
	and clashing to your breast the bust of Blaesus:29 
	he knew those features and the noble head erect. 
	So when among Ausonian30 nobles and the sons of Quirinus31 
195	he saw Blaesus pacing the banks of Lethe-water, 
	he knew him for a friend; and first in silence and with timid steps 
	walked by his side and plucked at the fringe of his robe: anon followed 
	more boldly, for as more boldly he plucked Blaesus spurned him not, 
	but thought him one of the sons of his house whom he knew not.32 
200	Soon when he learnt that the boy was the favourite of Melior, 
	the solace for his lost friend Blaesus, the darling of his peerless companion, 
	he raised him from the ground and twined him about his brawny shoulders, 
	and long while sought joyously with his own hands such presents 
	as Elysium33 can soften to afford,—the fruitless boughs, the songless 
205	birds it may be, and the wan flowers nipped in the bud. 
	And did, not bid him forget you, but joined heart to heart 
	and shared in turn with you in the boy’s love. 
	
	He is gone; this is the end. Heal then your wound, 
	uplift your grief-sunken head. All things you see have suffered 
210	or must suffer death. Day and night pass away,—
	aye, and the stars also, nor is the solid earth saved by her massy fabric. 
	The nations bow to death; who can stay to weep the passing 
	of a frail and strengthless people? War and ocean claim their victims, 
	love and madness deal doom, aye, and fell desire. 
215	Why bewail disease? Winter’s freezing breath, 
	the fierce heat of the baleful Dogstar,34 and wan 
	Autumn, from whose jaws proceed forth storms. 
	All that is born must die. Death will claim us,—yes, claim us all; 
	for countless shades Aeacus shakes the urn.35 
	
220	But he whom we weep is happy; he has out- soared gods 
	and men, danger and hazard, and the pitfalls of our blind life; 
	he is secure from fate. ‘Twas not his lot to shrink from—or to pray for—
	death, not yet to deserve to die. We are a restless people 
	and evil-starred; for we know not whence our death is to come, 
225	nor how our life shall close; from what star the thunder threatens, 
	what cloud shall sound our knell. Doth this thought not move thee? 
	Yet thou shalt be moved and with a good grace. Come, Glaucias, 
	come hither from the gloomy threshold. Thy prayers alone can win 
	every boon; for neither Charon nor the comrade of that baleful monster36 
230	restrains the souls of the innocent. Thou must soften his heart; 
	thou must stay his streaming tears; thou must make glad 
	for him the nights with thy sweet accents and living looks. 
	Tell him thou art not dead; and still commend to his kindness—
	thou canst—thy hapless parents and thy sister forlorn.

II. The Surrentine Villa of Pollius Felix

	BETWEEN the walls that bear the name of the Sirens37 
	and the rocks burdened with Tyrrhene Minerva’s temple,38 
	stands a lofty mansion that looks out upon the Bay of Puteoli. 
	This is ground dear to Bromius.39 On the high hills ripens 
5	a vintage that needs not to be jealous of Falernian vats.40 
	Hither I came rejoicing from the quinquennial festival of my birthplace,41 
	when the quiet hung heavy and the dust settled white upon the course, 
	since to the laurels of Ambracia42 turned the thoughts of the contestants. 
	The honey-sweet tongue of gentle Pollius and the girlish grace 
10	of winsome Polla lured me to cross the bay of my native Parthenope,43 
	though fain ere then to be bending my steps where the beaten highway, 
	Appia,44 queen of far-stretching roads, sweeps along its well-known track. 
	
	Yet I am glad I spent the time. The sheltered waters, 
	the crescent bay break a passage through the arc of cliff on either hand. 
15	Nature is beaten off the field! Here, between hill and sea, is the only 
	beach on the promontory, that landward ends in an overarching cliff. 
	The charm that first greets the sight is a steaming bath-house 
	with twin cupolas. From the land a rivulet of fresh water flows 
	to meet the brine. Here would the blithe choir of Phorcus 
20	and Cymodoce, with dripping tresses, and ocean Galatea delight to bathe.45 
	Before the bath-house the dark-haired King46 of the swelling wave 
	keeps watch and ward over that home of peace. The fane is his on which 
	the salt waves shed their caressing foam. The happy fields have Alcides47 
	for their guardian. These are the two Deities that make glad the haven. 
25	One stands sentinel over the land, one curbs the cruel sea. 
	A wondrous calm is upon the waters. Here the waves in weariness 
	forget to rage. Gentler is the breath of the wild sirocco; 
	less daring the headlong storm; peaceful and unruffled 
	the pools, calm as the Master’s48 soul. 
	
30	From the shore, along the high counterscarps of cliff, the Colonnade 
	makes its way, worthy of a city. The long platform dominates the rough rocks. 
	Where once was blinding dust and dazzling sunshine—
	a wild unlovely track—it is now a joy to pass. 
	Even such is the arcade that leads from Ino’s haven, the Lechaeum,49 
35	the wayfarer who would climb to the high citadel of Bacchus-haunted Corinth. 
	
	Not though Helicon should vouchsafe to me all her waters, 
	or Pimplea more than quench my thirst;50 not though the hoof-mark 
	of the flying steed should bounteously refresh me, and chaste Phemonoe51 
	unlock for me her secret springs, or the waters that my Pollius 
40	(Phoebus52 guiding him) with deep-thrust urn disturbed,—not even so 
	could I avail in hallowed strains worthily to sing the countless graces 
	and beauties of the spot. So long was the array, my sight 
	could scarce follow it; scarce could my feet bear me, as I traced 
	each detail. O the confusion of things! I know not whether first 
45	to marvel at the genius of the master or of his land! One hall 
	looks out upon the sunrise and the fresh beams of Phoebus,53 another 
	keeps him back at his setting, and will not suffer the after-glow to pass, 
	when the day is wearied out, and the shadows from darkening hills 
	fall upon the waters, and the mansion is mirrored in the glassy flood. 
50	Here are rooms that resound with the voices of the sea ; here are others 
	that refuse to know the thunderous surges, but choose rather the silence of the land. 
	Here Nature had been lavish to the ground; here, though, she has yielded 
	and bowed before the artist’s hand, and obediently has learned new and gentler ways.
	Here once stood a hill where now you see level ground. The halls you enter now 
55	were wildwood thickets aforetime; where to-day you see tall groves 
	there was not even soil of old. The master has tamed the place, and blithely 
	has the land obeyed his conquering sway, that has given shape to the rocks 
	while it carried them by storm. See, the cliffs bow to his yoke. See the hill 
	that would force a way into the house and now is bidden to retire. 
60	Forthwith let the cunning hand of Methymna’s bard,54 the peerless lute 
	of Thebes,55 and the glory of the Thracian lyre56 own thee their master; 
	thou too movest mountains, thee too high woods obey. 
	
	What need to tell of the statues fashioned long since in wax and in bronze? 
	Of all that the tints of Apelles57 delight to have endowed well nigh with breath; 
65	all that the hands of Pheidias fashioned to wondrous loveliness 
	even while Pisa was still tenant-less; all that the skill of Myro 
	or the chisel of Polyclitus conjured into life;58 
	bronzes, from the funeral-fire of Corinth, more precious than gold; 
	busts of great captains and bards and wise men of old, 
70	whom it is thy study to follow, whose influence fills thy whole heart, 
	my unruffled sage, as with a virtuous tranquillity of mind and a soul at peace 
	thou heedest not the bidding of others. Why should I rehearse the countless roof tops, 
	and the ever-changing view? Each has a charm of its own: 
	every chamber-window has its private sea. Across the level waters 
75	each room commands a territory all its own. One looks 
	upon Inarime, from another the cliffs of Prochyta59 come into sight; 
	on one hand appears great Hector’s amour-bearer,60 from another, 
	look how sea-girt Nesis61 draws a niggard breath of murky air; 
	from another Euploea62 of happy augury to roving mariners. 
80	There Megalia’s63 high bluffs beat back the curling waves 
	and thy Limon64 chafes that his master rests beyond the waters 
	over against him, as he gazes at thy Surrentine home far off. 
	Yet one hall there is, that quite outshines the rest; 
	one hall that straight across the sea presents to thee Parthenope. 
	
85	Therein are marbles chosen from the heart of quarries 
	in Greece; some splashed with tracery as of Orient Syene,65 
	some hewn by Phrygian picks up and down the land 
	of lovelorn Cybele;66 where, as on painted stone, 
	the white ground is picked out with rings of red. 
90	Here is marble quarried from the hills of Lycurgus 
	at Amyclae,67—a mimicry of the green grass in stone. 
	And here are bright yellow blocks from Numidia;68 here the marble of Thasos 
	and of Chios, and Carystian pillars that delight to face seawards.69 
	These all front and greet the towers of Naples. 
95	A blessing on the fancy that prefers the Greek, that makes a Grecian land 
	thy home! Never may the city of thy birth, Puteoli, grudge thee 
	to us. We shall make better owners of our poet foster-son. 
	
	What need to recount the wealth of the fields; the plough-lands 
	invading the sea ; the cliffs that stream with the wine-god’s nectar? 
100	Oftentimes in autumn, when the vintage is ripening, 
	some sea-nymph scales the rocks and, screened by the murk 
	of night, brushes the brine from her eyes with a ripe bough 
	and snatches sweet clusters from thy hills. 
	Often the spray from the waves hard by dashes over the vines; 
105	the Satyrs plunge into the flood, and the hill-gods are fain 
	to seize the ocean-nymphs as they play naked in the waters. 
	
	Fair betide the lord and lady of the land, until they reach 
	the years of a Tithonus or a Nestor!70 Never may it change this its noble 
	allegiance, nor ever be outmatched by the steading of Hercules 
110	or the bay of Dicarchus;71 nor may the Master oftener 
	find joy in his loved vineyards on Spartan Galesus.72 
	Here rather, where Pollius plies his muse-craft,—
	whether he ponders the counsels of the sage of Gargettus,73 
	whether he strikes my epic lute or weaves an elegiac lay, 
115	or menacingly unsheathes the satire of his vengeance; 
	here from the rocks lightly speed the Sirens to melodies more entrancing 
	than their own; here Tritonia74 stirs her crests to listen. 
	Then, then the wild winds cease: even the waves are forbidden 
	to rage. Dolphins rise from the deep, and drawn to 
120	the magic of his music gently swim along the cliff-foot. 
	
	Long life to thee, and greater wealth than the treasures of Midas and the gold 
	of Croesus,75 and happiness beyond the kingship of Troy and the Euphrates,—
	to thee whom neither treacherous power nor the fickle mob, 
	neither laws nor camp can lure! Thy heart is too great 
125	for hope or fear, uplifted high above all longing; 
	beyond the reach of fate, and flouting the disdain 
	of fortune. Death shall not find thee in doubt 
	and confusion but sated with life and prepared 
	to be gone. We are an unprofitable folk, bond-slaves 
130	of transitory blessings, and never free from some fresh desire. 
	We scatter to meet fresh adventures. Thou from the fastness of wisdom 
	dost look down on our wandering and laugh at the joys of men. 
	Time was when the allegiance of two lands 
	distracted thee, when thou wert the idol of two cities. 
135	On this side worshipped and worshipful to the people of Dicarchus, 
	yet again bidden to my own folk, lavish alike to these and those, 
	full of the fire of youth and proud in thy changing strains. 
	But now the mist is scattered; the truth shines clear; 
	others are tossed yonder upon the deep; 
140	thy bark is come safe to a quiet haven and a peaceful port, 
	unshaken by storm. Go on as thou hast begun, and nevermore unmoor 
	thy skiff (her voyaging is over) to face the hurricane that overwhelms us. 
	
147	And thou, wise beyond all other wives of Latium, and matched 
	in mind with thy husband,—thou, whose heart is never tortured by care, 
	whose countenance is never bent to frown, but ever 
150	wears bright joy and careless gladness: 
	thy riches are not hoarded and stifled in miserly chests; 
	thy heart is not tortured for loss of greedy gain. 
	Frank and open is thy abundance, moderate thy desires, and no strangers 
	to joy. Never hearts were joined together under a happier star. 
155	Even such are the souls that are schooled by harmony to love their chains. 
	*****
143	Learn ye the joys of the sheltered life, and live happy, without one care, 
	for from your hearts proceed fires of true love knitted for ever in one. Passion 
145	is sanctified to the rule of a passionless friendship. So let your names endure 
146	till the years roll into centuries, and so outstrip the glory of old renown.

III. Atedius Melior’s Tree

	EMBOSOMING yonder waters there stands a tree where best 
	it may shelter lordly Melior’s crystal lake. No sooner has it sprung 
	from the lowest roots than it stoops over the flood; anon 
	with straight stem towers high, as though in the mid-waters it found 
5	fresh birth ; as though its secret roots lodged beneath the glassy wave. 
	
	Why ask Phoebus76 to unfold so slight a history! Ye fountain-fairies 
	and easy Fauns! your help suffices; you shall rehearse the legend. 
	
	The silly nymphs were flying in a bevy before Pan.77 
	Headlong he followed, as he would seize them all; yet to Pholoe78 alone 
10	he sought. She fled through brake and stream; and now it was 
	the goat-limbs, and now the wanton horns of her pursuer that affrighted her. 
	Past the battle-haunted grove of Janus, past the grim lair of Cacus 
	and the fields of Quirinus, on tiptoe of terror she fled, till she came 
	to the shelter of the Coelian woods.79 There at last, outworn with the chase 
15	and overcome by fear,—just where to-day stands wide 
	the trusty home of tranquil Melior,—closer around her she gathered 
	her saffron robe, and on the verge of the springing bank she hid. 
	Swift followed the shepherd-god,80 thinking that the prize was his. 
	And now his fevered breast was shaken with sighs; 
20	and now he hovered lightly over his prey. When lo, 
	as Diana81 ranged the seven hills, hunting the trail of a deer 
	on Aventine,82 she came hot-foot thither. 
	Angered was the goddess at the sight, and turning to 
	her true companions cried:—’What, shall I never keep this wanton horde 
25	of foul Satyrs from their lustful raids? Must the number 
	of my chaste votaries ever grow less?’ She said, and drew 
	a short shaft from her quiver: but the bow bent not 
	nor twanged with wonted music; for she was content 
	to toss it with one hand alone, and touched (so runs the tale) 
30	but the left hand of the drowsy nymph with the arrow feathers. 
	Up started Pholoe, and saw at once the day and her wanton foe; 
	and seeing, lest she should bare her snow-white limbs, just as she was, 
	in all her raiment, plunged into the mere. There, deep under the waters, 
	she hid in the weeds that paved the pool, thinking that Pan was after her. 
35	Baffled in a moment, what could the marauder do? Trust him 
	to the deep waters he durst not, for he knew his limbs were hairy 
	and from his earliest years no skill had he to swim. Unstintingly he made lament, 
	and cried out upon the heartless Fair, the wayless mere, and the jealous dart. 
	Then he espied a young plane-tree: the stem was long, 
40	and countless the boughs; a crest aspiring to the skies. 
	This he set hard by and heaped about it the quickening sand, 
	and sprinkled it with the longed-for waters and charged it, saying, 
	
	‘Live long, O tree, to be renowned as token of my vow. 
	Thou at least, if I may not, must stoop and cherish the winding bower 
45	of this heartless nymph. Wrap thy leaves about her flood. 
	Suffer her not, cruel though she be, to be parched by the heat 
	of the sun or lashed by the pitiless hail. Only forget not 
	to strew and stain her pool with thy leaves. 
	Long then will I remember thee and the Queen of this 
50	kindly haunt and foster both to a prosperous old age. 
	Henceforth with Jove’s oak, Apollo’s bays, and the silver-poplar 
	shade, let my pines be amazed at thy branches.’83 
	
	He ended, and the plane, quickening with life, hung athwart 
	the brimming waters with arching stem, and brooded over Pan’s 
55	lost love. With fostering shadows it searched the wave and sought 
	its embrace; but the pride of the water put it away and shrank 
	from touch. At last struggling upwards, and balanced 
	on the trunk, once more it cunningly poised upright a crest 
	with never a knot, as though with another root it sank into 
60	the depths of the pool. Now even Phoebe’s votary 
	hates it not, but woos the branches she banished from her waters. 
	
	Such birthday gift Melior I bring to thee, a little offering, 
	and yet destined, it may be, to live long. For thee,—
	in whose calm soul dwell honour and courtesy, 
65	and virtue grave yet gay,—for thee, the scorner 
	of sluggish ease, of tyrannous power and unconscionable 
	ambition; whose is the mean traced betwixt duty and pleasure; 
	whose faith is stainless, whose heart a stranger to turmoil; 
	aloof, even before the world, seeing that in order due thy life is planned; 
70	for thee who art quick to spurn gold, aye, and skilled 
	to order thy wealth aright and bring to the light thy store. 
	Long mayst thou flourish, young as now in heart and in character. 
	Go on to vie with the years of Priam and Tithonus,84 and to outpass 
	the age which thy father and thy mother bore with them to Persephone.85 
75	Such boon have they won for thee from the stern Sisters,86—
	they and the high renown of noble Blaesus,87 that shall flourish 
	once more, destined by thy witness to escape the silence of decay.

IV. Melior’s Parrot

	PARROT, parrot, king of birds, fluent favourite of thy master; 
	parrot, skilled to mimic the accents of man, 
	what power by too swift a fate has stilled thy voice? 
	Poor thing, only yesterday, though doomed to die, thou hadst a place 
5	at our feast. Beyond the midnight we saw thee 
	ranging the couches and tasting the good cheer. 
	Greetings, too, and well- conned words thou hadst 
	repeated. Today the dateless silence of Death 
	seals all that melody. Oh, tell no more the oft-told tale of Phaethon’s 
10	sisters.88 ‘Tis not only the dying swan that sings its own death-hymn. 
	
	Ah, how spacious was thy dwelling-place! How radiant 
	the ruddy dome! a row of silver bars set in ivory round about thee. 
	Shrill rang the portals at the pecking of thy beak. Alas, today the doors 
	speak their own vexation. Tenantless is that blissful prison; 
15	vanished the scolding voice that filled the princely mansion! 
	
	Let all scholar birds flock hither, unto whom Nature has granted 
	the right divine of speech. Let the favourite of Phoebus89 utter 
	a lament; the starling too, that forgets not to re-echo faithfully the accents 
	it has heard; the woodpeckers that for rivalling the Muses suffered change; 
20	the partridge that links and repeats the words of man; 
	the nightingale that warbles forlorn in her Thracian bower.90 
	Mourn, mourn ye birds together! Bear your dead companion 
	to the funeral fire; and, one and all, learn ye this new dirge. 
	
	‘The Parrot,—the glory and the -pride of the fowls 
25	of the air, the radiant Ruler of the East,— is dead, is dead. 
	Whom neither the bird of Juno with jewelled plumage,91 
	nor the denizen of frozen Phasis,92 nor the Meleagrides,93 
	the prey of the Numidians in the rainy south, could surpass in beauty. 
	The Parrot that had greeted kings, that had uttered the name 
30	of Caesar, that had played the part now of mourning friend, 
	and now of gay companion,—so ready to repeat the message 
	it had learned. When he was released from his cage, 
	Melior never wanted for company. Yet not without honour is his 
	passing to the Shades. With Eastern perfumes the pyre is kindled; 
	fragrant is his delicate plumage with Arabian incense and saffron 
	of Sicily. Untouched by the languor of old age 
	he shall be borne a happier phoenix to a richer pyre.’

V. The Tame Lion

	WHAT has it profited thee now to put off thine anger 
	and forget thy fierceness: to unlearn thy savage instinct and desire not 
	man’s blood: to endure bondage and to obey a puny master: 
	to come at a word from thy cage and to thy cage return again: 
5	to yield up of thine own will the prey thou hadst seized: 
	to relax thy jaws and release the hand they had held? 
	For all thy skill to slay mighty beasts thou thyself art slain; 
	not compassed about by the Massylian94 host, not caught within 
	winding toils, not with dread spring over-leaping the spears, 
10	or duped by masked yawning pit, but conquered 
	by a beast in flight. With gaping gates open stands the ill-omened 
	cage. Around, behind close-locked doors, thy trembling kin, 
	thy brother lions chafed that so foul a wrong was suffered. 
	Anon their manes drooped: they were ashamed one and all to look upon 
15	thy body brought back, and gathered all their foreheads into a frown. 
	But not at one blow did this strange dishonour crush and destroy 
	thee. Thy courage was undaunted at thy fall; thy spirit returned to thee 
	even from the jaws of death. Nor did all thy menaces 
	flee away at once. Even as a soldier, that knows he hath 
20	his death-wound, yet ere he die fronts and defies the foe, 
	with hand upraised and menace of failing sword; 
	so did yon lion with fainting steps, stripped of his wonted pride, 
	yet opening his jaws and hardening his eyes, pant for breath and for the foe. 
	
	Still, though in a moment mastered and slain, rich recompense shalt thou 
25	bear hence with thee. For as though thou wert a gladiator of renown 
	stretched there on the bloody sand, the people and the senate mourned 
	and sighed to see thee die. And amid so many beasts from Scythia 
	and Libya, from banks of Rhine and herds of Pharos,95 
	whose death is unregarded, thy loss alone it was, 
30	lion, that dimmed our great Ruler’s eye.

VI. Consolation for the Death of Flavius Ursus’ Favorite

	OVER-HARSH is he who sets bounds to sorrow and a limit 
	to lamentation. It is sad for a father to kindle (alas!) the funeral fire 
	of his children in their prime and of his sons growing to manhood; 
	hard for a husband to be robbed of his wife, and left to bewail 
5	the partner of his couch. Bitter it is to sigh for a sister or to weep 
	a brother lost. Yet men of other blood than ours steal 
	into our hearts, so that a lighter wound touches us more nearly than 
	a greater grief. ‘Tis for a slave,96 Ursus,97 that you mourn, a slave 
	since thus with blind hands Fortune confounds the name 
10	and discerns not the heart. Yet he was loyal; and for 
	his loving faith he deserved the tears we are shedding. Nobler than 
	an unbroken pedigree was the freedom of his soul. Check not your tears. 
	Be not ashamed. If so cruel a lot is decreed, let your sorrow 
	on this day know no curb. You are a man: and for a man,—alas, I am 
15	but kindling the fire of grief,—a man after your own heart you weep. 
	Fain was he to serve you: no bitterness was in him; he welcomed the yoke, 
	and of himself ruled himself sternly. Who shall chide your sorrow 
	over such a grave? The Parthian sighs for his charger slain 
	in battle, the Molossian for his trusty hound.98 Even birds have 
20	had their pyre and a deer his dirge from Maro.99 
	
	What if he was at heart no slave? I have seen him with my eyes and marked 
	his bearing; how he brooked you only for his lord; but prouder than his bearing was 
	the pride upon his brow; high character was plain to read on his boyish countenance. 
	Right glad had been the mothers of Greece and eager they of Latium 
25	to have borne such a son. Less noble was proud Theseus, 
	whom the subtle maid of Crete with careful clew won back;100 
	and less comely the shepherd Paris, when, to behold his Spartan love, 
	he launched the reluctant pine-barks upon the wave.101 Think not 
	that I am deceiving you: the wonted freedom of poetry leads not my song astray. 
30	I saw him, and see him still, a fairer shape than Achilles when Thetis 
	hid him on the maiden-haunted shore, that he might beware of battle; 
	or Troilus, when the lance from the hand of Achilles overtook him 
	as he sped round the walled town of merciless Phoebus.102 
	How fair thou wast! Comelier far than all youths or men; 
35	surpassed only by thy lord. His beauty alone 
	outshone thee, as the moon outshines the lesser 
	lights, or as Hesperus103 dims the stars of heaven. 
	It was not womanish fairness that was on thy brow, not softness of beauty 
	on thy countenance,—as on theirs whose limbs uncharactered 
40	by the forbidden knife proclaim them outcasts from manhood,104—but boy 
	though thou wast, thou hadst a man’s comeliness: not overbold thy glance, 
	but mild thine eye, yet earnest and bright: so looked Parthenopaeus,105 
	when his helmet was doffed. Simple thy comely wavy locks: 
	thy chin unbearded, but golden with the bloom 
45	of youth. Such are the striplings whom the river Eurotas 
	rears by Leda’s wave,106 and in such guise and so innocent the boys 
	who come to Elis and approve their boyhood to Jove.107 
	The honour (whence was it?) of a stainless soul, untroubled calm of heart, 
	a wisdom riper than thy years—all these were thine. In song—
50	wherein perchance I may have power—oftentimes he would rally 
	his master—who was fain to listen—and help him with high and zealous 
	counsel. Your sadness and your gladness, Ursus, he shared; 
	nor ever followed his own bent, but to your looks formed his own; 
	worthy to surpass in renown that Haemonian Pylades and the loyalty 
55	of Theseus.108 Nay, let the limit of his praise be the bound 
	that his rank allows; not more faithfully did sad-hearted Eumaeus 
	await the return of lingering Ulysses.109 
	
	What god was it, what chance that chose out a wound 
	so fell? Whence did the Fates find such skill to harm ? 
60	How much more bravely, Ursus, had you borne loss of wealth 
	and rich substance; whether in smoking avalanche 
	the rich fields of the Locrians had belched forth Vesuvian fire,110 
	or the rivers had overwhelmed the Pollentine glades,111 
	or Lucanian Acir112 or headstrong Tiber113 had hurled his deep waters 
65	on his right bank, with unruffled brow you would have borne 
	the will of heaven. Aye, or if nurturing Crete and Cyrene and whatsoever 
	lands there be from which Fortune returns to you with her bosom full 
	of plenty,114—if all had refused the promised harvest. But baleful Envy, 
	skilled to wound, saw the weak point in your heart and the sure 
70	avenue of pain. But now he was at the turning point 
	of manhood, and peerless in beauty assayed to add yet 
	three years more to his three Olympiads,115 
	when grim-visaged Nemesis116 set her stern glance upon him; 
	and first she made his thews stronger and his eyes brighter, 
75	and bade him bear his head higher than of old. 
	Alas, deadly was her favour to the hapless youth. She tormented 
	her own heart with the sight and, taking to her embrace Treachery and Death, 
	she cast her toils on him as he lay, and with taloned hands mercilessly tore 
	that brow serene. Hardly was the morning star at the fifth rising 
80	saddling his dripping steeds, when already, Beloved, the bitter shore 
	of pitiless Charon117 and pitiless Acheron were before thine eyes. 
	With what an agony of grief thy master called thee back! Not thy mother, 
	had she lived, nor thy father could more passionately have bruised 
	and disfigured their limbs: and surely thy brother who saw thy burial 
85	blushed to be outdone. Yet not on a slave’s pyre was 
	thy body burnt. Fragrance of frankincense and saffron 
	of Cilicia118 the flame consumed: cinnamon from the Phoenix’ 
	nest,119 balm that distils from Assyrian simples,120 
	and thy master’s tears: these only thine ashes drank, 
90	those the pyre greedily consumed. The Setian wine121 
	that drowned the grey embers, the polished onyx that took 
	thy bones to its heart, was not so precious to thy poor shade 
	as those tears. But do even your tears help the dead? Why, Ursus, 
	do we yield to sorrow ? Why do you hug your loss and wilfully cherish 
95	the wound? Where is the eloquence that men haled to the judgement seat 
	know so well? Why torture the loved shade with so savage a grief? 
	Though he be a matchless soul and worthy to be mourned, 
	thou hast paid the debt. He is entering among the blest, 
	and at peace in Elysium;122 there perchance he finds father and mother 
100	ennobled now; or in the sweet stillness of Lethe123 
	the fountain-fairies of Avernus124 mingle, it may be, and sport with him, 
	and Proserpine125 with sidelong glances marks their play. 
	
	Peace, I pray you, to your lament. The Fates will find for you, or he himself 
	mayhap will give, another Beloved, and joyously will bestow on him the same heart 
105	and the same mien, and teach him to win your love by his likeness to the lost.

VII. Birthday Poem for Lucan, to Polla

	UP, all ye dwellers on the hills of Dione of the Isthmus,126 
	all ye whose hearts are fired by the thrill of inspiration, 
	and who drink of the fountain which sprang from 
	the flying hoof.127 Up, and do honour to Lucan’s day!128 
5	Ye also, even ye, in whose hands is the honour of minstrelsy! 
	Arcadian Hermes, deviser of the tuneful lyre, 
	and Bacchus, who dost whirl the Bassarids129 in the dance; 
	Paean and the Hyantian sisters,130 up! 
	and blithely do on new ribbons of purple; 
10	adorn your hair and let your white robes 
	be wreathed with streamers of lush ivy. 
	Let the rivers of song take a wider sweep; 
	let the woods of the Muses put on fresh leafage, 
	and every gap and inlet of the daylight 
15	be filled with fresh greenwood shade. 
	In the Thespian groves131 set up a hundred fragrant 
	altars, offer a hundred victims, fresh from 
	bathing in Dirce or browsing on Cithaeron.132 
	Lucan is my theme. Attend, ye Muses! in your honour 
20	we keep the day. Let an auspicious silence reign, 
	while to the poet who exalted you in the twin arts 
	of prose and poetry—the High Priest 
	of Roman song—we pay our homage. 
	
	Happy, thrice happy and blessed, the land 
25	that sees the downward courses of Hyperion133 
	sink under the surface of the sea; 
	that hears the hiss of his plunging wheels; 
	whose fat olive-presses vie with Athens 
	that yields increase to Tritonis;134—
30	since for Lucan the world is her debtor. 
	Greater, O land, is this guerdon than thy gift of Seneca135 to man; 
	greater than the bestowal upon us of thy golden-mouthed Gallic;136 
	more renowned than Grecian Meles shall Baetis be.137 
	Baetis, turn back thy stream and exalt thy waters to the stars; 
35	let Mantua beware of challenging thee.138 
	
	At his first birth, while he was still crawling 
	on earth, and lisping with baby lips in numbers 
	sweet, gracious Calliope139 took him to her heart. 
	Never till then had she softened and put off 
40	her long-drawn sorrow and sighing for Orpheus.140 
	‘Child,’ she cried, ‘to the Muses vowed, 
	soon thou shalt outstrip the bards of old. 
	Not streams nor herded beasts, not the ash-trees 
	of Thrace shall thy lyre entrance;141 
45	nay, but the Seven Hills and the river 
	of Mars, scholar knights and crimson-robed 
	senators shall hang upon thy eloquence.142 
	Let others follow the beaten track of poesy; 
	let their theme be the midnight sack of Troy, 
50	the return of lingering Ulysses,143 
	the adventures of Minerva’s bark.144 
	Thou shalt be the darling of Latium; and, mindful of thy birth, 
	shalt utter in bolder strains a Roman-liveried lay.
	
	In boyhood’s days, thy first slight songs shall be 
55	of Hector and the chariot of Achilles; 
	of the suppliant gold of princely Priam.145 
	Thou shalt unbar the gates of the underworld,146 
	and to the gay theatres rehearse the story 
	of thankless Nero and of Orpheus my son.147 
60	Thou shalt sing the impious flames of the guilty Emperor 
	that coursed over the roof-tops of Rome.148 
	Then unto chaste Polla shall honour 
	and glory be paid by thy merry address.149 
	Anon, in manhood’s nobler language, the thunders 
65	of thy verse150 shall sound of Philippi whitening with 
	the bones of Romans, and the fight at Pharsalus 
	(ah, lightning blow, dealt by our sovereign Lord in arms); 
	of great Cato, loyal and free, and 
	of Pompey the darling of the people. 
70	Thy faithful heart shall bewail the guilt 
	of Egyptian Canopus, thy hand uprear to Pompey 
	a loftier monument than blood-stained Pharos.151 
	Thus shalt thou sing in thy first manhood, 
	younger than Virgil when he bewailed the Gnat.152 
75	Bold Ennius153 and his untutored muse shall give 
	place before thee; Lucretius154 the prophet, and his impassioned 
	lore; and he who tells of the passage of the Argonauts155 
	and he who throws constituent atoms into new shapes.156 
	Yea, fuller praise, even the Aeneid157 shall do 
80	homage to thee, the bard of Rome. 
	
	Nor shall the glory of song be my only gift to thee. 
	In happy marriage I will bestow on thee 
	a poetess worthy of thy muse, a bride 
	such as Juno and gracious Venus might give. 
85	Beauty and innocence, kindness and wealth, lineage 
	and all grace and comeliness shall be hers, 
	and at your gates in jocund strains 
	my own lips shall chant the bridal song. 
	
	Ah! why is fate so harsh, so cruel? 
90	Why is renown ever short-lived? 
	Why do the thunderbolts of Fortune strike the highest peaks? 
	Why by harsh dispensation does greatness never see old age? 
	By such a law it was that after he had blasted East 
	and West with his lightnings? the son of Libyan Jove 
95	was laid at Babylon in a little grave.158 
	By such a law Thetis shuddered at the fall 
	of Pelides, pierced by the dart of trembling Paris.159 
	By such a law I followed the severed but still melodious 
	head of my own Orpheus down the banks of echoing Hebrus.160 
100	By such a law thou too, the reproach of the unbridled tyrant,161 
	shalt be forced to plunge in the cataracts of Lethe, 
	with the story of battle on thy lips, and thy voice uplifted 
	to give comfort to the mighty dead. Even so 
	(alas! the cruel, cruel crime!) the silence shall take thee.’ 
105	She ended, and with gleaming quill 
	lightly brushed away her falling tears. 
	
	But for thee,—whether uplifted in the soaring chariot 
	of Fame along the swift orbit of the sky, 
	from the heights of the mighty thou gazest down 
110	upon earth and smilest at the grave; 
	or whether thou dost inhabit the grove of bliss 
	thy worth has won,—a happy soul on the 
	Elysian shores,162 where gather the heroes 
	of Pharsalus; and Pompeys and Catos163 
115	attend upon thy lofty strains;—
	or whether thy proud and hallowed shade surveys 
	the place of torment, and from afar thou hearkenest to 
	the tortures of the damned, and seest Nero 
	paling at the sight of his mother’s torch:164—
120	let thy bright presence come to us, and at 
	Polla’s prayer, entreat, I beseech thee, one day 
	of the gods of silence. That door is oft unbarred 
	for the return of husbands to their brides. 
	Not in wantonness of feigned rites doth Polla 
125	endue thee with pretended godhead. 
	Thee, thee she worships, thee she cherishes. 
	Thine image lives in her inmost heart, 
	and idle is the comfort brought her by thy presentment 
	that, fashioned in gold, shines above 
130	her couch and broods over her innocent dreams. 
	Banished far hence be all shapes of death! 
	This day is the birthday of life and happiness. 
	A truce to all agony of grief! 
	Let tears of joy be shed, and sorrow turn all 
135	its late weeping into worship.