Statius, Silvae Book 5
Translated by D. A. Slater
Formatted and with notes by C. Chinn


I. Lament for Priscilla, wife of Abascantus

	IF my hands had aptitude to mould effigies in wax, 
	or upon ivory or gold to stamp a living likeness,—
	from such a work, Priscilla, I had imagined some welcome solace for 
	thy lord: since surely his matchless loyalty deserves that thy features 
5	should be portrayed by the tints of an Apelles, or that the hand of a Pheidias 
	should give thee fresh birth, and restore thee to him in his sorrow.1 
	So yearningly does he strive to rescue thy shade from the grave, 
	so fiercely struggle against Death, wearying the efforts of artists 
	and seeking to have thy presentment in all metals to cherish. 
10	But the beauty which dexterous hands fashion with toil, must pass away: 
	the homage that in deathless numbers my lyre would pay to thee, 
	O peerless lady of honoured lord, will live and never know 
	the oblivion of decay, if but Apollo be gracious and Caesar refuse not 
	who at Apollo's side comes ever to aid me:—
15	no monument of thee shall be more precious. 
	
	Late is the leechcraft set on foot to help that agony of grief, for already 
	in his gliding course another Sun is speeding on yet another year. 
	But when the blow was fresh, and the wound raw, when the house 
	was darkened with lamentation, say, what avenue was there, then, 
20	to the widowed husband's grief-stricken ears? Then tears and rending 
	of robes were his only solace: then but to weary the hireling crowd, 
	to out-sorrow sorrow, and with passionate laments to assail Fate 
	and the gods for their injustice. Though Orpheus,2 whom stream 
	and forest followed, had come to ease his sorrow, 
25	though all the Muses had attended upon their sister Calliope's son 
	and all the prophets of Apollo and of Bacchus had surrounded the melodist,3 
	naught had strain or string, to which the gods of wan Avernus4 
	and the snake-tressed Furies5 hearkened, availed to soothe: 
	so overmastering was the anguish that held sway in his stricken heart. 
30	Can it be that even now while I sing, the wound, though scarred over, 
	still shrinks at the dirge, and the big tears of nuptial love rise and 
	oppress his eyes? Are those lashes still wet with drops of loyal sorrow? 
	'Tis wondrous and yet true! Sooner (so runs the tale) did that bereaved 
	mother on Sipylus drain dry her eyes:6 sooner will the dews of anguish 
35	fail Tithonis:7 sooner will the mother of Achilles be sated 
	and weary with dashing her storms in sorrow upon his tomb.8 
	Honour to thy heart! Not unmarked is thy love by the god who, 
	nigher unto us than Jove, holds the reins of the whole world and orders 
	our going; he sees thy tears: yes, and even draws there from secret 
40	testimony to his chosen vice-gerent, inasmuch as thou art true to her 
	shade, and dost honour her obsequies. Where could there be chaster 
	passion? Where a love that our lord and censor9 could more approve? 
	
	What wonder that a lifelong Harmony knit together 
	your hearts and coupled you fast with an unbroken tie? 
45	For though she had known an earlier bridal and espousals 
	to another lord, yet, as if she had come to thee a maiden, 
	with all her heart and soul she clung to thee and cherished thee: 
	even as a lusty vine is wedded with the elm in his prime: see, the elm 
	caresses her and intertwines his leafage with hers, and prays for a rich 
50	autumn, and rejoices when he is wreathed with the beloved clusters. 
	Those wives are praised for lineage or for dower of loveliness 
	who have never had the treasure of loyalty; whose dignities lack 
	sterling honour; for thee, though thy stock was stainless and thine 
	the grace of happy beauty for which all lovers needs must long, 
55	yet in thine own self was greater lustre, that thou knewest one love 
	only, and in thine inmost marrow didst maintain one flame alone.10 
	Love such as thine no Phrygian marauder11 e'er had debauched, 
	nor Ithacensian suitors,12 nor that adulterer who used his 
	Mycenaean gold to bring dishonour on his brother's wedded wife.13 
60	Though the tempter made proffer to Priscilla of Babylon's 
	wealth, or of Lydia's massy treasure, of the royal store of Cathay 
	or of India and Arabia,14 she had chosen rather in chaste penury to die 
	unsullied and barter life for honour. Yet never puritan frown clouded 
	her brow, nor was excess of sternness in her heart: she was simple 
65	and gay in her loyalty, and mingled modesty with grace. 
	
	But had ever doubting fear for thee beckoned her to some 
	great hazard, blithely, to save her lord, she would have faced 
	even an armed host or lightning bolt or jeopardy of mid-ocean. 
	Better, that adversity never proved, Priscilla, how thou couldst 
70	turn pale for thy husband, how thou cherishedst thy troth. 
	By a happier path, night and day a suppliant of the gods, 
	bending the knee in entreaty at every shrine and 
	worshipping our mighty Ruler's gentle presence, thou didst 
	with thy vows win heaven's favour for thy lord. 
	
75	Thy prayer was heard; and with favouring steps Fortune drew near. 
	For he marked his loyal soldier's industrious retirement 
	and stainless truth, the heart girt up for hardship, the watchful 
	mind, the temperate strength fit to unravel high questions 
	of state,—he saw, who knows all the secrets of his people 
80	and posts well-tried servants to keep watch over every quarter. 
	And no wonder. He marks East and West, the doings of the South 
	and of the wintry North, reviewing counsels of war and of peace, 
	and searching the very hearts of men. He set his yoke upon those 
	shoulders, and laid on Abascantus a heavy burden,15 a charge 
85	well nigh past handling,—for in his majesty's house is none more 
	manifold,—even to send far and wide over the great globe the hests 
	of Rome's Ruler; to have in hand and to control all the 
	strength of the Empire; to unfold the tale of Northern 
	triumph; the tribute of Rhenish hosts,16 of the roving Euphrates 
90	and of Ister's17 banks of the double name; and how the ends of the earth 
	have yielded, and Thule,18 round whose shores moans the refluent wave; 
	whether all our halberts are crowned with blithe laurels, 
	and not a lance darkened with the pennon of disgrace; 
	to tell, too,19—if the Master divide his trusty swordsmen,—
95	who is the man to lead a company,—a knight among 
	the foot,—who to command a cohort; who is fit 
	for the high rank of distinguished tribune, and who 
	is worthier to be general of the squadrons of horse; 
	aye, and to forecast a thousand chances;—Has the Nile flooded 
100	his fields? or Libya sweated beneath the rainy South-wind?20 
	Should I recount the full tale, not Tegea's winged lord21 
	with herald wand reports message more manifold from the stars 
	on high, nor Juno's handmaid22 who swoops through the lucent air 
	and whips her arc of gay colours round the sky; 
105	nor Fame, that, freighted with the laurels of Germanicus,23 
	outstrips the day and leaves the Arcadian24 lagging behind 
	beneath the stars, and Thaumantis25 outpaced in mid-heaven. 
	
	What joy, Priscilla, gods and men read on thy countenance 
	that happy day, when first thy husband was preferred to his 
110	high employ! What bliss attended that feast of thine, whereat with 
	overflowing heart thou madest eager obeisance, prostrate at the knees 
	of the hallowed Lord himself who had deserved of thee so well! 
	Not with such rapture does the priestess exult upon the Aonian hill, 
	to whom our father of Delos has given power over the chasms of his 
115	mysterious cave:26 nor he on whom Bacchus bestows the honourable right 
	to wield his chief wand and to bear the standard of his inspired band.27 
	Yet not even then did thy repose suffer change, nor was thy true heart 
	puffed up by prosperity. Thy soul held on the same path: the heyday of 
	fortune took not away thy meekness. Still did Priscilla anxiously cherish 
120	her careworn lord, now heartening and now guiding his labours. 
	With her own hands she ministered the modest feast, the temperate cup, 
	counselling him to follow in his Ruler's steps: she was like some 
	thrifty farmer's Apulian helpmate tanned by Sabine suns,28 
	who, as the stars peep forth, sees that it is the hour for 
125	her tired husband's home-coming, and in haste makes ready 
	board and bed and listens for the sound of his returning plough. 
	Nay, that is but meagre praise: why, she would have borne thee company through 
	the frozen North, on Danube bank and in wintry Sarmatia;29 and by the pale frosts 
	of Rhine; no clime so sultry but she had hardened her heart to endure it with thee. 
130	If camp-law allowed, her will had been to bear the quiver 
	and fence her flank with the shield of an Amazon,30 
	so might she but see thee in the dust-storm of battle, 
	pressing hard upon Caesar's lightning charger, brandishing thy 
	godlike weapons, sprinkled with sweat from the great lance. 
	
135	Enough of gracious song! Now must I lay aside 
	the bays of Phoebus and to sad cypress doom my brow.31 
	Alas, what god hath knit together Greatness and Envy 
	in unpeaceable brotherhood? By whose hest is it that these 
	twin powers wage truceless war? Is there no house whereon 
140	Greatness hath set her mark but straightway Envy 
	must eye it askance and with fell stroke rout its joy? 
	Blithe and secure your home prospered. 
	No sadness there: for, fickle though Fortune be and wanton, 
	how could you fear her, with Caesar your staunch friend? 
145	The jealous Fates found out a way; a deadly force 
	pierced to the loyal hearth. Even so the full vineyards 
	are scourged by the blighting sirocco; even so bows the deep cornfield 
	beneath the overwhelming rain; even so the jealous breeze meets 
	the hurrying bark and breaks in storm-clouds over her swelling sails. 
150	Priscilla felt her matchless beauty wasting away by Fate's decree, 
	as the leaves of some tall pine-tree fade,—a forest's pride,—
	whether Jove's deadly lightning hath touched it, or its roots are loosened, 
	and now stripped bare it whispers not in answer to the whispering wind. 
	Upright heart and stainless loyalty, and worship of the gods,—
155	all were in vain. Alas! the dark snares of death compassed her about 
	on every side: the merciless warp of the Sisters32 strained 
	taut: scant threads of her span remained to run. 
	Neither troops of slaves nor careful skill of the physicians availed 
	to heal the sickness. Yet her attendants round about counterfeited 
160	looks of hope: only in her husband's eyes did she remark tears. 
	He would now vainly entreat the incorruptible waters of Lethe33 
	in the underworld; and now shed anxious tears before the altars 
	of all the gods, anon imprint kisses on their gates and fling himself 
	upon their thresholds; and now he would call unto great Caesar's 
165	merciful godhead. Fie upon the stern bent of Fate! Is there then aught 
	that is forbidden unto Caesar? Ah, if thou, Father, wert all-powerful, 
	how had the years of men's lives been prolonged! 
	Death would be moaning, a prisoner in the blind abyss, 
	and the idle Fates had laid far aside their threads. 
	
170	And now her face fell, her eyes wavered in death's extremity: 
	her ears were dulled, save to her husband's well-known voice. 
	Him alone her spirit returned from the midst of death to greet: 
	him with weak arms she straitly clasped, her poor glazed eyes 
	turned upon him, fain to feast her sight with his dear face, 
175	rather than gaze her last upon the sun. 
	Then, dying, to her heart's true love she spoke these words of comfort: 
	
	'Husband, in whom half my heart shall live,—and would God 
	I might leave thee the years of which cruel Atropos34 is robbing me,—
	weep not, I pray thee: deal not harsh blows upon 
180	thy breast; torture not my shade at its passing. 
	Though I leave my bower to sorrow inasmuch as I go first, 
	yet is the due order kept: greater bliss has my life known than a long 
	old age: I have seen thee now for a long while radiant with all honour: 
	have seen thee draw nearer and nearer to the right hand of majesty. 
185	Neither the Fates, nor any of the Heavenly ones can touch thee now: 
	their spite I take with me. Do thou joyfully pursue the path thou 
	hast entered: worship still with untiring adoration that hallowed presence, 
	that mighty -power. Now I bid thee (and welcome to thee the bidding), 
	vow to the Capitoline temple a golden statue,—in weight a full hundred,—
190	to wear for all time the bright present-went of the 
	Emperor's majesty, and to be a token of my true worship. 
	So shall I not see the Furies nor evil Tartarus,35 but be suffered 
	to pass, a favoured shade, into the confines of Elysium?’36 
	
	So spake she, sinking, and clasped her husband, 
195	and to his lips cheerfully resigned her lingering breath 
	and pressed his hand upon her eyes. 
	
	But his heart was fevered with passionate sorrow. 
	He filled the widowed home with frantic cries: 
	now he would unsheathe the sword: now hurry to a high 
200	place (scarce could his men hold him back), and now would 
	bend him over the dead with lips pressed to hers, and fiercely give play 
	to the passion hidden in his heart; even as that Odrysian bard,37 
	palsied to see his wife snatched from him, laid down his lute 
	dumbstruck by Strymon and, with never a song, wept over her sad grave.38 
205	Yes, and he would have broken the thread of his maimed life, 
	that thou mightest not pass companionless to the gloom below, 
	but a loyalty to Rule, that claimed the wonder of our holy Emperor, 
	and a yet greater love forbade. 
	
					Who could in worthy verse 
	recount thy burial, the costly pomp, the grim array? 
210	There in long procession was gathered all the streaming 
	fragrance of Arabian and Cilician spring; blossoms of Sheba, 
	increase of India to burn on the grave; incense seized ere 
	the temples of Palestine could claim it; Hebrew balsam 
	and Corycian saffron and the myrrh of the daughter of Cinyras.39 
215	High upon a silken bier she lay, underneath canopy 
	of Tyrian purple.40 But in all that long array her husband alone 
	drew men's eyes; on him was bent the gaze of mighty Rome, 
	as though he was bearing his sons to burial in their prime: 
	such sorrow was upon his brow, such a gloom in his eyes 
220	and on his dishevelled hair. 'Happy is she,' men said,' and by a peaceful 
	ending freed.' It was for her husband that they let their tears flow. 
	
	Before the gates, at the place where the mighty Appia41 
	first takes her origin, and where Cybebe for Italian Almo's42 sake 
	abandons her grief and learns to forget the rivers of Ida,43—
225	this was the spot where thy peerless husband 
	softly swathed thee in Sidonian purple44 and laid thee to rest, 
	Priscilla, in a blissful grave.—Smoke of pyre and cries of farewell 
	at the flames he could not endure.—There the long years 
	cannot mar thee, nor the work of time waste thee; 
230	so carefully hath he guarded thy frame, such the wealth of fragrance 
	that breathes from the worshipful marble. Anon thou art transfashioned 
	anew into divers shapes. Here thou standest a Ceres in bronze, there a radiant 
	Ariadne, under yon cupola a Maia, and here in stone an unwanton Venus.45 
	The goddesses disdain not to wear thy comeliness. 
235	Around thee are troups of slaves, wont to obey; 
	and duly couch and board are made ready without ceasing. 
	Who could call this a gloomy grave? A home, a home is thine! 
	Well may one cry forthwith at sight of thy husband's loyalty: 
	'This, this is he,—I know it,—the vice-gerent of him 
240	who even now has consecrated a holy dwelling for his 
	eternal house, and in a fresh firmament set the stars of his kindred.' 
	Even so,—when from the Pharian46 shore some great ship 
	shakes her steps free, and now, see! she has stretched out to starboard 
	and to larboard her countless ropes and the broad arms of her sail-clad mast, 
245	and is already full under weigh,—over the same sea fares a tiny skiff 
	and claims for itself a share of the illimitable South-wind. 
	
	Why dost thou still, O matchless friend, hug sorrow to thy heart 
	without ceasing, and suffer not thy long- drawn grief to pass away? 
	Canst thou fear that Priscilla will tremble at barking Cerberus?47 
250	Nay, he has no menace for the good. Or that the Ferryman48 will be slow 
	to approach, or else drive her from the ferry? Nay, he makes haste 
	to take deserving souls across and gently places them in his hospitable skiff. 
	Aye, and whensoever a ghost draws near that hath a true 
	husband's blessing, Proserpine bids festal torches forth, 
255	and from their hallowed grottos calls the Heroines of old 
	to open a path through the grim gloom with vermeil light, 
	and strew before that shade the blossoms of Elysium.49 
	Such was the passing of Priscilla to the underworld. There with hands of entreaty 
	she beseeches the Fates for thee, and wins for thee grace from the Lords 
260	of dark Avernus,50 that thou mayst fulfil the span of mortal life, and then, 
	an old man, leave thy Master still young, still bringing peace to the world. 
	So prays she, and the Sisters,51 who cannot lie, swear to grant her vow.
	
II. Praise for Crispinus, son of Vettius Bolanus
	
	TO the Tuscan fields and the glades of Tages52 goes 
	my friend Crispinus,53—no long visit and no solitary land. 
	And yet my heart is torn with unspoken sorrow 
	and from my brimming eyes start swelling tears, 
5	as though I were watching him sail away over the stormy Aegean 
	and wearily from some high cliff following still his course 
	and sighing that the space of air was too great for my sight. 
	
	Ah, noble boy, if you were bidden to the glorious prelude 
	of your first battle and the alluring promise of the camp, 
10	with what tears should I pour out my joy, how closely 
	clasp you! And can it be that you are approaching already 
	the stern work men must desire, when your life has run but 
	sixteen rounds? But your spirit is stronger than that scanty span; 
	your years bow beneath the burden; your mind is too great for them. 
15	And no wonder: not from a line of unhonoured ancestors 
	are you sprung,54 scion of a plebeian stock, of obscure descent, 
	lacking the lustre of birth; not of the blood of Knights, 
	a new-comer to the purple, in the garb of the poor, 
	that has thrust his way into the august abode, the sanctuary, 
20	the Senate of Latium; a long array of your forefathers has 
	gone before you. As a noble horse,55 renowned 
	for famous pedigree, draws all eyes in the lists 
	of the Roman Circus, one whose favoured breed 
	can show a long line of famous ancestors;—
25	every cheer is as a spur to him: the very dust, and the 
	rounded turning-posts rejoice to greet him in his flying career;—
	even so, noble boy, the Senate saw in you its very son, and, 
	from the first, bound the senator's crescent upon your feet. 
	Soon your shoulders knew the wonted robes of purple 
30	and the garb of greatness. What wonder, when, by high example, 
	your father beckoned you to honours? He in his first youth 
	attacked in battle quiver-bearing Araxes56 
	and Armenia, ill-schooled to brook a Nero's tyranny.57 
	The command of that stern warfare was with Corbulo, 
35	but even Corbulo marvelled oft in glorious battle 
	at Bolanus, his comrade in arms and partner in toil. 
	To Bolanus he was wont to trust his thorniest cares 
	and share with him his fears: the hour that favoured 
	a feint, the day for open onset: what faith seemed unfaithful: 
40	what flight of bold Armenian was flight indeed. 
	Bolanus must reconnoitre the perilous road; Bolanus must find 
	the ridge that should be fit to yield secure camping-ground; 
	Bolanus must parcel out the fields and through barrier 
	of jealous woods and torrents open a path. He it was who fulfilled 
45	the great purposes of our noble leader and rose—he only —
	to his high hests. Even the land of the barbarian soon knew our hero: 
	his was the second crest in battle, the plume at the chief's right hand. 
	Even so were the Phrygians confounded:58 and though they marked the hero 
	of Nemea,59 and although the bow Cleonae60 knew dealt havoc in their lines, 
50	yet, though Alcides61 was against them, they dreaded Telamon62 too. 
	Boy,63 you need no stranger to teach you noble love 
	of valour. Let the renown of your own house furnish you 
	with courage. Let others learn the lesson of the Decii 
	and the return of Camillus.64 Learn you of your father; mark in what might 
55	he went on his errand to that Thule65 which beats back 
	the western waves and tired Hyperion;66 with what power 
	in his allotted year he ruled the thousand cities of mighty Asia, 
	while civil justice tempered government. Drink in the history with 
	attentive ears; these, these be the precepts that your kindred strive to make 
60	your own, and that comrades and the old men, his councillors, repeat to you. 
	
	Now you take your way towards another land, and make ready with 
	eager steps to be gone, when no token of sturdy manhood has stolen yet 
	over your cheeks, and the bent of your young life is still untried. 
	Nor is your father nigh: he is gone. Cruel fate, alas! 
65	hath engulfed him. He has left both his sons protectorless, 
	e'er even he had lived to doff the purple of boyhood from 
	your shoulders and gird you in the stainless robe.67 Who ever 
	escaped taint from an unbridled youth; from the garb of manhood 
	and manhood's freedom assumed too soon? The tree that knows not 
70	the pruning-hook runs to leafage, and exhausts its fruitfulness in shade. 
	But love of the Muses had a home in your young heart;68 
	honour, too, and loyalty that was a law unto itself; 
	upright you were and blithe, and calm your brow; yours was 
	the splendour that does not trespass on excess: the love that is nicely weighed 
75	according to each degree. The fortune of your house schooled you 
	to obey the brother who was your peer, to honour your father 
	and forgive your unhappy mother.69 Had she the heart 
	to mix for you unshrinkingly that fatal cup, that draught 
	of death, when your voice can forestall the bite of 
80	the snake, and no stepdame but your look can melt? 
	Fain were I to attack her ashes and with curses 
	to invoke torment on her shade: but ah, dear heart, 
	you cast down your eyes and would say: 
	'Nay, mercy to her ashes! It was ordained so; it was the anger 
85	of malignant Fate; the blame is with whatsoever power in heaven 
	probes not till too late the hearts of humankind, and does not arrest 
	the guilty endeavour at the very threshold ere the heart do more 
	than design the abomination. Be that day wiped out from time! 
	Let not after ages believe the tale! Let us at least be dumb, and suffer 
90	the sins of our own house to be sunk and buried deep in night. 
	She hath atoned to him, in whose hand are all his people, 
	by whose ordinance Loyalty is come back again and returned to earth, 
	before whom all Guilt trembles. Enough his vengeance, aye, and matter 
	for our tears! Nay, I would toe might win for her mercy from the merciless 
95	Furies, and rescue her trembling shade from Cerberus;70 yes, mother, 
	and quickly administer to thy spirit the waters of Forgetfulness.' 
	
	Honour to your young heart! Yet is her guilt the greater. 
	Not only loyal love, but high-souled virtue have you 
	pursued. But yesterday, when friend of yours—as it befell—
100	was turning pale at false charge of undeserved reproach 
	and aroused the interest of the Forum; and when the Julian edict71 
	surrounded by many a champion arose and flashed its chaste lightnings; 
	it was you, though until then a stranger to courts and iron laws—
	you, who had been cloistered in the silence and seclusion of the schools, 
105	who brought succour; you, who though but a recruit and weaponless, 
	averted the fears of your quailing friend and beat off the darts of the enemy. 
	Never did Romulus, never the aged Dardan72 see so young a champion in the 
	gowned mellay, in the heart of the Forum, waging conflict. The fathers73 were amazed 
	at your endeavour, amazed, too, was he who a moment ago pressed so stern an 
110	indictment, and now himself the defendant he quailed, Vettius, before thy high daring. 
	
	In thy body is no weakness either: quick strength for enterprise 
	that does not fail but follows out the heart's high bidding. 
	But yesterday I saw you with my own eyes on Tiber-bank, 
	where the Tuscan waters seethe in the Laurentine rapids,74—
115	urging your course and with bare heel galling the flanks 
	of your fiery steed; so menacing your mien and your hand (will you 
	believe me!), I was amazed and thought you armed indeed for conflict. 
	Thus on his Gaetulian75 steed, his hands filled with Trojan shafts, 
	went fair Ascanius76 a-hunting in his stepdame's land,77 
120	and fired ill-starred Elissa78 with love for his sire: 
	and so would Troilus79 sweep round in a nimbler ring 
	and baulk the menacing chargers of the foe: or he80 on whom 
	the Tyrian81 dames did not scowl as they watched him 
	keeping ward over the Arcadian82 lists upon the Theban plain. 
	
125	Up, then! The generous Emperor goads you on; with a light heart 
	your brother leaves sure footprints for your vows to follow. Up, 
	with a strong soul arise and open your mind to the gallant studies of war. 
	Mars and the Maid of Attica83 shall school you in battle; Castor shall show 
	you how to guide your steed,84 and Quirinus85 how to set arms to shoulder, 
130	for it was Quirinus who suffered you in your first boyhood 
	to clash the bloodless bronze and the shields that fell from the clouds. 
	
	Unto what lands, then, unto which of Caesar's worlds will you go? 
	Are you for swimming the rivers of the North and the conquered 
	waters of the Rhine? Or will you sweat in the deserts of sultry 
135	Libya? Or harry the ridges of Pannonia86 and the nomad 
	Sauromatae?87 Or are you for sevenfold Danube 
	and Peuce88 girded with her lord's dark stream? 
	Or will you journey to the ashes of Jerusalem and to the captive 
	woods of Edom, planter of palms that reserve their riches for others?89 
140	But if the land your great father ruled receives you, 
	how great will be the joy of fierce Araxes!90 
	What glory will exalt the Caledonian plains!91 
	When some aged native of the defiant land shall say to you: 
	'Here was your father wont to give judgement: from this turf hillock 
145	to bespeak his squadrons. See you from the mound yonder castellated 
	town? It was his gift; he it was who drew the moat round the fortress. 
	These are the weapons, these the gifts he consecrated—you can read 
	the writing still—to the gods of battle. This is the corselet he took 
	from a British chief and this he did on himself at the battle-call.'92 
150	So when Pyrrhus prepared a war of vengeance against the Teucrians, 
	Phoenix would rehearse Achilles to the son that knew him not.93 
	
	Happy Optatus,94 who in pride of hale youth shalt face 
	every march and approach the rampart, and—
	so the Emperor's star be gracious!—shalt thyself too 
155	be girded up for battle and be the untiring comrade of thy heart's 
	friend, even as loyal Pylades bore him, and as the son of Menoetius 
	fought before Troy.95 Such is the love, and such the harmony 
	(long may it endure!) between thee and thy leader. But I am losing the strength 
	of my youth. In Rome with prayer and vow I will strengthen your hearts. 
160	Alas, for if, as of old, it chance that I rehearse my 
	plaintive song and the Senators of Rome gather to listen, 
	Crispinus will be missing; along each tier my Achilles will look 
	for him in vain. But you, Crispinus, will return more mighty: 
	(a Poet's promises come true) and he, who to-day throws open 
165	to you the camp and its powers, will also grant to you to hold 
	every preferment and to be surrounded with the proud emblems 
	and sit, like your fathers, upon the throne of office. 
	
	But how now? From Trojan Alba's lofty heights,96 
	whence our Deity upon earth looks out upon towered Rome 
170	hard by, what messenger comes here, Crispinus, 
	outstripping rumour, and fills your home? 
	Surely was just saying: 'a Poet's auguries come true'! 
	See, in his might Caesar unbars for you the threshold of 
	preferment and to your hands commits the sword of Ausonia.97 
175	Forward! Be strong: and rise to the height of such great favours, 
	happy in sworn allegiance even now to our great chief, 
	and in your keeping the imperial sword of hallowed Germanicus!98 
	No meaner lot is this than if the Lord of battles himself 
	gave you his eagles and set his grim helmet upon your brow. 
180	Forward with a will, and learn to deserve honour yet greater! 
	
III. Lament for my Father
	
	FATHER, do thou thyself, pre-eminent in scholar-craft, grant me 
	from some fountain in Elysium99 sad strength and melancholy song; 
	teach me to strike the lyre of sorrow. For without thee 
	I scruple to meddle with the Delian cave or to arouse Cirrha 
5	according to my wont.100 Every strain that Apollo in the Corycian cave101 
	and Euhan102 on the Ismarian hills103 had revealed but now,—
	I have unlearned it. The fillets of Parnassus are banished 
	from my brow, and I am sore afraid when into my ivy chaplet104 
	steals the sad yew,105 and the bays,106 alas! for very dread are withering. 
10	Of a surety I am he who, with soul uplifted, assayed to exalt the deeds 
	of great-hearted princes and to keep pace in my song with their warfare. 
	Who now has plunged my soul in barren lethargy? Who has darkened 
	my Sun, passed sentence on my mind, and enshrouded it in chill gloom? 
	Spell-bound stand the Muses round about their melodist, with never a note 
15	of gladness on their lips or their lutes. Their Leader107 herself bows 
	her head in silence on her harp, as when, after the ravishing of Orpheus, 
	she stood upon the banks of Hebrus, watching the herded beasts that 
	hearkened not now his music was gone, and the woods once more immovable.108 
	
	But whether thou art soaring to the skies from the prison-house of the body 
20	and dost review the glistening spheres and the alphabet of Nature,—
	what God is; whence comes Fire; what course guides the Sun; 
	the secret of the waning moon and her resurrection from the 
	darkness; and dost prolong the notes of renowned Aratus;109 
	or whether in the assembly of heroes and the shades of the blessed, 
25	on the secluded sward of Lethe's110 meadow, thy spirit attends upon 
	Maeonides111 and the sage of Ascra,112 no worse a man than they, 
	answering them strain for strain and mingling thy melodies with theirs,—
	grant me, father, inspiration and a voice to utter my great sorrow. 
	Thrice hath the moon renewed and thrice unwoven her disk in heaven, 
30	and sees me still dumb, with never a muse-melody to balm 
	my grief. Since the glare of thy funeral-fire reddened upon my sight, 
	and I glutted these weeping eyes with the sight of thy ashes, dimmed is 
	the lustre of poesy. Scarce can I rouse the uttermost fringe of my heart to pay 
	thee this tribute and shake off the dust of sloth from my secret meditations. 
35	Even now my hand fails and my eyes are wet, 
	as I lean upon the grave in which thy sleep is soft: 
	for in our own land thou liest, where, when Aeneas 
	died, Ascanius of the halo—in loathing for the plains 
	so battened on Phrygian blood, his fatal stepdame's 
40	dower-realm—set Alba on the Latian hills.113 
	Here,—for sweeter to thee this than fragrance of Sicanian114 
	saffron, sweeter than though wealthy Sheba plucked for thee 
	her rare cinnamon, or Arabia her blades of fragrance,—
	here to be crowned with holy offerings I lay thee and bewail thee 
45	with Pierian song.115 Thine be this dirge, these tears and sighs 
	of thine own son, such as seldom have been paid to fathers. 
	Would that the wealth were mine to build to thy shade altars 
	high as temples, and uprear a starry-pointing pile, 
	taller than all Cyclopean towers116 or the aspiring 
50	Pyramids, and screen thy tomb with a great grove. 
	There had I outdone the homage paid to that tomb in Sicily,117 
	ritual of forest Nemea,118 and worship of mangled Pelops.119 
	There no host of Greeks had stripped themselves to cleave the air 
	with the Oebalian quoit;120 the fields had not been wet with the sweat 
55	of horses nor crumbling trench resounded with their flying hoofs; 
	there had been but the votaries of Phoebus,121 and the leafy bays—
	the meed of poets—should have propitiated thy honoured shade. 
	I myself with streaming eyes, as priest of the fabled world of ghosts 
	and of thy soul, had rehearsed a dirge from which neither triple Cerberus122 
60	nor Orphean compact123 could have turned thee back. 
	Aye, as I sang thy gentleness and thy deeds, Affection it may be 
	had deemed me the peer of mighty-mouthed Homer, 
	and would struggle to account me the rival of immortal Maro.124 
	
	Hath the bereaved mother that crouches above the warm 
65	barrow of her son a better right to assail the high Gods 
	or the remorseless Spinners:125 or she who gazes on the pyre of her 
	husband,126 dead in his prime, and tries to fling off curbing hand 
	and restraint of companions, fain to die—would they but suffer her—
	upon his funeral fire? Can haply greater bitterness spring from their grief 
70	to storm at the powers of Heaven and Hell? Can such funeral rites bring tears 
	even to alien eyes? Ah, but not only Nature, not Duty alone have lent themselves 
	to my sorrow to help pay thee thy rites: to me, father, it seems as though 
	on the first threshold of thy fate and in a hale youth thou hadst been 
	torn away to enter the pitiless Underworld. The maid of Marathon127 
75	wept as bitterly for her father Icarius slain by the guilt of those 
	savage countrymen, as did Andromache for the hurling of her babe 
	from the battlements of Troy.128 Nay, Erigone with the fatal noose 
	put a term to her sorrow; thou, after great Hector's death, 
	wast shamed by bondage to a Thessalian husband.129 
	
80	Not that tribute which the swan with foreknowledge of her doom 
	sends before her as a death-melody to the shades; not the ominous music 
	that the bird-maidens of the Tuscan Sea130 hymn to mariners from their 
	gloomy cliff,—not these will I conjure to my father's grave. Not the sorrow 
	and the sighing that with maimed tongue Philomela pours forth to her cruel 
85	sister:131—the Poet knows such tales too well. What minstrel over the pyre 
	has not sung every bough of the Sun's daughters and all their amber tears;132 
	the queen flint-bound in Phrygia;133 the melodist that contended 
	with Apollo;134 the cloven boxwood wherein Pallas had no joy?135 
	Nay, let Pity that has forgotten man, and Justice recalled 
90	to heaven, and Eloquence in either tongue136 sing thy requiem. 
	And with them Pallas137 and scholar Phoebus'138 songful train: 
	they whose task it is in epic strains to lead the Aonian quire:139 
	they who to Arcadian shell attuned their lay,140—lovers of the lyre 
	and lyrists their name;—they of whose sevenfold fame 
95	high Philosophy in every clime takes account;141 
	they who with terror-striking buskin thundered the tale of the madness 
	and the guile of kings, and of the sun turning back from the skies;142 
	they whose joy it was to refine their strength in a muse 
	of gaiety,143 or of one foot to abridge the flowing epic.144 
100	All measures did thy mind embrace, in all thou didst speak, 
	ranging throughout the wide field of song: whether it was thy choice in Aonian 
	bonds145 to chain thy phrase, or in untrammelled eloquence146 to scatter them, 
	and rival the gushing rainstorm by the unbridled effusion of words. 
	
	Lift up thy head, Parthenope,147 half whelmed beneath that sudden 
105	avalanche: extricate a look from under that engulfing mass 
	and lay it on the barrow and the corse of thy great foster-son. 
	For never have Munychia's towers, learned Cyrene, or gallant Sparta 
	borne his better.148 Hadst thou been accounted of lowly stock 
	(forbid it, heaven!) and obscure repute, unpossessed of aught 
110	to witness thy descent, by such a citizen thou didst yet approve 
	thyself true Greek, and from the blood of Euboic149 fathers sprung. 
	So often was that brow presented for thy bays! When in noble 
	melody he sang at the festival each fifth year brings, he outdid 
	the eloquence of the Pylian sage and that Dulichian king,150 
115	and wore both their effigies in his circlet. 
	
	Not of churls' blood wast thou sprung, unhonoured, father, 
	nor lustreless thy line, though straitened the fortune 
	of thy house. From the ranks of the Knights,151 Infantia152 chose thee 
	to wear according to the custom of the wealthy the purple 
120	bestowed by rank, and golden badge of nobility upon thy breast.153 
	At thy first birth the Aonian sisters154 smiled good success 
	on thee, and Apollo—gracious to me even then—gave thee 
	a lute and put to thy childish lips his hallowed waters. 
	Nor undisputed the glory of bearing thee! two lands 
125	in conflict of debate contend which gave thee birth. 
	Grecian Hyele155 claims thee by descent her own; Hyele,—newcomer among 
	the burghs of Latium,—where the drowsy helmsman, leaving the tiller 
	unmanned, fell headlong and in the midst of the waters kept hapless vigil;156 
	but then a greater than Hyele (even Parthenope), for the long tenor of thy life 
130	approves thee her own Maeonides:157 aye, and yet other cities hale thee to be 
	honoured at other festivals as their son; one and all they approve thee theirs. 
	All possessed not the true Maeonides; yet the vanquished feed upon so immensely 
	honourable a forgery. There, in thy nascent youth and first greeting to life, 
	thou wast hurried straightway to the quinquennial contest158 of thy motherland, 
135	to which grown men were scarce adequate,—so swift thy triumph, so bold 
	thy Muse! Those youthful songs held the Euboic159 commons 
	spell-bound, and fathers pointed thee out to their sons. 
	Then many a time rose thy accents in contest and at no festival lacked they 
	a meed of honour: not so often did Castor prevail in the foot-race and Pollux 
140	in the boxing-match, when green Therapnae made for them a close field.160 
	But if it was easy to be conqueror at home, what of the winning 
	Achaean bays? What of the brow covered now with Apollo's laurel,161 
	now with the herb of Lerna,162 now with the pine of Athamas;163 
	when Victory, wearied so often for thee, yet never shrank out of reach, 
145	nor took from thee her chaplets and set them on another's brow? 
	
	Therefore fathers entrusted to thee their hopes, and under thy 
	guidance noble youths learnt the deeds and the loyalty of the men 
	of old; the agony of Troy, the lingering of Odysseus; 
	the skill of Homer in telling of the chariots and the battles 
150	of heroes;164 the wealth that the old man of Ascra165 and he 
	of Sicily brought to honest husbandmen;166 the law whereby 
	in Pindar's melody cadence winds into cadence; Ibycus, 
	suppliant of the birds; Alcman, songster of grim Amyclae; 
	gallant Stesichorus, and daring Sappho 
155	who dreaded not Leucas and the hero's leap;167 
	and all other favourites of the lute. Thou wert skilled to unravel 
	the strains of Battiades,168 the riddles of cramped Lycophron, 
	Sophron the obscure,169 and the secret of Corinna's elegance.170 
	But why rehearse slight praise? Thou wert wont to be 
160	Homer's yoke-fellow and in flowing lines of prose to keep pace 
	with his epic and never fail of his stride or lag behind him. 
	What wonder that boys left their own land and came to thee 
	from Lucania's171 tilth, and from the meadows of stern Daunus;172 
	from the home that Venus bewailed and the land Alcides 
165	scorned;173 from the Maiden who on Sorrento's cliffs 
	keeps watch over the Tyrrhene deep;174 from the hill that 
	by that nearer gulf bears for token the oar and the bugle; 
	from Cyme that welcomed long ago the Ausonian Lar;175 
	from havens of Dicarcheus176 and beach of Baiae, where the blast 
170	of fire mingles deep down with the heart of the waters 
	and each home keeps a hidden conflagration beneath. 
	So to the cliffs of Avernus and the Sibyl's darksome caves177 
	the nations of old would flock from every side for counsel: 
	and she would chant menace of heaven or decree of 
175	the Fates, a true prophetess despite Phoebus flouted. 
	Soon it was thy lot to school the sons of Romulus destined to power, 
	and steadfastly to guide them in the footsteps of their fathers. 
	Under thee the Dardanian prover of the secret fire,178 who guards 
	the shrine of that symbol which Diomedes filched from Troy,179 
180	grew to man's estate and learnt in boyhood the rites from thee; 
	thou didst approve and reveal to the Salii180 their shield-service 
	and to the augurs presage of the truth in heaven,181 and who might 
	consult the Sibyl's scroll,182 and why the head of the Phrygian priest 
	is veiled;183 and sorely did the upgirt Luperci dread thy lash.184 
185	Now of that company185 one perchance is governor of 
	Eastern nations, and one controls the races of the Ebro; 
	one from Zeugma beats back Achaemenid Persian; 
	these bridle the wealthy peoples of Asia, these the Pontic lands; 
	these by peaceful authority purify our courts;186 those in loyal leaguer 
190	guard their camp;187—thou art the well-spring of their fame. 
	Who had vied with thee in moulding the heart of youth? 
	Not Nestor,188 not Phoenix, warden of that tameless fosterling; 
	not Chiron who, when Aeacides was fain to catch the warlike note 
	of bugle and of clarion, with other strains subdued him.189 
	
195	Amid thy busy task the fratricidal Fury waved on a sudden 
	her torch from the Tarpeian hill and fired another Phlegra.190 
	The Capitol blazed with sacrilegious brands and 
	the armies of Latium took on the fury of the Senones.191 
	Scarce were those flames at rest, nor yet had the pyre of the gods 
200	sunk, when thy dauntless lips already eagerly conceived, 
	and swifter than the fire itself, poured forth solace over 
	our wrecked temples and dirge for the Thunderer's durance.192 
	The chiefs of Latium and Heaven's avenger Caesar marvelled, 
	and out of the midst of the flames the Father of the gods signed praise. 
205	And now in strains of pity thou wast purposing to bewail 
	the havoc Vesuvius had wrought and to pay tribute of tears to thy 
	stricken country, what time the Father made the mountain to tower 
	from earth to heaven, and hurled it far over those doomed cities.193 
	
	And when I too craved entry to the groves of melody and those 
210	Boeotian glades,194 the goddesses195 bade me approach when I claimed 
	sonship to thee. For to thee I owe not only boon of sky 
	and earth and sea, that all men must owe to their parents, 
	but whatsoever skill in song is mine: thou first didst teach me 
	to utter no common strain but look for glory for my grave. 
215	What joy was thine whensoever I held the Fathers of Latium 
	spell-bound with my song,196 and thou wast there as critic of 
	the skill thou gavest! Ah, what tears troubled thy joy 
	amid fatherly fears and shamefast rapture! Thine surely 
	was the day, and my triumph not so great as thine! 
220	So when a father is watching his son in the lists at Elis,197 
	it is he that strikes, and he that deep in his heart feels the blow: 
	he is the observed of all the tiers, on him the Achaeans198 gaze, 
	while, devouring the arena with his eyes till they can see 
	no more, he swears to die, if but his son be crowned victor. 
225	Alas, that in thy sight my brow bore but 
	the wreath of my own city, and no more than 
	the wheaten chaplet of Chalcis!199 Dardan Alba200 had scarce 
	contained thy joy, if through me the garland bestowed 
	by Caesar's hands had come to thee. What strength 
230	such triumph had given, what renewal of thy youth! 
	For in that the crown of olive and of oak never rested on my brow and I was 
	foiled of the hoped-for victory,201—ah me! how blithely hadst thou received 
	the unattainable reward of the Tarpeian Father!202 It was beneath thy guidance 
	that my Thebaid203 pressed close upon the assays of the minstrels of old. 
235	Thou didst teach me how to touch my song with fire, 
	how to rehearse the deeds of heroes, the ways of warfare, 
	the ranging of the scene. My path is uncertain, and my course 
	wavers without thee: forlorn the barque, and her sails benighted. 
	
	Nor was I alone cherished by thy bountiful love: to my mother thy heart 
240	was as true. Once only for thee was kindled the torch of espousals; 
	one bride alone thou knewest. Surely I may not dissever my mother 
	from thy cold ashes. Thou art in her thoughts and in her heart; 
	thy face is before her eyes; at evening and at morning she greets thy grave, 
	even as with counterfeit loyalty others pay homage to Egyptian 
245	and to Lydian sorrows and bewail the death of lovers not their own.204 
	
	Grave thou wast, yet frank thy mien: why tell the tale of that 
	and of thy loyalty, thy scorn of gain, thy watchfulness of honour, 
	thy passion for righteousness? And anon in the joy of holiday 
	the graces of thy wit, the light heart that never grew sad? 
250	For such service the discerning care of the gods granted thee 
	name and fame in generous measure, and never to be downcast 
	after any blow. Now thou art taken, father, neither lacking years 
	nor overburdened: ten times hast thou seen the quinquennial festival dawn 
	since thy third lustre passed.205 But Love and Sorrow suffer me not 
255	to number thy days. Worthy wast thou, father, to overstep the limits of 
	a Nestor's years and to vie with the patriarchs of Troy,206 yes, and to see 
	in me thy counterpart! Yet even the gate of death had for thee no terrors. 
	Light was the stroke: no lingering decease with the decay of age 
	fore-dispatched thy body to the approaching tomb ere thy spirit passed. 
260	A drowsy numbness and death in the guise of sleep laid 
	thee low, and in mimic slumber bore thee to the underworld. 
	
	Ah, then what lamentation was mine! In fear my comrades gazed, 
	and gazed my mother on my ensample and gladly marked my tribute 
	of tears. Oh, pardon me, ye Shades, and thou, father, let me be 
265	suffered to speak the word: thou hadst not shed more tears for me! 
	Happy he who in his foiled arms clasped his father, 
	and though his place was in Elysium207 had been fain to tear him 
	thence and bear him yet again through the phantom Greeks! 
	When he was making essay and strove to tread with living feet the path 
270	to the underworld, the aged priestess guided him to Diana of the Shades.208 
	So over sluggish Avernus passed the Odrysian melodist 
	on a lesser errand:209 so fared Admetus on the shores of Thessaly:210 
	so Laodamia brought back the shade of Protesilaus to his home.211 
	Why, father, cannot thy lute or mine gain any such boon from 
275	the Shades? Let but heaven suffer me, like them, to touch 
	my father's face, to clasp his hand,—be the ordinance what it may!
	
	But ye, Lords of the Shadow-world, and thou, Juno of Enna,212 
	if my prayer deserve your praise, remove the brands and the snaky 
	tresses of the Eumenides:213 let the barking of your grim warder be hushed. 
280	Let the Centaurs and the teeming Hydra and monstrous Scylla 
	be hidden in glades remote.214 Let the boatman215 of that last ferry 
	sunder the crowd and beckon to the bank the time-worn shade, 
	and set him softly in the mid-bark on the sea-weed. 
	Up, loyal shades, and up, all ye thronging bards of Greece; 
285	up, and shower down chaplets from Lethe216 on the noble dead! 
	Show him the grove that no Fury ever invades, 
	the grove of mimic day and of heaven-like air. 
	
	But come thou thence, father, by the gate of horn that surpasses 
	the grudging ivory portal, and, mirrored in dreams, be my counsellor 
290	as of old. So came the gracious nymph to reveal to Numa 
	in the Arician cave rite and manner of observing sacrifice:217 
	so the Ausonians deemed that in his sleep Scipio was inspired 
	by Latian Jove;218 so was Sulla endowed with Apollo's grace.219 
	
IV. Sleep
	
	O SLEEP, gentlest of the sons of heaven, what sin, 
	what trespass of mine has doomed me alone to forfeit 
	thy bounty? Silent everywhere are the flocks; hushed are bird 
	and beast; the bowed tree-tops sleep or seem to sleep outworn; 
5	the boisterous rivers roar no longer; stilled is the raging 
	of the sea; the waves are pillowed upon the shore in slumber. 
	Yet a seventh moon-rise finds my feverish eyes fixed 
	and sleepless; seven times the stars of morning and of evening 
	have returned; seven times the dawn has passed by my moans, 
10	and sprinkled me pityingly with cool from her whip. 
	Whence shall I find strength? Not though the thousand eyes 
	of holy Argus220 were mine, wherewith in turn he kept vigil, 
	nor was ever awake in all his bodily being at once. 
	Yet now, alack, if anywhere is one who, with loving arms wound close 
15	about him, of his own will spurns thee from him the livelong night, 
	come hither, Sleep, from him to me. Shed not on my eyes 
	all the feathers from thy wings; be that the prayer 
	of happier souls; touch me but with the tip of thy wand—
	it is enough—or caress me as thine airy stride goes past. 
	
V. Lament for my stepson
	
	AH me! Not with any wonted prelude will I make assay 
	to sing,—I that am now abhorred by Castalia's songful waters221 
	and to Phoebus hateful.222 Tell me, ye Sisters that haunt the Pierian 
	mount,223 what mysteries or what altars of yours have I defiled? 
5	Be it granted—the penalty paid—to declare the trespass. 
	It cannot be that I have set foot in sanctuary grove, 
	or drunk of forbidden spring? What is the fault, what the grievous 
	error that is thus atoned? See, the child224 that clings with dying 
	embrace, aye, with his very soul about my heart, is torn from me. 
10	Not of my blood is he, not a son to wear my features and 
	my name; his father I was not, yet look upon my tears; see the tear-stains 
	upon my cheeks; and mistrust not my anguish of bereavement. 
	Bereaved am I: come hither all ye that are fathers; and ye mothers, 
	bare your breasts, and let every one that with tottering steps 
15	hath herself borne to the grave an unweaned son and beaten 
	her teeming bosom and with her own milk quenched his last 
	glowing ashes, endure to look upon these embers and this guilt. 
	Come, every one that hath plunged into his funeral-fire a youth 
	with the print of fresh-blooming manhood on his cheeks, and hath seen 
20	the cruel flame steal over the first down as he lay there; 
	come and answer me groan for groan till thou faintest; 
	for such an one will be worsted in the war of tears, and so will Nature 
	be ashamed: such a savagery, such a frenzy of sorrow is mine. 
	Even now that thrice ten days are past, as I lie upon his grave 
25	and struggle into speech, turning my sighs to song,—
	even now my strains are jangled, and choked with sobs is the dirge 
	that with mournful lute I body forth. It is enough. My passion owns 
	no curb of silence. But the wonted bays are not on my brow; the chaplet, 
	the minstrels' livery, is not on my head. Only these yew leaves 
30	wither in my hair and sprays of sad cypress banish 
	the blithe ivy:225 not with ivory touch do I sweep the strings, 
	but with trembling hands senselessly slash the lyre 
	to discord. Sweet it is, ah, sweet to pour forth an unhonoured lay 
	and in disordered numbers to lay bare my sorrow and my pain. 
35	Is this my desert? Is it with mourning dress and song that heaven 
	is to behold me? Must my Thebes and new-born Achilles 
	be shamed thus?226 Shall never a strain of peace pour from my lips? 
	I who (ah, how often!) with caressing words could balm the wounds 
	of mothers and of fathers, and softly assuage the sorrow of the bereaved; 
40	I who could gently soothe the mourner, to whom 
	the bitterness of death and the passing shade gave ear; 
	I can no more; but must crave healing hands and compresses to be 
	set  upon my wounds. Friends, this is the hour: 
	O all ye whose streaming eyes and bleeding hearts 
45	I have staunched, help me in turn; give me cruel recompense! 
	Of a surety, when for your losses in sad strains I made lament, 
	one there was who chid me and upbraided me, saying, 'You who bewail 
	the loss of others, store up your boding tears; keep for your own heart 
	your melancholy music!' 'Tis true. My strength is spent: my store of speech 
50	fails me: naught worthy of this lightning sorrow hath my heart 
	devised: all tones are too weak, all words too mean to avail. 
	Forgive, my son! it is by thee that I am plunged in darkness 
	and sorrow. Ah, stony-hearted Orpheus, that could see his bride's 
	wounds and then find sweet matter for his muse:227 
55	and hard Apollo, that with the funeral urn of Linus in his arms 
	he was not dumb!228 Call ye me gluttonous of grief and intemperate 
	in sorrow? Say ye that I have outrun due shame in my weeping? 
	Why, who art thou that blamest my sorrow and my sighing? 
	O heart too blessed, O steely breast, unschooled 
60	in Fortune's sway, that dares lay down a law 
	for lamentation and set bounds to tears.229 
	He doth but goad on our sorrow. Nay, go check overflowing 
	rivers or stay consuming fires, ere thou forbiddest 
	the broken heart to bleed. Yet let this stern censor, 
65	whoe'er he be, know my wound and my plight. 
	
	My darling was no parrot favourite bought from an 
	Egyptian galley: no glib-tongued, pert-witted boy, 
	well versed in the sallies of his native Nile.230 
	Mine he was, my own. A new-born babe I saw him 
70	and anointed him, and sang him lullaby: 
	and as with shrill cry he claimed the new-won air 
	I introduced him into life. What more did parents e'er bestow? 
	Nay, second birth I gave thee, child, and freedom while thou 
	wast yet an unweaned nursling, and didst laugh at my gift, 
75	as yet a thankless infant. Say that my love was hasty; 
	yet that haste was thy due, lest such short-lived freedom 
	should lose even a day. And shall I not now again in dishevelled 
	grief assail Heaven and the unjust gods of the Underworld? 
	Shall I not weep for thee, dear child, in whose life 
80	I never yearned for sons; whom from the first day of birth 
	I knit and bound to my own heart; to whom I taught (ah! must I reveal 
	my sorrow and my secret wounds!) both speech and language; 
	and stooped to thee as thou didst play on the ground and lifted thee 
	with my own hands to my embrace, and when thy eyes swam 
85	made thee hide them in my caressing arms and there woo gentle sleep! 
	My name was the first sound on thy little lips, my play thy joy, 
	and all thy bliss was drawn from my smiles…231