CLAUDIAN

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THE POEMS OF CLAUDIAN

ON STILICHO’S CONSULSHIP

BOOK II

(XXII.)

Thus far the warrior’s praise! Now let my gentler Muse relax the strings and tell by what virtues he governs the world, tempering fear with love, say what counsel moved him at last to assume those consular robes that cried out to him, and bestowed on our annals a year named after himself.

In the beginning Love[1] was the guardian of this vast universe, she who dwelt in the sphere of Jove, who attempers the sky ’twixt cold and heat, who is eldest of the immortals. For Love, pitying the elemental confusion, first disentangled Chaos; with a smile she scattered the darkness and bathed the world in light. She dwelleth now not in temples nor by altars warm with incense but in thy heart wherein she has made her home. Taught by her thou accountest it cruel and barbarous to batten on suffering and human slaughter; the sword that drips blood in war thou wearest unstained in peace;

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though angered thou feedest with no fuel the flame of hatred; thou forgivest the guilty even before they ask, thou layest aside thy wrath more readily than thou art moved to wrath, thou never turnest a deaf ear to prayers, all who oppose thee thou overthrowest, but deignest not to touch them when overthrown, like a lion who lusts to rend in pieces the fierce bull, but passes by the cowering prey. At her bidding thou extendest pardon to the conquered; at her prayer thou refrainest the dread fires of thine anger and those threats, not the less terrible for being unfulfilled; it is enough for thee to inspire awe, even as the heavenly Father who, shaking the world with his loud thunder, hurls the bolts of the Cyclops upon rocks and sea-monsters and, sparing the blood of man, expends his lightnings on the forests of Oeta.

Good Faith too, Love’s sister, has made her shrine in thy heart and joins herself to all thine actions. She has taught thee to practise no hypocrisy, never to speak falsehood, never to postpone the fulfilment of thy promises; to hate openly those thou hatest, and not to hide the poison of resentment in thy heart nor let a false smile mask treachery but to make thy countenance the sure mirror of thy mind. She gainsayeth secret vengeance but encourageth secret benefits. She strengthens friendships also, that grow more firm by lapse of time and binds them with chains of lasting adamant; not hers is the fickle change of mood, nor does she permit close ties to be broken by the rumour of some petty injury, nor is she lured to scorn the old friend when a new one comes. Mindful of past benefits, quick to forget wrongs, she remembers services alike small or great and strives to outdo

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them, overcoming friends with devotion as an enemy with arms. She safeguards the absent and is the sole protector of those far away; she opens not a greedy ear to rumours, so that never does the stealthy whisper that would injure some unsuspecting client estrange thy sympathies.

Nor does the love that clings to the living forget the dead, and the gratitude a father earned is paid to his children. This kept thee loyal to Theodosius while yet he wielded the sceptre, loyal, too, after his death; nor carest thou more for thine own offspring than for the sons he entrusted to thy guidance and protection. Just and most faithful does Fame account those, who, though they might deny a trust, have chosen rather to fulfil it, unpolluted by greed of gain; but it is not riches, not a huge heritage of gold that Stilicho holds in trust for the young heirs, but two hemispheres and all that is embraced within the sun’s fiery orbit. What wouldst thou not fearlessly entrust to him to whom a kingdom is entrusted safely?

Defended by this buckler Honorius did not mourn his noble sire, and on life’s very threshold, ne’er scorned by any, he dictates laws to conquered races and sees his triumphs increase with his years. Him thou dost seek to shape as with kindly so with severe mind; neither to sloth dost thou deliver him by a ready yielding to all his wishes, nor by opposing dost thou crush his eager spirit: as a youth thou teachest him in secret a king’s lesson—his duty to his people; as a reverend senior thou payest him honour and governest the empire at a father’s bidding; to thy lord thou givest humble worship; thou guidest thy master with obedience, thy sire

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with love. Hence it was that he knew not passion before matrimony and preferred to vindicate his manhood not in a youth of debauchery, but in the chaste bonds of legal wedlock. Blessed art thou in having an emperor for a son-in-law; more blessed he with thee for father.

Care no less tender watched over Honorius’ brother, Arcadius. Rightly thou ascribest not to that youth the outrages of the feeble, vicious mob that seeks to screen its own mad folly behind the name of a king. Nay, even when discord raged never did Stilicho so burn with anger, though oft assailed by insult, oft attacked with the sword, that he sought to avenge the frenzy he endured by unholy war and give a handle to civil strife; stayed on his loyalty, mid all the factions of a court, the hallowed friendship of those brothers stood inviolate. Nay more, thou dividedst equally with him Sidonian cloaks, belts studded with pearls, jewelled togas, breastplates thick with green emeralds, helmets flashing with sapphires, swords with gleaming handles thy sire had wielded, crowns bright with the glint of manifold jewels, that both might be equal heirs of their imperial sire’s rich furniture and apparel. Thou didst send soldiers to Byzantium also, though civil strife was already raising its head. Rather wouldst thou reinforce a foe than fail thy pledge; all that he fairly asks thou grantest and refusest only that the withholding of which he himself will shortly approve, and that to obtain which were shameful.

Moreover, all the virtues whose pure aspect puts all wickedness to flight live conjoined in thee and, dwelling within thine heart, aid thee in the

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manifold businesses of life. Justice teaches thee to prefer the right to the useful, to obey the general laws of mankind and never to enrich thy friends at other’s cost. Patience strengthens thy body so that it seeks never to yield to toil. Temperance guides thee to chaste desires. Prudence will have thee do nought without forethought, Constancy nought without decision and firm purpose. The deadly vices which Tartarus sends up from his monstrous abyss fly far from thee; but first and foremost thou banishest Avarice, mother of crimes, greedy for more the more she possesses, searching ever open-mouthed for gold; with her thou drivest out her most foul nurse, Ambition, who watches at the gate of the powerful and haunts their dwelling-places, cherishing the sale of honours for gold. This age’s more turbid stream of corruption has not drawn thee to follow its examples—corruption which had with lapse of time established crime and turned the custom of rapine into a law. Beneath thy rule the rich tremble not for the safety of ancestral lands or houses; no informer stalks the world set on making no matter whom his victim. Virtue suffers no eclipse by poverty. Thou exaltest men of all countries, asking what are their merits not their place of birth, what their character not whence their origin. A generous prince takes note of our life; rewards allure into the ways of virtue. Hence it comes that the arts of old flourish once more; the path to fortune is open to genius, while poesy again raises her despised head. Rich and poor strive with equal zeal towards their ends, for both see that, as poverty cannot depress merit, so riches cannot elevate incapacity.

Fair-fronted wantonness deceives thee not, wantonness,

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that sweet curse, which surrendering to the arbitrament of the body dulls the wits with darkness, enervating the limbs with bane more deadly than that of Circe. Fair, indeed, is her face but none is fouler within; dyed are her cheeks; clothed about is she with treacherous lures, and deadly vipers hide them in her golden hair. Many hath she caught with the bait of pleasure, thee, though often has she tried, she has never ensnared. No lust bids thee wake for adultery’s sake, nor does sleep cheat the hours of toil. Neither the strains of the lyre nor the wanton song of boys accompany thy repast. Has any seen thee free from care, thy mind entirely at rest, or indulging in the banquet unless some public rejoicing commanded? No shameful expenditure strains the resources of the treasury, no pitiless missive in a tiny roll disposes of the property of the absent. Though thrifty thou art beloved of the army, for thou neglectest not thy soldiers in peace, and dost not only enrich them when war is toward. Thou knowest that belated gifts, offered in fear to those hitherto scorned, earn no gratitude: ’tis but a useless flinging away of gold as uselessly hoarded. Thou preventest thy soldier’s needs and art generous over and above their expectations; thou callest them to thy board and addressest each by his name, mindful of all the brave deeds ever done by each beneath thy banners. To thy gifts thou addest praises that will ever be remembered, whereby the grace of your close bond is doubled.

When bountiful thou dost not also turn the bounty into a reproach, nor dost thou address those whom thou hast advanced with the language of disdainful patronage; nor yet does prosperity make thee

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puffed up. Nay, pride itself is far removed from thee, pride, a vice so familiar in success, ungracious attendant on the virtues. All, no matter when or where, may meet and address thee. Talk over the wine is not watched, but each guest, at liberty to say just what he pleases, mingles grave converse with gay and fears not for his words. Each marvels to find an equal in the emperor’s father-in-law and the father of his country, when one so powerful acts the citizen so graciously. With the learned thou discoursest of antiquity, with the aged of experience, with the soldier of valiant deeds, and dost mingle thy talk with such pleasant wit that none would rather hear the strains whereby Amphion built the walls of Thebes or Orpheu’s lute drew the woods to follow him.

Hence all love thee, all anxiously pray heaven for thee with no feigned intercession, all shout applause at the mention of thy name and reproduce thy form in gilded statues. What anvil should not ring, what forge be idle, from what vast furnaces should bronze not flow that is to shape thine image? What corner of the world, what region so remote but should worship thy beloved countenance as divine,—hadst thou not always refused such honour? Nay, let him snatch at such glory whom hollow gifts inspired by fear can beguile and who despairs of a people’s love. He who in truth deserves can alone afford to despise them.

Embassies arrive from every quarter and in the presence of thy son-in-law pray for a hundred voices to herald thy renown. The Gallic envoy gives thee thanks for that, safe from attack though no legion guards his frontier, and fearing no hostile

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incursion, he builds new dwelling-places along the banks of the Rhine and fringes the river, famed once for the savagery of its tribes, with houses as pleasant as those by Tiber’s stream. Here Carthaginians crown thy praise, because they possess their lands delivered from the tyrant’s rule; there the Pannonian, freed from the blockade, and he who drinks the Save, grateful because he now dare throw open the gates of cities closed for so many years. Such sharpen once more upon the whetstone their sickles dark with rust and cause their mattocks, foul with want of use, to shine as of old. Each sees again his well-remembered cottage, kisses his native hills, and can scarce believe real the furrows cut by his heavy plough. He hews down the forests and renders again fit for cultivation fields which generations had let run wild. Once more he covers the banks of the Danube with vineyards and rejoices to pay the taxes his forefathers paid, for it was bloodshed that brought immunity. While thou art safe, heaven allows the harassed body of our distracted empire to regain its youthful vigour. Thou dost restore all that we have lost of old under so many princes. Only when Stilicho’s hand brings remedy can grow a scar to hide Roman wounds, and when at last the husbandman of Illyria returns to his farms the treasury will again be enriched with Illyrian tribute.

But heaven’s judgement is not a whit behind man’s favour. The gods unite for thine especial protection and deliver thine enemy into thy hands upon the sea shore or hinder his flight by the ocean’s immense barrier or make him turn his arms madly against himself; and so, a second Pentheus, he is hewn in

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pieces by his own soldier’s frenzied blades. The gods discover for thee plots against thy life and lead thee to the very lair of treason, even as Molossan hounds guide the huntsman with their subtle scent. They show forth the future by omens or by birds or they deign to give thee clear warning in dreams.

For which thing’s sake countless lands in rivalry have sought for thee the consul’s robe, but thou thyself didst oppose their desire, and thy mind, so ready to grant favour to another, so rigorous a critic of itself, kindling with the torch of modesty, with bashful pleading deprecates that late reward. And so, anxious to see accomplished the hopes, vainly conceived through so many years, of seeing in thee their new consul, they hasten to the gates of royal Rome, determined, should she not listen to their entreaties, to constrain her hesitation, and prepared to sweep away all hindrances that delay their prayer. They meet at the temple of the goddess that shines bright upon the Palatine.[4] First to speak was Spain, her head crowned with a grey-leaved garland from Minerva’s olive and golden Tagus woven into her shining robe: “Everything that I have ever asked of Stilicho he has granted me, and has begrudged only honour for himself. Once he found it in his heart to refuse the consulship at the hands of an emperor, his father-in-law; he now refuses it also from his son-in-law. If not as a guardian from the world he rules, at least let him receive it as a kinsman from his emperor. Counts he it a small thing that, taking my offspring to his arms, he so upholds my grandsons[5] in their undisturbed rule, that the purple ennobles their native Baetis? That by means of fair Maria he dowers

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Rome with a dynasty? That he is looked to as the ancestor of kings?”

Then warlike Gaul, her hair combed back, a rich necklace about her neck, and javelins twain in her hands, thus spake with kindling heart: “Why is his title not yet read in the annals of Rome, who by his own might o’ercame for me the Germans and the Franks? Why is the page of history still ignorant of a name that by now should have been inscribed therein so often? Is, then, bringing peace to the Rhine so light a title to fame?”

Next spake Britain clothed in the skin of some Caledonian beast, her cheeks tattooed, and an azure cloak, rivalling the swell of ocean, sweeping to her feet: “Stilicho gave aid to me also when at the mercy of neighbouring tribes, what time the Scots roused all Hibernia against me and the sea foamed to the beat of hostile oars. Thanks to his care I had no need to fear the Scottish arms or tremble at the Pict, or keep watch along all my coasts for the Saxon who would come whatever wind might blow.”

Then up spake Africa, her hair gay with wheat ears and an ivory comb and her face all sun-burned: “I hoped that after Gildo’s death no obstacle could prevent Stilicho’s acceptance of the consulship. Does he even yet refuse and hesitate to honour with the fasces so great a triumph—he who has enabled me utterly to forget the tearful name of Moor?”

After these came Italy, pliant vine and ivy interlacing on her head, pressing the wine from plentiful ripe grapes. Said she: “If you are thus eager that Stilicho should augment the dignity of the curule chair, you to whom the mere report can bring delight, how much more rightly does a longing

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inspire me to enjoy his presence, to attend him as he mounts his seat and to salute his opening of the new year’s course?”

One after another they pour forth these entreaties and beg Rome to approach Stilicho in the name of them all. Right swiftly she obeyed their behest and seizing at once her arms winged her way quicker than a shooting star through the clouds of heaven. Over Etruria she flew, grazed the Apennines in her flight, and lit Eridanu’s wave with the reflexion of her shield. She stood before the general, imposing as mighty Pallas, terrible as Mars. The palace trembled at the glitter of her aegis and her helmet plumes brushed the pannelled ceiling. Then as he stood astonished she first addressed him with flattering reproaches: “I acknowledge, revered Stilicho, that thou hast saved but not yet brought honour to the curule chair. Of what avail to have rid the year of the brand of slavery? Dost thou defend a dignity thou shunnest? scorn what with all thy might thou madest? reject when offered what thou didst save when falling? Why dost thou hold back? Why disappoint my prayers? No danger threatens from the north, the south is quiet; the Moors have been subdued, Germany has yielded, profound peace holds fast the doors of Janu’s temple. Am I not yet worthy to have thee for my consul? Can we believe that office unimportant and of slender dignity to hold which emperors think themselves honoured, that office by means of which I have caused conquered peoples and captive kings to pass beneath the yoke?

“If nature by her portents foreshadow coming ills I am not besmirched therewith. Nay, that thou

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countest ill omen was for the East. Yet no facts confirm the tale I have heard; Rumour’s self scarce smiled at such a tale of guilt.[7] The disgrace has no proof; no letter came to divulge the wicked secret. In this lies thine especial virtue, that, while consulting the senate on every question, thou hast not mentioned this portent. No decree for the suppression of this scandal has impaired the dignity of this august assembly, nor has that ill-omened name been heard in my senate. To have hesitated would have been to share his guilt. All letters telling of this profanation that came from the far East were destroyed e’er they could cross the sea, that fortune’s shameful turn should not offend the chaste ears of Italy. That infatuation of a people was best rewarded with silence—and how strenuous were thine endeavours that it should so be! Joy should be his who needs no longer pen the annals of the East. Our Latin story knows no such blot: let others take pains to conceal their own disgrace. Why should I applaud the downfall of one of whose elevation I never heard nor knew? ’Tis for the guilty to repent; we have never even believed.

“Yet had the guilt of all been one and this pollution stained our axes, all the more shouldst thou have taken the high office thou dost shun lest that ancient dignity—ever the goal of all dignities—should be destroyed. No consul, save Stilicho alone, can repair that ruin. With what foreknowledge had thy soul delayed the hour: once it would have added lustre unto thee, now thou dost add lustre unto it. Do thou as consul wipe out the insult offered to all consuls that have been and yet shall be. Give thy name to the year that posterity

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may dwell thereafter securely, and that antiquity, thus vindicated, may cease from her complaints. Brutus was the founder of the office, let Stilicho be its avenger. Brutus, the first consul, won liberty for the Roman people by means of the consular fasces: Stilicho banished the taint of slavery from those fasces. Brutus instituted this supreme dignity; Stilicho saved it; and it is greater to preserve what already is than to create that which is not. Why do thy blushes grant so tardy an acceptance of our prayers? Why does the accustomed flush o’erspread thy brow? World-conqueror, conquer now thine own diffidence.

“Full well I know that no gift can seduce thee, yet be pleased to admire and receive this cloak, woven for thee on no mortal loom by Minerva and myself. Twice together have we dipped the thread that goes to make the cloth in purple dye and interwoven therewith that same gold of which Lachesis has woven the golden centuries that are to be mine beneath thy rule. See here I have prefigured thy destined progeny, those thy children for whom the world prays; soon shalt thou confess me a true prophet and coming fate prove that my embroidery is true.”

She spake and drew from her bosom the gift, a consul’s cloak, stiff and heavy with gold. The glorious woof breathes Minerva’s skill. Here is depicted a palace with columns of red marble and Maria’s sacred travail. Lucina eases her labour. On a splendid couch lies the young mother, by her side sits her own mother, pale with anxiety yet happy withal. The flower-crowned Nymphs take up the babe and wash him in a golden basin. Almost could one hear rising from the embroidery the little child’s mingled laughter and wailing. And now the babe

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had grown up, recalling his father in countenance; Stilicho, riper in years, teaches his grandson, the emperor that is to be, the science of war. In another part Eucherius, the down of early manhood on his cheeks, rode his horse that flecked its silken reins with bloody foam. Woven himself of gold he smites with javelin or arrow the purple stags that raise their golden horns. Here Venus, borne in her dove-drawn chariot, unites for the third time the hero’s family with the princely house[8] and the winged Loves throng the affianced bride, daughter and sister of an emperor. Eucherius now lifts the veil from the bashful maiden’s face; Thermantia smiles upon her brother’s joy. This house now seeks the crown in the person of either sex, it gives birth to queens and the husbands of queens.

Such are the gifts wherewith the goddess sought to win Stilicho, handing to him at the same time the ivory staff.[9] She shook the urn to obtain the customary signs and confirmed the beginning of his task by favourable auspices. Then she clothed with the vesture of Romulus those shoulders better accustomed to armour. The garb of Latium covers his breast and the toga graces what erstwhile the cuirass protected. Thus Mars, returning victorious from the Danube or the Scythian clime, a god of peace now his shield is laid aside, enters the city wearing the consul’s cloak and in a chariot drawn by white horses; Quirinus directs the ample reins and Bellona marches before her father’s car holding aloft the bloody oak-branch decked with the spoils won in single combat; Fear and his brother Terror are the lictors and cast chains of iron on the necks of captive

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barbarians, their helmets wreathed with laurel, while Panic, her robe upgirt, walks by the yoke-horses, brandishing a mighty battle-axe.

When Rome saw herself possessed of the consul for whom she had prayed, “Now,” she said, “fain would I hasten to the fields and woods of Elysium to bear the news of this wondrous answer to our universal prayer to the Curii and Fabricii who have wept for the dignity of the consul’s toga so lately outraged. Let them now tread the meads in joyous dance and the austere Catos not blush to join their sport. Let the elder Brutus hear the news and the Scipios, terror of Carthage, learn that by one man’s help I have been rescued from a double danger and have recovered both Libya and the fasces. One thing only is left, and do thou, brave consul, add it to my prayers—bestow awhile that presence she entreats upon the city which thou hast rescued from war and famine, and restored to the overlordship of the world. Let our famous rostrum welcome a second Camillus and our citizens look upon their avenger and saviour, ay, and the common people whom thou, their leader, lovest, the people to whom Africa, because of thee, offers her harvests and the Rhone her crops till now unheard of, whereby Libyan fields and Gallic abundance are at my service and now the rainy south-wind and now the north wafts grain to my shores and my granaries are full whatever breeze may blow.

“What thousands will then throng the Flaminian Way! How often will the deceptive dust disappoint the loving expectation of those who trust to see thee arrive every minute! Anxiously our mothers watch for thee; every road will be strewn with flowers

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while the consul, true image of Rome’s ancient senate, climbs the steep summit of the Pincian hill. What applause from the theatre of Pompey! How often will the Murcian valley raise to heaven thy name re-echoed by Aventine and Palatine! Leave the camp and let me behold thee now, soon to see thee, consul for a second time, along with thy son-in-law.”

While Rome so spake, Fame, on wings of rumour, flies over the sea and with her thousand tongues bids the chiefs speed to the capital. Not one can age hold back, nor the long journey, nor the Alp’s wintry blasts; Love wins the victory. Veterans whom the fasces ennobled long since hasten to greet the year of their colleague and avenger. So when by that birth in death the Phoenix renews its youth and gathers its father’s ashes and carries them lovingly in its talons, winging its way, sole of its kind, from the extreme east to Nile’s coasts, the eagles gather together and all the fowls from every quarter to marvel at the bird of the sun; afar its living plumage shines, itself redolent of the spices of its father’s fragrant pyre.

There is like joy in heaven: the two Theodosii and thine own protecting deities are glad; the Sun himself, decking his chariot with spring flowers, prepares a year worthy of thee.

Far away, all unknown, beyond the range of mortal minds, scarce to be approached by the gods, is a cavern of immense age, hoary mother of the years, her vast breast at once the cradle and the tomb of time. A serpent[10] surrounds this cave, engulfing everything with slow but all-devouring jaws; never ceases the glint of his green scales. His mouth devours the back-bending tail as with silent movement he traces his own beginning. Before

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the entrance sits Nature, guardian of the threshold, of age immense yet ever lovely, around whom throng and flit spirits on every side. A venerable old man writes down immutable laws: he fixes the number of stars in each constellation and causes these to move and those to be at rest, whereby everything lives or dies by pre-ordained laws. ’Tis he decides Mar’s uncertain orbit, Jupiter’s fixed course through the heaven, the swift path of the moon, and the slow march of Saturn; he limits the wanderings of Venu’s bright chariot and of Mercury, Phoebu’s companion.

When the Sun rested upon the spacious threshold of this cavern dame Nature ran to meet him and the old man bent a hoary head before his proud rays. The adamantine door swung open of its own accord and revealed the vast interior, displaying the house and the secrets of Time. Here in their appointed places dwell the ages, their aspect marked by varying metals: there are piled those of brass; here those of iron stand stiff; there the silver ones gleam bright. In a fairer part of the cave, shy of contact with the earth, stood the group of golden years; of these Phoebus chooses the one of richest substance to be marked with the name of Stilicho. Then, bidding the rest follow behind him, he addresses them thus as they pass. “Lo! the consul is at hand for whom we have delayed an age of nobler ore. Go ye, years long prayed for by man, bring back virtue; let genius flourish once more; may Bacchus give you joy and fruitful Ceres bless you. Let not the constellation of the Serpent breathe forth too icy an air from between the two Ploughing Oxen nor the Bear vent his excessive

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cold; let not the Lion rage with his gaping maw nor pitiless summer inflame the claws of Cancer. Let not Aquarius, too prodigal of his rainy urn, flood the young seedlings with sudden storms. Let Phrixu’s ram, his horns twined with roses, extend the fertile spring and let not the Scorpion beat down the ripe olives with his hail. Let the Virgin mature the fruits of Autumn and the Dog-star, more gentle than his wont, refrain from barking at the heavy grape-clusters.”

So saying he entered his garden starred with fiery dew, the valley round which runs a river of flame feeding with its bounteous rays the dripping weeds whereon the horses of the sun do pasture. Here he gathers fragrant flowers wherewith he decks the heads, the golden reins, and manes of his steeds. With leaves from hence Lucifer and Aurora entwine their oozy locks. Hard by the golden year, displaying the consul’s name, smiles upon his chariot, and the stars, recommencing their courses, inscribe the name of Stilicho in the annals of the sky.

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ON STILICHO’S CONSULSHIP

BOOK III PREFACE

(XXIII.)

The elder Scipio, who single-handed turned the Punic wars back from Italy’s coasts to their own home, fought not his battles unmindful of the Muse’s art; poets were ever the hero’s special care. For valour is always fain to seek alliance with the Muses that they may bear witness to her deeds; he loves song whose exploits deserve the meed of song. Therefore, whether to avenge his sire’s[12] death the young warrior brought into subjection the Spanish seas or embarked upon the Libyan wave his dreadful standards, resolved to break with sure spear the strength of Carthage, the poet Ennius was ever at his side and in all his campaigns followed the trumpet’s call into the midst of the fray. Him after the battle the soldiers loved to hear sing, and the trooper, still dripping with blood, would applaud his verses. When Scipio had triumphed over either Carthage—over the one to avenge his sire, over the other his fatherland—and when at last, after the

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disasters of a long war, he drove weeping Libya a captive before his chariot wheel, Victory brought back the Muses in her train and Mar’s laurel crowned the poet’s brow.

Thee, Stilicho, our new Scipio, conqueror of a second Hannibal more terrible than the first,—thee after five long years Rome has given back to me and bidden me celebrate the completion of her vows.

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BOOK III

(XXIV.)

Behold, O Rome, the hero whose presence the cries of thy people and the voice of thy nobles has long demanded. Cease now to count the stages of his long journey and to rise as though to greet him at the sight of every storm of dust; no further shall uncertainty torment thee. Full before thine eye is he who was long before thy mind, greater than thy hopes, more glorious than his fame. Honour thou the consul who has restored its dignity to the consulship; grasp the hand which has made the Carthaginians pass once more under the Roman yoke. Welcome the noble heart that directs the reins of empire and secures by its providence the equipoise of the world. Look with joy upon the sacred face thou worshippest cast in bronze and adorest in gold. Behold the warrior successful in every field, the defender of Africa, the conqueror of Rhine and Danube.

Should he wish in accordance with ancient custom to display the picture of his labours and show to the people the tribes he has subdued, crowns of laurel from north and south would contend in equally matched rivalry. Here is a triumph rich with the spoils of the Germans, there with those of the South; here would pass the Sygambri with their yellow

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locks, there the black-haired Moors. He himself would be drawn in a laurel-decked chariot by white horses, and followed by his soldiers chanting their festive songs. Some would lead captive kings, others carry conquered towns wrought in bronze or mountains or rivers. Here would go in sad procession the river-gods of Libya, their horns broken, there Germany and the Rhine god in chains. Yet is not thy consul, O Rome, an unbridled boaster of his own prowess. ’Tis not the rewards of toil but the toil itself that he loves. He scorns empty applause and celebrates a happier triumph in the hearts of his fellow-citizens.

Of a surety the citadel of Rome has never welcomed home any of her generals with greater magnificence, no, not even Fabricius when he returned after the surrender of Pyrrhus, nor Aemilius Paulus, conqueror of Pella’s king, when he ascended the Capitol in his chariot. No such triumph as this threw open the gates of Rome to Marius after his conquest of Numidia or to Pompey after his victories in the East. Each of these suffered from a rival faction that murmured uneasily against their success, and envy pursued their actions, no matter how noble, with spiteful stings. Stilicho alone was raised above the range of envy and the measure of mankind. For who could be jealous of the star’s eternity, of Jove’s ancient rule in heaven, of Phoebu’s omniscience[13]? There are some merits so transcendent that furious envy’s bounds cannot contain them. Moreover, those other heroes owed a divided allegiance: one gained the favour of the nobles, but was hated of the people, one, supported by the suffrage of the commons, enjoyed but faintly the favour of the

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senate. In Stilicho’s case alone class rivalry has not raised its head: the knights welcome him with joy, the senate with enthusiasm, while the people’s prayers rival the goodwill of the nobles.

Blessed mortal, whom the Rome that thou hast saved calls her father; darling of the world to whose banner flocks the whole of Gaul, whom Spain connects by marriage with the imperial house, for whose advent the citizens cried with ceaseless prayer, and whose presence the senate owed to thine illustrious son-in-law. Not such a girl’s delight in flowers, not such the desire of the crops for rain, or of weary sailors for a prosperous breeze as is the longing of thy people for the sight of thee. Under no such influence as this do the prophetic laurels wave on Delo’s coast when the brightness of Apollo’s bow announces the deity’s approach. Never did Pactolus’ golden wave so swell in pride when Bacchus from conquered Ind visited his banks. Markest thou not how the roads cannot be seen for the people, the roofs for the matrons? Thanks to thy victories, Stilicho, salvation has dawned on all beyond their hopes. Look round on Rome’s seven hills whose sheen of gold rivals the very sun’s rays; see the arches decked with spoil, the temples towering to the sky, and all the buildings that celebrate this signal triumph. Let thine astonished glance measure the magnitude of the city thou hast saved and the immensity of thy services. All this would live but in the memory were the African still master of the south.

It was the custom in campaigns of olden time to crown with oak the brow of him who by his valour had put the enemy to flight and succeeded in rescuing a fellow-citizen from imminent death.

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But to thee what civic crown can we give for the salvation of so many cities? Or what honours can recompense thy deeds? Nor is it only for her people’s life that Rome owns herself a debtor to thine arms, but that so she might have sweeter enjoyment of this glorious dawn she has won back her ancient burden of renown, her lost strength and her conquered kingdoms. No longer do her ambassadors kneel suppliant before the proud East and beg that Libya may be given back to her; gone the shameful spectacle of our city a suitor to her own slaves. No, relying now on her native Latin vigour, Rome under thy leadership fights her own battles with Roman spirit. She herself bids the standards advance; the toga-clad consul directs the future conqueror, and the eagles wait upon the orders of the senate. Of her own free choice hath Rome bestowed on thee the consul’s robe, offered thee, her avenger, the curule chair and compelled thee to adorn her annals.

Nothing of her ancient dignity hath she lost, no regret has she for the age of republican freedom, since it is she who bestows the consular honour, she who gives the order for battle. Nay, she sees the growth of her power. Whose memory can recall a time when the fields of Gaul and the hoes of the Senones were at our service? Has it ever happened before that Tiber’s wave has carried grain from the fertile north over the ploughing of whose fields the Lingones have toiled? Such a harvest not only fulfilled Rome’s needs but also demonstrated the greatness of her power; it reminded the peoples who was their mistress and brought in triumph from those chill climes a tribute never before paid.

This, too, augments the majesty of Rome that the

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chiefs of Libya tremble before the judgement-throne of our people, and that, his office ended, each governor must account under pain of death for all the corn the Carthaginian farmer has brought in, all that the rainy south-wind has dispatched to Rome. Those who of late uttered their proud judgements to broad domains here are cowed and tremble; those whom Africa held in dread Rome’s forum sees accused.

Stilicho gives scope for the virtues of a bygone age and rouses a people, forgetful of their former glory, to resume their accustomed sovereignty, to make themselves feared, to tread powerful magistrates beneath their heel, to mete out to crime its due reward, to show mercy towards the erring, favour to the innocent, punishment to the guilty, and to exercise once more their native virtue of clemency.

He errs who thinks that submission to a noble prince is slavery; never does liberty show more fair than beneath a good king. Those he himself appoints to rule he in turn brings before the judgement-seat of people and senate, and gladly yields whether they claim reward for merit or seek for punishment. Now the purple lays aside its pride and disdains not to have judgement passed upon itself. Such were the principles of rule taught by Stilicho to his son-in-law, Honorius; ’twas thus he guided his youth with the reins of prudence, and with precepts such as these directed his tender years, a truer father to the emperor than Theodosius, his stay in war, his adviser in peace. Thanks to him dishonour is banished and our age blossoms with Rome’s ancient virtues; thanks to him power, long degraded and all but transferred,[14] no longer, forgetful

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of itself, is exiled in lands of servitude but, returned to its rightful home, restores to Italy its victorious destiny, enjoys the promised auspices of its foundation and gives back its scattered limbs to the head of the empire.

Consul, all but peer of the gods, protector of a city greater than any that upon earth the air encompasseth, whose amplitude no eye can measure, whose beauty no imagination can picture, whose praise no voice can sound, who raises a golden head amid the neighbouring stars and with her seven hills imitates the seven regions of heaven, mother of arms and of law, who extends her sway o’er all the earth and was the earliest cradle of justice, this is the city which, sprung from humble beginnings, has stretched to either pole, and from one small place extended its power so as to be co-terminous with the sun’s light. Open to the blows of fate while at one and the same time she fought a thousand battles, conquered Spain, laid siege to the cities of Sicily, subdued Gaul by land and Carthage by sea, never did she yield to her losses nor show fear at any blow, but rose to greater heights of courage after the disasters of Cannae and Trebia, and, while the enemy’s fire threatened her, and her foe[15] smote upon her walls, sent an army against the furthest Iberians. Nor did Ocean bar her way; launching upon the deep, she sought in another world for Britons to be vanquished. ’Tis she alone who has received the conquered into her bosom and like a mother, not an empress, protected the human race with a common name, summoning those whom she has defeated to share her citizenship and drawing together distant races with bonds of

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affection. To her rule of peace we owe it that the world is our home, that we can live where we please, and that to visit Thule and explore its once dreaded wilds is but a sport; thanks to her all and sundry may drink the waters of the Rhone and quaff Orontes’ stream, thanks to her we are all one people. Nor will there ever be a limit to the empire of Rome, for luxury and its attendant vices, and pride with sequent hate have brought to ruin all kingdoms else. ’Twas thus that Sparta laid low the foolish pride of Athens but to fall herself a victim to Thebes; thus that the Mede deprived the Assyrian of empire and the Persian the Mede. Macedonia subdued Persia and was herself to yield to Rome. But Rome found her strength in the oracles of the Sibyl, her vigour in the hallowed laws of Numa. For her Jove brandishes his thunderbolts; ’tis she to whom Minerva offers the full protection of her shield; to her Vesta brought her sacred flame, Bacchus his rites, and the turret-crowned mother of the gods her Phrygian lions. Hither to keep disease at bay came, gliding with steady motion, the snake whose home was Epidaurus, and Tiber’s isle gave shelter to the Paeonian[17] serpent from beyond the sea.

This is the city whom thou, Stilicho, and heaven guard, her thou protectest, mother of kings and generals, mother, above all, of thee. Here Eucherius first beheld the light, here the queen his mother showed the babe to his imperial grandsire who rejoiced to lift a grandson upon his knee and to let him crawl upon his purple robes. Rome had foreknowledge of his destined glory and was glad, for so dear a pledge would keep thee ever her faithful citizen.

But think not this people ungrateful nor such as

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knows not how to repay benefits. Turn but the pages of history and thou wilt find how often it has faced war for an ally’s sake, how often bestowed as a gift on friendly monarchs lands won at the expense of Italian blood. Yet never were public thanks poured forth with such consent. For what prince has not sought with every blandishment to be called lord and father—titles which the amphitheatres echo back to thee day after day? Hail, consul, to thy new titles! Mars’ people calls thee lord and Brutus gainsays them not; what till now no terror could compel Rome’s free citizens to endure, they freely offered to their love for Stilicho. Wheresoever thy shining form is seen they haste to greet thee and raise to heaven thy name; nor is their wandering gaze ever sated with looking upon thee whom they love when thou enterest the Circus in thy shining robes of gold or art present at the games or, seated on thine ivory throne, dispensest justice in the forum or, with thine attendant lictors, mountest the rostrum thronged with the dense and surging crowd.

But what were the acclamations of the great, how unfeigned their rejoicings when Victory, soaring aloft with outspread wings, herself threw open her holy temple to the hero? Maiden that lovest the green bay, thou that art decked in robes of triumph, guardian of our empire, sole healer of our wounds, that makest our toils as though they were not, whether it pleaseth thee to dwell amid the stars of Ariadne’s crown or nearer to the fervid Lion, whether thou art seated on the lofty sceptre of Jove or Pallas’ shield or calmest the sighs of weary Mars, be ever present to Latium and grant, goddess, the prayers of thy senate. May Stilicho often crown thy portals

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and bear thee back with him to his armies. Accompany and bless him in war and give him back in robes of peace to our council-chambers. Always has he brought thee home in a spirit of mercy and kept thee kindly to the vanquished nor ever stained thy laurels with cruelty. He neither looks with disdain on his fellow-citizens nor harries the anxious city with his legionaries; but true consul now that the war is ended he comes accompanied only by his lictors nor seeks the useless protection of the sword, guarded only by a people’s love.

Handling his great wealth in no niggard spirit he does not hesitate to double his lavish expenses and after giving wondrous games in honour of his soldiery and of Honorius reserves yet greater for Rome. They say that Jove at Minerva’s birth showered gold upon lucky Rhodes; that while Bacchus forced an egress from his father’s thigh Hermus grew pale and turned to that same metal; that Midas, fated to suffer hunger as a punishment for his greed, converted to shining gold everything that he touched. Be these stories true or false thy liberality exceeds the waters of Hermus, the touch of Midas, the Thunderer’s shower. Thy hands, as prodigal of gifts as of daring deeds, o’ershadow the past and will o’ershadow the future. Should fire have melted the countless mass of silver thou bestowest as though it were the cheapest of metals, lakes and rivers of silver might have been formed.

Thou too, Latonia, queen alike of the woods and of the stars, art moved by no small care for Stilicho; thou toilest to distinguish our spectacles with the forest’s noblest denizens, and on the dizzy summits of Alpine rocks layest aside thy bow and summonest

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thy virgin companions and the chaste band of thy quiver-bearing followers. Thither they come, their shoulders and arms bare, spears in their hands and arrows slung across their backs, beautiful though unadorned; red their cheeks, dusty and suffused with sweat; their fierce virginity betrays not their sex; disordered their hair; girdles twain prevent their dresses from flowing down below their knees. Golden-haired Leontodame precedes her comrades, Nebrophone, foster child of Mount Lycaeus, follows her, and Thero whose arrows hold Maenalus in subjection. Fiery Britomartis hastens from Cretan Ida and Lycaste, peer of the western winds in flight. There join them the twin sisters Hecaërge, terror of beasts, and Opis, deity beloved of hunters, Scythian maids; their preference for Delos[18] over the frosts of the north made them goddesses and queens of the woods. These were the seven chiefs who came; there followed them a second band of Nymphs, Diana’s lovely company, a hundred from Taygetus, a hundred from Cynthus’ summit, a hundred more whose first home was beside the chaste waters of Ladon. When she saw these gathered together Delia thus began:

“Friends who hate the rites of wedlock even as I hate them, who scour the snowy mountains in virgin companies, mark you how the gods with unanimous favour glorify this year for Latium? How many herds of horses Neptune provides from every quarter of the world? How that none of my brother Apollo’s lyres can refrain from sounding the praises of Stilicho? From us too let Stilicho receive the favour we justly owe him; the task needs no javelin; let our arrows remain bloodless in our unopened quivers. Let every bow refrain from its

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wonted hunting and the blood of our prey be spilled but in the arena. Not for now their death; close the glades with net and cages and lead the beasts captive; withhold your impatient arrows; spare the monsters of the forest whose death shall win applause for our consul. Divide and haste in every direction; my breathless course is towards the Syrtes; do you, Cretan Lycaste and Opis, bear me company. My purpose is to traverse the unfruitful desert; Mauretania has given ere now her animals to other consuls as a gift, to this consul alone she owes them as a conquered land owes tribute. While we track out the dread progeny of Libya do you hunt the glades and rocks of Europe. Let joy banish fear from the shepherd’s breast and his pipe hymn Stilicho in the dreadless forests. As his laws have given peace to the cities so let his shows give peace to the mountains.”

She spake and straightway is borne from the leafy Alps across the sea. Hinds bow their necks to her chariot’s yoke, hinds whom the dewy moon conceived in her fertile caverns beneath the threshold of the morning sky to be the glory of the goddess. White their skins as driven snow; gold marks their foreheads whence spring branching golden horns lofty as the tallest beech-trees. Opis holds the reins. Lycaste carries the fine-wrought nets and golden snares, and deathless Molossian hounds run barking about the chariot amid the clouds. Five others thus equipped (such were Diana’s orders) hasten this way and that, each at the head of her own company; there follow them dogs of various shape, breed and character; some whose heavy jowls fit them for big game, some swift of foot,

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some keen of scent; shaggy Cretans bay, slender Spartans, and Britons that can break the backs of mighty bulls. Britomartis scours the woods of Dalmatia and the precipitous ridges of Pindus, her hair flying in the wind. Thou, Leontodame, surroundest the glades of Gaul and huntest the marshes of Germany, tracking out any huge boar, his tusks flexed with age, that may have taken shelter among the sedges that flank the Rhine. Swift Hecaërge tires the cloud-capped Alps, the valleys of the Apennines, and the snows of Garganus. Thero with her dogs explores the caves of Spain and from their recesses ousts the horrid bears of whose bloody jaws full oft Tagus’ flood has failed to quench the thirst, and whose bodies, numbed with cold, the holm-oak of the Pyrenees o’ershadows with its leaves. The manlike maiden Nebrophone hunts the mountains of Corsica and Sicily and captures deer and other harmless beasts, beasts that are the joy of the rich amphitheatre and the glory of the woods.

Whatsoever inspires fear with its teeth, wonder with its mane, awe with its horns and bristling coat—all the beauty, all the terror of the forest is taken. Guile protects them not; neither strength nor weight avails them; their speed saves not the fleet of foot. Some roar enmeshed in snares; some are thrust into wooden cages and carried off. There are not carpenters enough to fashion the wood; leafy prisons are constructed of unhewn beech and elm. Boats laden with some of the animals traverse seas and rivers; bloodless from terror the rower’s hand is stayed, for the sailor fears the merchandise he carries. Others are transported over land in wagons that block the roads with the long procession,

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bearing the spoils of the mountains. The wild beast is borne a captive by those troubled cattle on whom in times past he sated his hunger, and each time that the oxen turned and looked at their burden they pull away in terror from the pole.

By now Phoebus’ sister had wandered o’er the torrid plains of Libya and chosen out superb lions who had often put the Hesperides to flight, filled Atlas with alarm at their wind-tossed manes, and plundered far and wide the flocks of Ethiopia, lions whose terrible cries had never struck upon the herdsmen’s ears but as heralding their destruction. To catch them had been used no blazing torches, no twigs strewn over turf undermined; the voice of a tethered kid had not allured their hunger nor had a diggèd pit ensnared them: of their own free will they gave themselves up to capture and rejoiced at being seen the prey of so great a goddess. At length the countryside breathes again and the Moorish farmers unbar their now safe huts. Then Latonia collected grey-spotted[19] leopards and other marvels of the south and huge ivory tusks which, carved with iron into plaques and inlaid with gold to form the glistening inscription of the consul’s name, should pass in procession among lords and commons. All India stood in speechless amaze to see many an elephant go shorn of the glory of his tusks. Seated upon their black necks despite their cries the goddess shook the fixèd ivory and tearing it up from its bloody roots disarmed the monstrous mouths. Nay, she fain would have brought the elephants themselves as a spectacle but feared that their vast weight would retard the ships.

Fiercely o’er the Tyrrhene wave echoes the fleet

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that holds the Libyan breed, and, as he coils his tail upon the stern, a lion stretches to the prow; that single beast the labouring bark can scarce uplift; deep down below the waters is heard the roaring. Out rushes the leviathan. Neptune compares these land prodigies to his and admits that his are not their equal. So whene’er victorious Bacchus ploughs the Red Sea’s waves, Silenus sways the helm, the urgent Satyrs sweat upon their oars and the oxhide drums, smitten by the Bacchants, summon the rowers of Bromius to toil at the thwarts; ivy-wreaths deck the benches, the pliant vine entwines the mast; a drunken snake glides out upon the yardarms; lynxes run and leap along the sheets that drip with wine, and unaccustomed tigers stare in amaze at the canvas.

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PANEGYRIC ON THE SIXTH CONSULSHIP OF THE EMPEROR HONORIUS (a.d. 404)

PREFACE

(XXVII.)

All things that with waking sense desire ponders kindly repose brings back to the slumbering mind. The huntsman stretches his weary limbs upon the couch, yet his mind ever returns to the woods where his quarry lurks. The judge dreams of law-suits, the charioteer of his chariot the nightly steeds of which he guides past a shadowy turning-point. The lover repeats love’s mysteries, the merchant makes exchange of goods, the miser still watchfully grasps at elusive riches, and to thirsty sufferers all-pervading sleep offers from a cooling spring idly alluring draughts.

I am a lover of the Muses and in the silent night I too am haunted by that my accustomed task. For meseemed I stood upon the very summit of the starry sky and laid my songs at Jove’s feet, and, in the flattery of sleep, the gods and all the sacred band gathered about Jove’s throne gave applause to my words. I sang of Enceladus and conquered Typhoeus, the first a prisoner beneath Inarime, the second oppressed by the weight of Etna. How

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joyous was that Jove whom, after the war with the giants, heaven welcomed, enriched with the spoils from Phlegra’s field!

My dream has come true; ’twas no vain imagining; nor did the false ivory gate[21] send forth an unaccomplished dream. Behold our lord, behold earth towering to heaven’s height! Here before me are gods such as I then saw, gods worthy of all reverence. Nought greater could dreams have fancied; this noble assembly offers the poet an audience like to that of heaven.

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THE PANEGYRIC

(XXVIII.)

If our ancestors vowed temples to “Home-bringing Fortune” in honour of the return of their generals, never would this goddess more worthily claim for her services a noble temple than when their proper majesty is restored alike to the consulship and to Rome. The annual election in the Campus Martius is not the accustomed farce, nor see we a consul of other race than his electors nor a foreigner claiming pretended rights.[22] The palace now our own wears a native dress, and while Quirinus associates the people with the armies of Italy, Mars gives back to his own Field its imperial suffrage. What will the year be like for mortals that is ushered in by omens on the Palatine Hill so favourable to true sons of Rome and inaugurated on the banks of the Tiber? ’Tis true that years marked by thy name have ever been rich in omens of success and that victory has always accompanied thy consulship, yet by its wondrous dawn is this year set before all years, blessed by the twofold deity of Rome and of her Emperor. For as Babylonian lore gives assurance that propitious stars do then promise the best fortune to mortals when they hold the summit of the sky and their course is at the zenith, not dimming their

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light by a low position in the sky; so the Standard-bearer of the Latin palace[23] at his zenith gives hope of a brighter future for Italy in placing the star of our empire in its true position. Omens that have their origin in Rome’s victorious soil are the more sure of fulfilment.

When fair Apollo leaves Delphi’s shrine and visits the altars of the north, Castalia’s waters differ in no wise from those of any common stream, nor the laurel from any common tree; sad and silent is the cave and the shrine without a worshipper. But if Phoebus is there, Phoebus returned from Scythian climes to his Delphic tripod, guiding thither his yoked griffins, the woods, the caves regain their voice, the streams their life; the sacred ripple revisits the face of the waters, a clearer echo resounds from the shrine and the now inspired rocks tremble to the voice of prophecy. Now the Palatine Mount is exalted with honour and rejoices in the return of its native deity; far and wide among the suppliant peoples it spreads oracles surer even than those of Delphi and bids its laurels grow green again to deck the standards of Rome.

Of a truth no other city could fitly be the home of the world’s rulers; on this hill is majesty most herself, and knows the height of her supreme sway; the palace, raising its head above the forum that lies at its feet, sees around it so many temples and is surrounded by so many protecting deities. See below the Thunderer’s temple the Giants suspended from the Tarpeian rock, behold the sculptured doors, the cloud-capped statues, the sky-towering temples, the brazen prows of many a vessel welded on to lofty columns, the temples built on massy crags where the

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hand of man has added to the work of nature, the countless triumphal arches glittering with spoils. The eyes are dazed by the blaze of metal and blink outwearied by the surrounding gold.

Adored Prince, dost thou recognize thy house? ’Tis the same that thy loving sire showed to thy wondering eyes while yet thou wert a boy of tender years. Never in all his life did Theodosius, best of all the gods, better deserve our love than when, triumphant over all his foes, he came with thee to Rome to sojourn within its walls, and there, following the example of the noblest emperors, lived as a simple citizen, not seeking to inspire terror by his name but condescending to exchange banter and harmless raillery with the people and as ready to lay aside his rank and visit the homes of the poor as to enter the palaces of the noble. ’Tis thus the public love is kindled when with just humanity modesty bids royal state stoop to the people. And thee, while still but a boy, though the crown had not yet encircled thy head, thy father took to share his honours,[24] cherishing thee in his royal bosom, giving thy youth its first taste of triumphs and teaching it the prelude of its mighty destiny. Peoples of every tongue and Persian chiefs sent to solicit alliance in Rome[25] once saw thee seated with thy father in this very palace and bowing the knee laid their crowns at thy feet. Thou wert at his side when he summoned the tribes to receive a bounteous largess: with thee he entered the hallowed portals of the assembled senate clad in the consul’s robe, right glad to introduce his son to the goodwill of the Roman Fathers, that so his youthful heir might grow familiar with empire.

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Hence taking firmer root the love of Rome clung to thee more closely and grew strong, deep-planted in all thy heart. As thou grewest the affection which thou hadst found in childhood for the city grew too; nor was Bosporus, whose cherished town was thy nurse, able on thy return to seduce thee from that love. Every time that thy sire in sport gave thee thy choice of whatsoever cities thou didst prefer to govern as thy share of empire, thou didst leave to thy brother Arcadius the throne and riches of the East and the lands which by inheritance should be his. “Let him rule over the servile Assyrians,” thou saidst, “let Nile, the river of Egypt, and the Tigris be his; let me have my beloved Rome.” Thy wishes have been fulfilled. Fortune set up a new tyrant only to ensure for thee the governance of Latium. So soon as ever the war was brought to a successful conclusion thou wert summoned from the court of Byzantium to undertake the rule of Italy twice conquered by thy father’s arms. Serena herself left the East and accompanied thee in thy journey across Illyria: fearless in face of danger she bestowed a mother’s care on thee who wert to be lord of Latium and her own son-in-law after Theodosius’ translation to the sky. She kept careful guard over the child entrusted to her protection through the dangers of that critical time and brought thee safe to her uncle’s throne and her husband’s army. Stilicho and Serena vied in love toward thee and what Serena’s care had brought safe home Stilicho’s affection welcomed there.

Happy father to enter heaven with no fears for the future; he knew that thou wert to succeed him. With what joy he looks down from above and sees his glory enhanced by thine exploits! Europe and

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Africa were alike threatened by foes: from Mount Atlas came fierce Gildo; Alaric from Peuce’s savage isle. Often had both with impious daring set at nought the commands of thy sire. When he came from the lands of Thrace Alaric closed against him the waters of the Danube; Gildo scorned his command and, refusing assistance for a neighbouring war, had seized on the fields of Libya he had long forsworn. Theodosius recalls the anger he then justly felt and rejoices to witness their discomfiture, proud to have his son for his avenger. Orestes’ sword took vengeance on the son of Thyestes[27]; but guilt was blent with piety, and the sword-stroke brings doubtful glory when honour is balanced by a mother’s murder; Augustus sated the shade of Caesar with his enemies’ blood, but he made a false advertisement of piety when, to the grief of his fatherland, he offered the blood of citizens to his father’s ghost. But for thee thy sire’s cause, linked as it is with the general safety, doubles thy warlike fame; the same victory that has avenged thy sire has restored peace to the world.

My lyre inspired by the Muses of Pieria has long since sung of the defeat and capture of the Moor; but of late, too, in Stilicho’s presence I have celebrated in verse the wars against the Getae. To-day I would fain sing the glories of thy home-coming and, ceasing to tell of wars, would prelude a theme of thankfulness.

Alaric, his hopes ruined by his bloody defeat at Pollentia, though policy dictated that his life should be spared, was nevertheless deserted by all his allies and bereft of all his resources. He was forced to leave Latium and to retrace his steps in ruin and

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disgrace; such was the complete reversal of his fortune.[28] As when a pirate ship, the terror of every sea, laden with the spoils of violence and the booty taken from many a captured merchantman, falls in with a great man-of-war and hopes to secure it for its prey as vessels heretofore, then indeed crippled by the slaughter of its oarsmen and the rending of its sails, deprived of its rudder and all but destroyed by the breaking of its yardarms, it is driven this way and that at the mercy of wind and wave and at last pays the penalty for its piracy; even so Alaric turned backwards his vain threatenings, fleeing from Italy that, once so easy for his advance, was now so difficult for his retreat. His fear makes him believe every road barred, and rivers, erstwhile left behind in scorn, fill him with alarm on his return.

Meanwhile, as it fell out, father Eridanus in his watery home beneath the crystal caverns, ignorant as yet of what had happened, was pondering weighty cares. What, he wondered, would be the outcome of the war: would Jove approve empire and law and Rome’s days of peace, or would he, abhorring order, condemn future ages to the primal ways of brute beasts? As he anxiously ponders such things one of the Naiads with hair unbound came and embraced her sire and said, “Alaric is other now than once we saw him in his hour of triumph: thou wilt wonder at the pallor of his countenance. Joy it will be to reckon up his army and number the remains of so great a host. Frown no more nor complain; let my sister nymphs once more enjoy their dances.”

So spake she and he lifted his gracious head above the gliding stream and on his dripping forehead

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gleamed the golden horns that cast their brilliance all along the banks. No common crown of reeds adorned his oozy locks. The green branches of the daughters of the sun[29] shadowed his head and amber dripped from all his hair. A cloak was flung over his broad shoulders, a cloak whose grey texture was set aflame with an embroidery of Phaëthon and his father’s chariot. Resting beneath his breast an urn glorious with engraved stars makes clear its heaven-sent beauty. For there Phoebus had set in the sky all the sad stories of his woe: Cycnus changed into a swan, Phaëthon’s sisters transformed into trees, and the river that washed the wounds of his dying son; the charioteer is there in his icy zone, the Hyades follow on their brother’s traces, while the Milky Way sprinkles the outstretched wings of Cycnus who bears him company; the constellation of Eridanus[30] himself wets the clear southern sky in its tortuous course and with starry stream flows beneath Orion’s dread sword.

Glorious in such guise the god looked forth and saw the Getae advancing with bowed necks. Then he spake: “What, Alaric, hast thou then changed thy plans? Why hastenest thou back? Art wearied so soon of the coasts of Italy? Feedest thou not thy horses on Tiber’s grassy bank as thou thoughtest to do? Drivest not the plough on Etruria’s hills? Fit object of all the punishments of Hell, thinkest thou to attack the city of the gods with a Giant’s rage? If none other, was not my Phaëthon a warning to thee, Phaëthon fall’n from heaven to quench his flames in my waters, what time he

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sought with mortal hand to hold the fiery reins of the sky and hoped to spread day’s brilliance from a mortal countenance? ’Tis the same mad crime, I tell thee, whosoever aspires to spoil Rome or drive the sun’s chariot.”

So spake he, and rising yet farther out of the stream he loudly summoned the rivers of Liguria and Venetia. These raise their dripping heads from among their leafy banks, fair Ticinus, blue Addua, swift Athesis, slow Mincius, and Timavus with his nine mouths. All mock at the fugitive and recall the happy flocks to the now peaceful meadows; Lycaean Pan is bidden to return and the Dryads and Fauns, gods of the countryside.

Thou too, Verona,[31] didst add no small makeweight to Rome’s victory over the Getae; not even Pollentia nor the walls of avenging Hasta did more for the salvation of Italy. Here, as once again he breaks his bond, and driven by his losses risks all in the attempt to change his present fortune, Alaric learned that his mad treachery availed him nothing and that change of place changes not destiny. The vultures fed on the countless bodies of his slain, and Athesis, carrying down the corpses of Rome’s enemies in its stream, turned the waters of the Ionian sea into blood.

The treaty violated, Stilicho with all eagerness grasped at the conflict proffered where Rome was now far away from danger and Padus flowed between witnessing the strife. He rejoices that now opportune treachery has broken out in rebellious risings and, setting an example of endurance, he shirks neither fiery sun nor scorching dust. Himself he is everywhere with dreadful arm; he stations troops

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at every point, even where the enemy little expected them, and hastens in any and every direction to the succour of him who needs it. If the soldiers flag with wearied ranks he throws the auxiliaries into the line heedless of their loss; thus he cunningly weakens the savage tribes of the Danube by opposing one tribe to another and with twofold gain joins battle that turns barbarians against themselves to perish in either army for our sake. Thee too, Alaric, he had captured and delivered over to death had not the hasty zeal of the rash Alan chief upset his carefully laid scheme. All but a prisoner thou dost lash thy panting steed, nor do we regret that escape. Rather get thee gone, thou last remnant of thy race, sole survivor of so many Danubian tribes; get thee gone, the living witness of Rome’s triumph.

Yet was his[32] fierce spirit not cast down by these great reverses; he still attempted to discover an unknown path across the mountains, hoping that over their rocky summits he might fall suddenly on the peoples of Raetia and Gaul. But Stilicho’s more soldierly vigilance put a stop to his projects. Who indeed could hope to deceive that unsleeping brain, those godlike eyes that watched o’er Italy? Never did an enemy succeed in discovering Stilicho’s plans or had power to conceal his own. Before they knew them themselves the secrets of the Getae were known to Stilicho, whose generalship was quick to meet their every ruse.

Baulked in every attempt Alaric camped panic-stricken on a single hill. Though the horses, feeding on bitter leaves, gnawed even the tree-bark, though pestilence raged, brought on by foul food and

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aggravated by the season’s heat, though the soldiers arrogantly heaped abuse on their beleaguered leader and reminded him of their captured children; yet neither the ravages of disease nor famine that teaches men to face all dangers, nor grief for spoils lost, nor the voice of shame nor anger at bitter gibes could tempt him to brave the perils of a hand-to-hand fight, tried so often before and with such ill success. What triumph more complete than that of extorting from a conquered foe the admission that he is conquered? And now numbers of deserters began to weaken his already reduced strength and day by day his forces were diminished. Sedition was not now the hidden work of a few but meant the open defection of whole sections and squadrons. Their general rides after them and with angry curses and vain clamour seeks to hold them back, waging war now on his own troops. He weeps, calls the men by name, recalls them with prayers and supplications; he reminds them of past campaigns and all to no purpose offers his throat to their reluctant hands. His mind a prey to melancholy he sees his forces desert him, his army melt away, even as an old bee-master of Hybla, beating Cybele’s gong, tries, by means of that noise, to recall his scattered bees who have wantonly left their combs and fled the hive, till, himself wearied of the useless sound, he weeps the loss of his store of honey and cries out upon the faithless swarm that has forgotten its accustomed home and left its cells empty.

And so when grief loosed the string of his tongue that had long been mute he looked with tear-dimmed eyes upon the well-known Alps and pondered upon his present retreat, attended by a fate so different

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from that which had prospered his advance. Then with a single whisper he made war, with an outstretched spear lightly overthrew walls, making a mock of precipices; now deserted and in despair he offered a just spectacle to the mountains he had so scornfully crossed. Then looking up at the sky of Italy he said: “Land of death for the Getae, trod by me with such omens of disaster, let thy wrath be now appeased by the sacrifice of so many of the guilty; let my sufferings at last excite thy compassion. Behold me, once lord of the world, the friend of fortune till I invaded thee; now, like an exile or an adjudged criminal, I feel upon my back the nearer breath of my pursuers. Alas! which of my disasters shall I lament first, which last? Not thou, Pollentia, nor ye, my captured treasures, have thus tortured me; be that destiny’s harsh lot or the chance of war. I had not then lost all my forces; with troops still at my back, with my cavalry intact, I retired with the remnant of my army to the hills they call the Apennines. Its inhabitants told me that this mountain stretched from the confines of Liguria as far as the promontory of Pelorus in Sicily and embraced all the peoples of Italy, dividing with its unbroken chain the two seas that wash their country’s two coasts. If I had pursued the plan that anger first dictated to me and had in my desperation continued my march along its crest, what lay beyond? Giving everything to the flames I might have died with loftier fame. Ay, and my dying eyes had beheld thee, Rome, from not so far away, and my very death would have cost the victor dear as he pursued me over the well-tilled cornfields. But Rome held my

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children captive, my wives, my wealth—yet, freed from such hindrances, my advance had been the more rapid.

“With what cunning, with what skill, did Stilicho, that ever fatal enemy, ensnare me! His pretended mercy did but blunt my warlike spirit, and availed him to shift the war backwards across the Po. A curse on that armistice, more damaging than the yoke of slavery. ’Twas then the cause of the Getae was undone, then that I signed my own death-warrant. More rudely than any weapon did mercy destroy our people, beneath that semblance of peace lay the deadliest form of war, and I myself fell into the snare I had laid for others. I am weary of it all; where shall I find comfort or counsel? I fear my friends more than my foes.

“Would God I had lost them all on that field. He is ever mine that has fallen in hard conflict. Better all had perished by the sword; less bitter had been my grief for losses inflicted by a victorious foe than for those brought upon me by treachery. Is there not left one faithful follower? My comrades have turned against me, my friends hate me. My life is a burden; why prolong it? Where hide the remnants of my shipwrecked fortunes? To what land shall I flee where the names of Stilicho and all too powerful Italy shall not sound for ever in mine ears?”

So spake he, and with Stilicho pressing hard upon him fled in terror before our eagles. With him goes Pallor, black Hunger, Despair with bloodless, wounded countenance and a hellish company of shrieking Diseases. Then the learnèd priest whirls around the sick body[34] the torch of purification

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with its smoky, odorous flame of blue sulphur and black bitumen; he sprinkles the limbs with holy water and with herbs that banish evil influences and, praying to Jove the Purifier and to Diana, with back-turned hands throws over his head towards the South the torches which are to carry off with them the spells cast over the sick.

Meanwhile the ardent desire of both senate and people to behold their emperor demands his often denied return. Not with such consent, our grandsires report, were public vows eagerly offered throughout the city when warlike Trajan had broken the power of Dacia and reduced the indignant north once more to subjection, what time the Scythian river Hypanis beheld the Roman axes and Lake Maeotis looked in amaze on a Roman court administering Roman law. It was a lesser enthusiasm which recalled the gentle Marcus Aurelius to give thanks in Rome’s temples for Fortune’s deliverance of Italy from a similar pressure of surrounding nations. Then ’twas no thanks to the generals: one man his scorched courser bore trembling on its smoking back; another sank down beneath his fire-wasted helmet; spears glowed molten by lightning and swords vanished suddenly into smoke. Heaven it was that fought that battle with no mortal weapons, whether it was that Chaldean seers[35] had by their magic spells won over the gods to our side or, as I rather think, that Marcus’ blameless life had power to win the Thunder’s homage. To-day, also, assuredly Heaven’s favour would not be wanting to Latium should our own hand fail, but a beneficent providence has

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shown itself unwilling to rob human endeavour of its honour or to let the lightning win the crown of laurel which the efforts of thy father-in-law, Stilicho, have secured for thy brows.

Full often had the nobles, sent to urge thy return, brought back the answer that as yet thou couldst not come, until Rome herself, unable to bear any longer the frustration of her citizens’ common prayer, came forth from the depths of her sanctuary and, openly displaying her radiant face, urged the hesitating emperor with complaints of her own. “Too long, my emperor, have I, thy mother, borne in silence the hurt thy refusal to return hath done me. How long shall favoured Liguria possess that for which I desire? How long shall the Rubicon, separating me from the object of my prayers by so narrow a space, torture the Tiber by the all-but-presence of that divine being whose nearer sojourn it is not allowed to enjoy? Was it not enough to have scorned me once when Africa, again at war, mocked the city with hopes of its emperor’s coming, nor could we move thine obstinate ears with all our prayers? Yet did I harness for thee two steeds whiter than snow to draw the chariot wherein thou shouldst ride; already had I builded in thy name a triumphal arch through the which thou shouldst pass clad in the garb of victory, and I was dedicating it as a memorial of the war with an inscription to be the undying witness of the salvation of Libya. Even then were being prepared for Jove to see from the Tarpeian rock models for the coming triumph: a fleet of ships was cast in metal, ships whose oar-blades smote the golden sea; the cities of Africa were made to go before thy chariot and

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Triton, with his conquered waters and his head crowned with Minerva’s sacred reeds; crowds of slaves with upgirt dresses bore a figure of trembling Atlas cast in bronze; Gildo himself, destined to undergo in prison the punishment once meted out to Jugurtha, offered his stubborn neck to the yoke, Gildo fallen a captive to the arms of Rome, not to the treachery of a Bocchus and a Sulla.[36]

“But I pass over what has been. Can the present triumph, too, of the Getic war escape me? Does any spot give ampler room to so great renown? The very blessings thou hast bestowed beg thee not to delay, and thy generosity, constrained by its own fair deeds, must needs love those whom it has saved. Now for a hundred summers the reaper’s sickle has gathered the yellow harvest of Gargarus; already the consul has introduced the games that occur but once in a century and upon which no man looks twice. During these years which number twice ten lustres, I have but thrice[37] seen an emperor enter my walls in triumph; all at different times but for the same reason—civil war. Did they come in their pride that I should see their chariots stained with Italy’s blood? Can any think a mother finds joy in the tears of her offspring? The tyrants were slain, but even they were my children. Caesar boasted him of his victories over the Gauls; he said nought about Pharsalia. Where the two sides bear the same standards and are of one blood, as defeat is ever shameful so victory brings no honour. See thou to it that now a truer glory crown our arms; give me back the joy, long a stranger to me, of honest

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fame won from the enemy, and make good guilty triumphs by the lawful spoils of foreign madness.

“How long shall our emperor’s rule be a stranger to its true home and his governance stray from its rightful seat? Why does my palace which has given its name to all palaces mourn in neglected decay? Cannot the world be ruled therefrom? Phoebus never deserts his centre path though his beams are shed upon all. Was the hand of those old emperors who made me their home any lighter laid upon the tribes of Danube and Rhine? Was the awe felt by those of Tigris and Euphrates any less real when Mede and Indian came to this my capital of Rome to beg for alliance or sue for peace? Here dwelt those emperors whom merit chose for merit, and so, adopting them as consuls for the Roman state, made judgement not blood continue a noble line. Here lived the Aelian family that traced its descent from Nerva, the peaceful Antonines, the warlike Severi. Thou art a citizen; disdain not such a band; give us back the countenance we beheld long since, that Father Tiber, remembering the glory that was, may with thy father-in-law welcome thee as a man whom as a boy he saw leave my city at his father’s side.”

While yet she entreated the emperor reassured her with these words: “Never shalt thou complain that I have been deaf to thine entreaties; I could not thwart thee, goddess, who art the mother of our laws. Bring no railing accusation against thy sons. Did I disregard my country’s call after the African war? Nay, I sent thee Stilicho to sit in the curule chair to take my place, a consul instead of an emperor, a father- instead of a son-in-law. In him thy

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citizens saw also myself; so my love believes, for it has found that not blood alone but rather glorious deeds can show a parent. Had I a hundred tongues I could not touch on all the benefits he has bestowed upon me and upon the empire; one deed alone of them all will I recount to thee, goddess, if so be it is as yet unknown to thee, a deed of which I was the spectator or the cause.

“Alaric had laid waste Greece and the coasts of Thrace and in the mad pride of his many victories and the arrogance inspired by his crossing of the Alps had laid siege to the trembling cities of Liguria with winter as his ally—a season that favours a race accustomed to inclement skies; he then threatened to break down my defences and to lay strait siege to me also, bolstering up his hopes with the thought that, at the terror of his name and in fear of having none to aid me, I should come to terms with him on any conditions he chose. But I felt no fear, for I relied on the advance of Stilicho, and was mindful, O goddess, of those thy leaders who, even in face of death, never through base love of life made terms at the cost of honour. It was night; where’er I looked I saw the watchfires of the enemy shining like stars. The bugle had already summoned the soldiers to the first watch when glorious Stilicho arrived from the frozen north. But the enemy held the road between my father-in-law and myself, and the bridge whose obstructing piers churn turbid Addua to yet fuller foam. What was Stilicho to do? Halt? My danger forbade the least delay. Break through the enemy’s line? His force was too small. In hastening to my aid he had left behind him many auxiliaries and legionary troops. Placed in this dilemma he

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thought it long and tedious to wait for reinforcements and, putting aside his own peril, was eager only to deliver me from mine; inspired by the courage that is born of love, heedless of his own danger, he broke through the enemy’s midst and, sword in hand, cutting down all who sought to bar his passage, he passed like lightning through the barbarians’ camp.

“Now let poets’ songs praise me the son of Tydeus because, relying on Odysseus’ help when the way was opened by Dolon’s wiles and all was sunk in feasting and slumber, he broke into the Thracian camp of Rhesus and brought back to the Greek lines his captured steeds, which—if we may trust the too generous Muses—surpassed the winds in speed, the snows in whiteness. Here was a man who, with no treachery ’mid silent slumber, clave a path for himself with his sword in the open light of day and arrived within our lines covered with blood, thus surpassing the brave deeds of Diomede by as much as day surpasses night and open battle ambush. Alaric’s position, moreover, on the river bank was a stronger one, and he himself a warrior with whom Rhesus, even when awake, could not be compared. Rhesus was king, Alaric the conqueror, of Thrace. Neither weapons nor the river’s bar could stop Stilicho. So Horatius, standing on the falling bridge, drave back the threatening hosts of Etruria and then swam the Tiber, still carrying the shield wherewith to the amazement of Tarquin he had defended Rome, and from mid stream looked back with scornful gaze upon Porsenna. ’Twas the swift Addua my father breasted; but, as he swam the flood, Horatius turned his back upon the Etruscans, Stilicho faced the barbarian foe.

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“Now, O Rome, lead forth the chorus that shall hymn a contest of such high renown and let thy best genius with all its eloquence voice the well-merited praises of my foster parent.”

So spake he and, issuing from the walls of old Ravenna, advanced his standards. He crossed the mouths of the Po and left behind him that river harbour[38] where, in fixed succession, in flows the foaming main and bears up the vessels that ride there at anchor on forward and backward flowing stream, and again deserts the waveless shore, like moon-led tides upon the marge of Ocean. Next he comes to the old city of Fortune’s Temple that bids him glad welcome and from its height looks down upon Metaurus threading its rocky valley where an arch, tunnelled through the living rock, affords a path through the mountain’s very heart, rising above the temple of Jove and the dizzy altars set up by the shepherds of the Apennines. ’Twas thy good pleasure, too, to visit Clitumnus’ wave,[39] beloved of them that triumph, for thence do victors get them white-coated animals for sacrifice at Rome. Thou markest well also the stream’s strange property, flowing gently on when one approaches with silent step, but swirling and eddying should one hasten with louder utterance; and while it is the common nature of water to mirror the exact image of the body it alone boasts the strange power that it mimics not human form but human character. Next thy royal charger treads the streets of Narnia, looking out from its eminence upon the plain below: not far therefrom flows the strange-coloured stream which gives the town its name, its sulphurous waters

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flowing in tortuous course between opposed mountains through dense forests of holm-oak. Then when in greeting to Father Tiber thou hast poured a libation of his waters thou art welcomed by Rome’s arches and all the magnificent buildings which line the roads of that noble city’s suburbs.

And as a careful mother at the approach of her daughter’s lover does all that trembling hand can do to enhance the charms that are to win a husband, oft readjusts dress and girdle, confines her breast with bands of green jasper, gathers up her hair with jewels, sets a necklace about her neck, and hangs glistening pearls from her ears, so Rome, in order to be pleasing in thy sight, offers herself to thy admiring gaze more glorious and with hills made higher and herself greater than thou hadst known her. Still fairer than of old she seemed by reason of those new walls that the rumour of the Getae’s approach had just caused to be built; fear was the architect of that beauteous work and, by a strange freak of fortune, war put an end to the decay that peace had brought. For fear it was that caused the sudden upspringing of all those towers and renewed the youth of Rome’s seven hills by enclosing them all within one long wall. Even the weather listened favourably to our prayers and was finer than its wont, although continuous rain had spoiled the preceding night; but the clouds melted away before the glory of the sun and the emperor. All the days before had the south wind troubled with rain and dimmed the moon’s young disc that heaven might know it was for thee that the sunshine waited.

One huge crowd filled all the slope between the Palatine hill and the Mulvian bridge and as far up

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as it was possible to go on the house roofs; the ground seethed with men, the lofty buildings were aglow with women. Those who are young rejoice in an emperor of their own age, the old cease to belaud the past and count their destiny happy that they have lived to see such a day, blessing the kindly times when a prince so easy of access, so singular in courtesy, forbade the senators of Rome to march before his chariot, even though Eucherius, in whose veins ran regal blood on father’s and on mother’s side, and his own sister did honour to his triumph like simple soldiers. Such has been the teaching of that stern but loving parent who showed no more favour to his children than to himself, and refused a son honours he granted to nobles. Bent age and upstanding youth alike are loud in his praises and, comparing the new with the ancient rule, recognize in Honorius a true citizen, in his predecessors tyrants.

The women of Rome never tire of gazing at those blooming cheeks, those crowned locks, those limbs clothed in the consul’s jasper-studded robes, those mighty shoulders, and that neck, beauteous as Bacchus’ own, with its necklace of Red Sea emeralds. Many an innocent maid, while simple modesty blushes in her cheek, would bend her gaze o’er all and inquire of her aged nurse the meaning of the dragons on the colours. “Do they,” she would ask, “but wave in the air or is theirs a veritable hiss, uttered as they are about to seize an enemy in their jaws?” When she sees the mail-clad knights and brazen-armoured horses she would fain know whence that iron race of men is sprung and what land it is gives birth to steeds of bronze. “Has the god of Lemnos,”

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she would ask, “bestowed on metal the power to neigh, and forged living statues for the fight?” Joy and fear fill her mind; she points with her finger how Juno’s bird decks the gay crests upon their helmets, or how, beneath the golden armour on their horses’ backs, the red silk waves and ripples over the strong shoulders.

Then it was, Stilicho, that Fortune repaid thee for the labour of so many years when, mounted in the same chariot, thou sawest thy son-in-law in his prime pass in triumph through the streets of Rome, and didst recall that day when in troubled terror mid uncertain fortune the dying father entrusted his son to thy care. Now thy many virtues have found their meet reward: loyalty that has kept safe that which was confided to it, singleness of purpose that made a boy the master of the world, affection that has bestowed such loving care on an adopted son. This is the boy who to-day summons Rome’s citizens to the place of meeting and from his father’s ivory throne tells to the fathers the causes and the issues of his acts, and, following ancient precedent, directs the deeds of empire at the judgement-seat of the Senate. He piles up no words, for confidence has nothing to conceal; his mind, conscious of true worth, refuses the aid of artificial speech. The senators learn to know him; their chief wears the Gabine[41] garb, and thronged with generals in the rôle of peace the Senate-house prepares for service under the auspices of the warlike court. Winged victory herself, Rome’s faithful guardian, was in her temple;[42] her golden pinions stretched in protection over the holy sanctuary where the fathers meet together, and she herself, a tireless

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attendant on thine armies, now at last has had her wish granted and is able to promise that for all time to come thou shalt be Rome’s guardian and she thine.

Hence the Sacred Way (now truly named) brings thee back to thy home. Eagerly breaks out the world’s one-hearted welcome, that thou dost not woo with lure of scattered gold; nor for thee does the treasury, seeking to corrupt good faith, court venal applause; to worth unpurchased love is offered by a pure heart. For life that is dearer than any gift makes all thy debtors. Away with wooing of applause! He can ask no payment who owes his life to love.

Oh what mysterious power over the people does the Empire’s guardian-genius bring! What majesty bows to majesty as the prince, clad in imperial scarlet, returns the salutations of the people that crowd the tiers of the Circus! The shouts of the adoring populace rising from that immense circle thunder to the sky, while the echoes of Rome’s seven hills repeat as with one voice the name of Honorius. Nor does the Circus display only horse-races; its floor, whereon chariots were wont to drive, is surrounded by a palisade, and in this new amphitheatre, so far, so different, from their native valleys, Libyan lions shed their blood. This is the scene, too, of a military display; here we often see armed bands advancing and retiring in mazèd movements that are nevertheless executed according to a fixed plan; we watch them wheel in perfect order, extend with disciplined precision, affording us the pleasing spectacle of mimic warfare. The leader cracks his whip and a thousand bodies execute in unison

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their new movements; now they clap their bucklers to their sides, now they brandish them above their heads; deeply sound the clashing shields, sharply ring the engaging swords, and, to the rhythm of beaten targes, the echoing song of steel is punctuated by the interclash of weapons. Suddenly the whole phalanx falls on its knees before thee and a thousand helmets bow down in reverence. Then the companies separate, wheeling and counter-wheeling with ordered skill, following a course more tortuous than the corridors of the Minotaur’s Cretan palace or the reaches of Meander’s wandering stream. Then wheeling apart they form with circular masses, and Janus,[43] emprisoning war behind his ever unopening doors, after a happy mimicry of battle bestows on peace the innocent rewards of combat.

And now, his double head crowned with laurel, Janus opens the new year with auspicious calendar; now Tiber sees united in Honorius Brutus’ consular robe and Romulus’ kingly sceptre. The Palatine hill rejoices after many generations again to look upon a consul; the rostra learn to know the curule chair famed of old among our forefathers, and royal lictors, a long unwonted sight, encircle with their golden fasces the Forum of Trajan; while Honorius, wreathing with Getic laurels the axes borne for the sixth time before him, places a conqueror’s foot upon the neck of subdued Danube. Let this year springing from its true source go forth among the nations more glorious than any—a year the consul inaugurated, not a stranger in a strange land, whose cradle the Senate-house guarded, that Roman citizens first beheld, that Victory, all wars o’ercome, auspiciously

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brought to birth. Years in which mere commoners held the consulship, and ye years when Theodosius and his predecessors graced that office in Rome or elsewhere, count your honours as nought and worship this present year. Ay, you five previous consulships of Honorius, even you that our emperor shall hold in Rome in the days to come, give place to this one. Wert thou, Honorius, to be consul every year, yet is this thy sixth to be magnified above all thy consulships, excelling all that are past and model of all that are to come.

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THE GOTHIC WAR

PREFACE

(XXV.)

After years of sloth my Muse, as if startled from long slumber, rejoices to sing a Roman song to Roman ears. Once more the same halls bring the gathering I longed for, and Apollo’s temple echoes to the voice of a familiar bard. ’Twas here I sang of the consular fasces and of the winning back of Libya and here must I sing of the war that overthrew the Getae.

But my former success won for me a brazen statue[44] and the Fathers set up my likeness in my honour; at the Senate’s prayer the Emperor allowed the claim—bethink thee, Muse, how strict a judgement thou dost face! Wit wins less favour when too soon rewarded, and so great a gift refuses indulgence for my song. Now that my name is read and my features are known in the forum my Muse labours for a sterner critic than before.

Yet my theme itself brings cheer and, as I begin to speak, eagerly lightens much of my accustomed fear. A gracious and more devoted hearing is secured for me, be it by the war’s deserving or be it by Stilicho’s love.

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(XXVI.)

When the intrepid Argo, passing between the clashing rocks that guarded its entrance, burst through the portals of the unfurrowed sea making for Colchis where Aeëtes ruled, it is said that, when all were panic-stricken by the nearing danger, Tiphys alone—with heaven’s help—kept safe the almost uninjured bark. ’Twas thanks to him that the Argo escaped the cliffs threatening ruin and came out victorious into the open sea, cunningly eluding the meeting shock of the floating rocks. Amazed were the proud Symplegades thus subdued by the hero’s skill, and, submitting to the novel laws of the fixed earth, offer unmoved an easy passage to all ships since once they have learned defeat. But if the merit of saving a single vessel from ruin won, and rightly won, for Tiphys such meed of honour, what praises shall suffice for thee, Stilicho, who hast freed so great an empire from destruction? Poets may exaggerate the story; they may boast that Minerva toiled with her own hands to hew the Argo’s beams, and that she fitted together no senseless timber from a dumb forest, but felled the augural grove of Tomarian[45] Jove and with those prophetic trees quickened its planks to speech. But though they burden their recital with the story of countless prodigies to captivate the mind of the unlettered

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young, though they tell of fierce Harpies, of the dragon whose unsleeping length lay curled in protecting folds about the golden fleece, of yoked bulls afire with flickering flames, of a springing crop of helmets, a field from out whose furrows grew a Martian race, of seeds of war whose increase yielded a harvest, too, of war, yet do these fictions fall short of the truth. Is it a nobler title to fame to have driven off the greedy Harpies and banished them from the table of a single man than to have had the strength to beat back those countless Getic maws that thirsted for the spoil of Latium? Am I to look with more admiration upon those earth-born warriors struck down in the very furrows from which they sprang, born and dying in a single day, than upon the slaughtered ranks of Getae whom the goddess of war reared on so many spoils and whose martial life came to grey hairs, passed ever beneath helmets?

Thou and thou alone, Stilicho, hast dispersed the darkness that enshrouded our empire and hast restored its glory; thanks to thee civilization, all but vanished, has been freed from the gloomy prison and can again advance. The old order of justice now makes distinction between magistracies which fear had made equal in a common gloom. Thy right hand has snatched us from impending death and restored to their homes and lands peoples whom fate sentenced and thy valour saved. No longer, herded together like sheep by reason of our fears, do we watch from the ramparts our fields ablaze with the enemy’s fire, no longer measure the depth of rivers which we feebly hope will retard our destruction nor ask the streams and flying clouds to

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keep the promise of their waters or complain that the sunshine conspires against us with its splendour.

Thou, too, Rome, so long vexed with internal discord, lift up thy hills at last more peacefully in safety. Arise, honoured mother, be sure that God’s favour is with thee; banish the lowly timorousness of age. City that art coëval with the world, inexorable Lachesis shall not exercise against thee her rights of destruction until Nature has so changed the immutable laws of the universe that Tanais turn his course and water Egypt, Nile flow into Lake Maeotis, Eurus blow from the west, Zephyr from India, and the south wind rage in tempest o’er the summit of Caucasus, while that of the north binds the deserts of Africa with its frost.

Thus far came the fatal hordes; now their threats, whereof so many omens warned us, have vanished away. Heaven’s self was not always at peace: they tell how even Jove trembled (if one may dare to say so) when Typhoeus attacked him, arming his hundred hands with a hundred mountains and touching the astonished constellation of the Bear with his towering snaky coils. What wonder if trouble harasses mortal realms when cruel Aloeus’ two sons cast Mars in chains and attempted to build that forbidden road to the stars so that the universe almost ceased to move, what time the three rocks[46] were uprooted in the war of heaven? But their blind fury was of no effect; wicked hopes never exult for long. Aloeus’ children never reached man’s estate; Otus, attempting to uproot Pelion, was stricken down by Phoebus, and Ephialtes as he died wearily let Ossa fall athwart his side.

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Lift up thy head, Rome, and behold thine enemy; see how, leading back in dishonour a shattered host, he is cast forth from Italy. How different is he from what he was when he sware that everything should yield to his onset and took an oath by Danube whom he and his fathers worshipped that he would never unbuckle his breastplate until he had marched in triumph through the Forum. How strange are the changes Fate brings about! He who destined the women of Rome as victims of his lust has seen his own wives and children led away captive; he who in imagination had drained the countless wealth of our city became himself his victor’s easy prey; he who once sought to corrupt the loyalty of our troops has been deserted by his own people and has returned to his country beggared of men and arms.

Then too if, laying hatred aside, thou shouldest weigh the cause that won them pardon from their doom, surely to spare a fallen foe is itself a triumph and to see him on his knees punishment enough. What vengeance so satisfying as when terror makes pride stoop, and want bows down him who before bore spoils? But our clemency was in part due to another cause, for we thought of thee, O Rome. Concern for thee constrained us to offer a way of escape to the beleaguered foe lest, with the fear of death before their eyes, their rage should grow the more terrible for being confined. An enemy before thy very walls would have been too heavy a price to pay for the destruction of the race and name of the Getae. May Jove from on high forbid that the barbarian should outrage even with a glance Numa’s shrine or Romulus’ temple, or discover aught of the secrets of our empire.

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And yet—if duly I recall ancient conflicts—then also when, fair liberty lending vigour, the senate was everywhere successful with native troops, they sought trophies from such wars as were waged far away across the sea where our soldiers could exercise their courage without danger to their homes; chariots and fettered kings were accounted but the shows that overflowing fortune gave. But whenever a dread storm burst upon Italy or hung threateningly over her head their thought was not how to give vent to profitless fury but how best at such a crisis to secure the safety of the state. The leader of their choice was not he who hazarded all on one rash throw but one who gave careful thought to each eventuality, were it fortunate or the reverse, one who could bear adversity with fortitude and success with moderation, and by slackening or tightening the reins of government knew how to make use of victory and to temporize after a setback. The physician’s skill deals more carefully with grave diseases and ulcers that are near the heart: here he is more sparing of the knife for fear lest the blade, driven too deep, should slip and sever beyond healing some vital organ.

Proud assuredly is the strain in which bards of old sing of Curius who drove Pyrrhus, son of Aeacus, from the shores of Italy;[47] not more resplendent were the triumphs of Paulus and of Marius who dragged captive kings behind their white-horsed chariots. The expulsion of Pyrrhus is more praised than the capture of Jugurtha; and although Curius drove out a prince whose spirit had already been broken by two reverses, at the hands of Decius and of the blameless Fabricius whom neither bribes

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nor arms could overcome, yet the whole glory of that expulsion is given to him. But how much greater the task we see fulfilled by Stilicho alone! He has conquered not Chaones or Molossi, Epirot tribes, nor yet the armies of Dodona that idly boast their prophetic grove, but a mighty people whose home lies in those snowy regions beneath the icy constellation of the Bear.

Fabius was the first to stay by his slow struggles Hannibal’s lightning rush; then Marcellus, meeting him in the open field, taught him defeat, but it was the valour of Scipio that drove him from the shores of Italy. In the case of our latest foe Stilicho succeeded in combining in himself the diverse skill of all these three; he broke their frenzy by delaying, vanquished them in battle and drove the vanquished host from Italy.

And all this in so short a time. Full five years did Italy mourn beneath the scattered fires of Pyrrhus, for well-nigh eighteen years did the African steeds of the Carthaginians tread down and devastate our harvests, and it was a second generation, born after the outbreak of the war, that, exacting a tardy vengeance for the first, with difficulty drove an aged Hannibal back to his own country. Stilicho acted more quickly: he saw to it that the winter of our distress should last but one winter[49] but that spring in its earliest months should bring back fair weather alike to heaven and to fatherland.

Why should I make mention of the wars waged all those weary years against Hannibal and Pyrrhus when that vile gladiator Spartacus, ravaging all the countryside with fire and sword, oft engaged the consuls in open war and, driving out its feeble masters

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from the Roman camp, put to rout the unwarlike eagles defeated with shameful carnage by a band of slaves? We, unused to war’s alarms, an age enervated with luxury, grumble and give up in despair if a ploughing ox is looted or our harvest so much as touched. It was no slaves’ prison that loosed on us the Getic hordes; these were not a crowd of rebellious gladiators. Thrace, Haemus and Moesia can tell you what manner of foe Stilicho expelled. Thrice ten times has chill winter cast her snowy mantle over leafless Haemus; as oft has spring, when those snows were melted, renewed the mountain’s verdant cloak since the Getic race, forgetful of its native stars and once having crossed the Danube, set destructive foot on Thracian soil. Whether fate led them or the heavy anger of the gods planning disaster upon disaster, from that day, whithersoever the Furies have driven those errant bands, they have poured pell-mell over remote lands, over every obstacle, like a storm of hail or a pestilence. No streams or rocks availed to defend their country. Neither Rhodope nor huge Athos nor Hebrus could save Thrace; the Bessi cursed the Strymon crossed with scornful ease and the Haliacmon that flowed swiftly and to no purpose. The Macedonians in amaze saw Olympus, too high even for clouds, trodden by them as it had been a plain. Thessaly bewails the uselessness of Tempe and conquered Oeta’s ridges made a mock. Sperchius and Enipeus, loved of maidens, served to wash the barbarians’ hair. The barrier of Pindus could not save the Dryopes nor cloud-capped Leucates the coasts of Actium. Thermopylae itself that had once more boldly withstood the Persians yielded a passage

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at the first onset. Sciron’s cliffs protected by the waves, the wall that joins sea to sea across the Isthmus of Corinth, the narrow pass of Lechaeum, all lay open to their approach. Thou, Erymanthus, couldst not protect the people of Arcadia with thy leafy ridges and thou, Amyclae, didst tremble to see the enemy’s cavalry on the heights of Taygetus.

At last, however, the Alps avenged on the Getae the disgrace of all mountains else and victorious Eridanus that of all other rivers. The event has proved that deep hidden are the ways of destiny. Who would have believed that, once a passage had been forced over the Alps, so much as the shadow of Italy’s name would survive? Did not the awful report of Rome’s fall cross the sea and spread beyond Gaul and over the Pyrenees? Did not Rumour, her sable wing sped on with panic, sweeping all before her in her flight, affright Ocean from Britain’s coast to Gades’ city and far away from our world make distant Thule tremble with the unaccustomed echoes of war?

And shall we fling to the South-wind’s blasts all the terrors we endured, lest mid feasting sadness trouble our ears? Or rather does such memory delight and does precursive pain ever changefully heighten unexpected joy? Even as to sailors storm-tossed at the Pleiads’ setting the rudeness of the sea commends the harbour’s calm, so to me does Stilicho appear greater when I compare happiness with hazard and all those troubles come again before my mind.

Did not our steel-girt walls seem to fall at the enemy’s attack, feeble as the towers that crowned them, and our doors of iron to open of their own accord to give him entry? It seemed as though

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no rampart nor palisade were stout enough to withstand his cavalry’s wind-swift onset. Even now they[50] make ready to go aboard their ships, to dwell in Sardinia’s creeks and Corsica’s rocky, inhospitable coast, and to guard their lives behind the foaming main. Sicily herself, mistrusting the narrow strait, would fain retreat, did but Nature permit, and open a wider passage for the Ionian waves by withdrawing Pelorus. The rich, setting no store by their fretted golden ceilings, would rather have lived in greater security in an Aeolian cave. Soon, too, wealth was considered a burden, and greed of gain was curbed at last by reason of anxieties more overwhelming. Then—for that fear is by nature a babbler and allows all sorts of tales to be invented and believed—dreams, portents, and omens of ill were discussed on all sides. What, men asked, did that flight of birds portend, what message would heaven fain deliver to mortals by the thunderbolt, what did those prophetic books demand that guard the destiny of Rome? Constant eclipses of the moon alarmed us and night after night throughout the cities of Italy sounded wailings and the beating of brazen gongs to scare the shadow from off her darkened face. Men would not believe that the moon had been defrauded of her brother the sun, forbidden to give light by the interposition of the earth; they thought that Thessalian witches, accompanying the barbarian armies, were darkening her rays with their country’s magic spells. Then with these new portents their troubled minds link the signs of the past year and any omens that perchance peaceful days had neglected—showers of stones, bees swarming in strange places, furious

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fires destroying houses from no known cause, a comet—ne’er seen in heaven without disaster—which first rose where Phoebus lifts his rosy morning beam and old Cepheus shines together with starry Andromeda, his spouse; then it withdrew little by little to the constellation of Lycaon’s daughter[51] and with its errant tail dimmed the stars of the Getic Wain until at last its dying fires grew feeble and vanished.

But what terrified men’s minds still more was the portent of the two slaughtered wolves. Ay, before the Emperor’s face as he practised his cavalry upon the plain two wolves savagely attacked his escort. Slain by darts they disclosed a horrid portent and a wondrous sign of what was to be. In each animal, on its being cut open, was found a human hand, in the stomach of one a left hand, in that of the other a right was discovered, both still twitching, the fingers stretched out and suffused with living blood. Wouldest thou search out the truth, the beast as messenger of Mars foretold that the foe would fall before the emperor’s eyes. As the hands were found to be living when the stomachs were cut open, so, when the Alps had been broken through, the might of Rome was to be discovered unimpaired. But fear, ever a poor interpreter, read disaster in the portent; severed hands, ’twas said, and nursing wolf threatened destruction on Rome and her empire. Then they reckoned up the years and, cutting off the flight of the twelfth vulture, tried to shorten the centuries of Rome’s existence by hastening the end.[52]

’Twas Stilicho alone who by his courage assured despairing Rome the promise of a better fate; at

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this crisis he showed himself by his courage at once general and seer. “A little patience,” said he; “away with womanly repinings: let us bear with fortitude whatever fate lays upon us. What good do the sailors’ cries do to the storm-driven vessel? Neither waves nor winds will abate their fury for coward tears or useless prayer. Now for the general safety it befits us to use every effort, to struggle with all our strength—to attend to the sails, work the pumps, manage the various ropes, and obey every order of the skilful captain. Because the Getae have broken through, seizing by treachery the hour for striking home, what time Raetia claimed our attention and our regiments were busied with another war—not for that is all hope lost. Marvel indeed I might, if by some new guile, some discovered path, the barbarian ignorantly marched over the unexplored Alps; now, however, the successive defeats of the two tyrants[53] have made the road notorious, nor has the foeman missed the well-known track that was built for him by our civil strife. They have come a well-known way and Roman discord has opened the approach to barbaric war.

“Past generations have known a like fate. Full often, we know, has Italy been attacked—but never without the enemy’s paying dear. With their own blood did our country extinguish the fires lit by the Senones and, once the victim of a German invasion, she soon saw the squalid necks of Teutons and Cimbri loaded with the chains of captivity. Of little value is that glory whose worth has not been augmented by previous hardship; ’tis great dangers that beget great triumphs.

“Do you meditate shameful flight and fix your

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eyes on Gaul? Would you leave Latium and establish on the banks of the Saône a camp of refugees? Is Rome to be ceded to Arctic tribes, our empire to settle on the Rhone, and shall the trunk survive the head? If the thought of your children has any weight with you, remember that I too am not unaffected by similar feelings of nature; my heart is not so hard that I do not nor will not recognize the sacred ties that bind son to father-in-law, wife to husband and children to sire. But never, forgetting honour, shall cowardly affection seek refuge in ignominious flight. Nor do I give you bold advice, more careful for myself alone; here is my family, my wife, and her father whom I love more than life itself; not one of my relations is beyond the reach of this tempest. O land of Italy, know that my heart is set on bearing with thee whatsoever ills thou art called on to bear. Romans, hold your walls but for a short while till I return, bringing back to the sound of trumpets the flower of your host.”

With these words he instilled courage into the fearful hearts of the citizens and checked any inclination towards flight in the Court. The dark shadow fled and Italy dared raise her head once more seeing her emperor ready to share her perils, and stood her ground with such a hostage for fortune. Where Larius clothes his banks with shady olive-trees and with his fresh water imitates the sea’s salt waves, Stilicho crossed the lake with all speed in a small boat. Next he ascended those mountains, inaccessible in winter, with no thought for the season or the weather. Even so a lion, leaving his starving cubs within the

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cave, issues forth hunger-maddened some winter night and with silent tread goes out across the deep snow with murder in his heart, his mane frozen about his shoulders, and icicles clinging to his tawny coat; nought recks he of death nor cares for snow nor frost if only he can procure food for his little ones.

Near to the Hercynian forest the uplands of Raetia stretch out towards the north, Raetia, proud parent of Danube and Rhine, twain rivers that she sets to guard the empire of Rome. Small are their streams at first, but soon they grow in depth and like kings compel the lesser waters to pass with tributary wave beneath their name. The Cimbric ocean receives Rhine’s flood outpoured through his two mouths; the Thracian wave swallows that of Ister flowing out through five channels. Both rivers are navigable though both bear at times the marks of chariot-wheels upon their frozen surface; stout allies both of the north wind and the god of war. But on the side where Raetia marches with Italy precipitous mountains touch the sky, scarce even in summer offering an awful path. Many a man has there been frozen to death as though he had looked on the Gorgon’s head; many have been engulfed beneath vast masses of snow, and often are carts and the oxen that draw them plunged into the white depths of the crevasse. Sometimes the mountain plunges downwards in an avalanche of ice, loosening neath a warmer sky foundations that trust vainly in the precipitous slope.

Such was the country over which Stilicho passed in mid winter. No wine was there; Ceres’ gifts were sparing; ’twas enough to snatch a hurried meal, eaten sword in hand, while, burdened with rain-drenched

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cloak, he urged on his half-frozen steed. No soft bed received his weary limbs. If the darkness forced him to halt in his advance he would either enter some dreadful beast’s den or sleep in some shepherd’s hut, his head pillowed upon his shield. The shepherd stands pale at the sight of his stately guest, and ignorant of his name the rustic mother points out to her squalid infant the glory of his face. It was those hard couches beneath the rough pines, those nights amid the snow, all that care and anxious toil, that won this peace for the world, this tranquillity it had despaired of for the empire. From out those Alpine huts, Rome, came thy salvation.

Now had the peoples broken their treaties and, encouraged by the news of Latium’s trouble, had seized upon the glades of Vindelicia and the fields of Noricum. Like slaves whom news of their master’s death lures into luxury with an idle tale, if mid the debauch and while wild licence riots with wine and dance some unexpected chance bring back their lord, then they stand panic-stricken and, abhorring liberty, servile terror shakes their guilty souls; so all the rebels were struck with terror at the sight of the general and in one man the Emperor, Latium and all Rome blazed before their eyes. Joy sat not upon his countenance nor excess of gloom nor yet dejection by reason of Rome’s reverses but nobility and indignation mixed, such as filled Hercules at Eurystheus’ inhuman orders, or such as dims the face of heaven when at Jove’s frown the troubled sky is gathered into a murky cloud.

“Put ye such faith,” he cried, “in Getic arms? Is it they that swell your hearts with empty pride? Fate has not brought Rome’s name so low that she

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cannot punish your rebellion with but a handful of her forces. Not to delay you with foreign tales, hear this example from your deeds of old. When warlike Hannibal was spreading destruction throughout the cities of Italy, and Cannae had doubled Trebia’s cruel losses, a vain hope drove Philip of Macedon to turn his feeble sword against a people which, as he thought, was in difficulties. The monstrous insult roused the Roman Fathers, although more pressing dangers were crowding upon them, and they took it ill that, while two great cities were disputing the mastery of the world, a lesser race should be insolent. They determine upon instant vengeance and command Laevinus, even while he conducts the war with Carthage, to do battle also with the king of Macedonia. The consul obeyed his orders, and Philip, intruding his feeble arms between mighty nations, was routed by a passing band and learned that it does not do to tempt the anger of powerful peoples even when they are in distress.”

With this warning Stilicho alike checked the threatened war and won new allies for war, enrolling them at their entreaty and setting such number to their forces as should best suit—neither a burden to Italy nor a terror to its lord.

Then, indeed, at the news of his return, the legions, such love they bore their general, hastened together from every side, and at the sight of Stilicho their courage revived and they broke out into sobbings and tears of joy. So when a herd of cattle has been scattered throughout some vast forest by the storm’s violence the beasts eagerly make for the sound of the ox-herd’s well-known song or whistle and

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the pasture of their native vale, guiding their steps in answer to his voice and glad faithfully to reply with lowing, while, wherever his tones fall upon their ear, horns show themselves here and there through the dark foliage. First hasten up the neighbouring troops, their loyalty attested by their defence of Raetia and their mass of spoil from Vindelicia; next the legion that had been left to guard Britain,[54] the legion that kept the fierce Scots in check, whose men had scanned the strange devices tattooed on the faces of the dying Picts. Even the legions that faced the flaxen-haired Sygambri, and those who held the Chatti and wild Cherusci in subjection hither turned their threatening arms, leaving the Rhine, whose garrison they had formed, defended by but one thing—the fear of Rome. Will any posterity credit the tale? Germany, once the home of peoples so proud and fierce that former emperors could scarce keep them in check with the whole weight of their armies, now offers herself so willing a follower of Stilicho’s guiding hand that she neither attempts an invasion of the territory exposed to her attack by the removal of its frontier troops nor crosses the stream, too timid to approach an undefended bank.

Greater art thou, Stilicho, than all; thine only rival is Camillus, whose arms broke the rash power of Brennus as thine have broken that of Alaric. At a time of dire peril ye both gave the aid of gods; but he too late avenged a captured Rome, thou one still safe. What a reversal of fortune did thy return bring about! A new vigour returned to every part of our empire alike, and the glow of health came back to our suffering cities. A

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woman, so the story goes, who died to save the life of a loved husband, was recalled to the upper world by the might of Hercules. Diana with the help of Circe’s magic herbs restored to life Hippolytus whom the scorned passion of a stepmother had caused to be torn in pieces. Crete, if the fable be true, saw Glaucus, son of Minos, issue living from the tomb; his body was discovered by the cries of birds to Polyidus, the aged seer, who restored him to life by means of simples; strange indeed was the ruling of fate which apportioned sweet honey as the cause of his death and a hideous serpent as the restorer of his life.[55] But thy return, Stilicho, recalled not one body from the shades but countless peoples sunk in a common death, and snatched whole towns from the jaws of Hell.

That very day Rome rang with the report (though none ever knew its author) that the hero had arrived, and the citizens, assured of Stilicho’s protection, applauded this augury of certain victory. Who could tell of the Emperor’s joy, who of the courtiers’ eager greetings? From the lofty battlements we sight a distant cloud of dust and know not whether its obscurity conceals friend or foe. Suspense keeps us all in silence. Then suddenly from that dusty cloud emerged the helm of Stilicho, glittering like a star, and we recognized his gleaming white hair. Up rose the happy shout from the walls: “’Tis he.” Safe at last the crowd surges out through the gates to meet and greet the army’s return. Gone for ever are our wretched impressed levies; no longer

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does the reaper, laying aside his sickle, try to hurl the impotent javelin, nor Ceres lay aside her harrow and, to the amusement of Bellona, essay the buckler. Stilled are the noisy wrangles of untried leaders; here is Rome’s true strength, her true leader, Mars in human form.

The more happy hopes grew in our hearts the more they deserted the Getae, who, touching the stars with their heads, after crossing the Alps accounted all their own and deemed nothing left to do. But when they saw all our glorious youth, all the quickly levied infantry, all the squadrons of horse, a countryside protected by so many rivers and fortresses, and themselves caught in a snare, a trouble they dared not voice seized their hearts and a regret that they had invaded Italy with too forward eagerness; and Rome they hoped within their grasp seemed far away. Weariness of their mighty undertaking steals over them. Yet Alaric’s face conceals his fear; he bids to the council of war those whose age or prowess had gained them the dignity of leadership. There sat the senate of long-haired, skin-clad Getic leaders. Many a scar received in battle adorned their faces, spears guide their tottering steps and, instead of a staff, old age, refusing to disarm, supports itself on their tall shafts. Then arose one older than the rest, trusted for his counsel and advice, who, fixing his gaze upon the ground, shaking his hoary locks and leaning on his ivory hilt, thus spake: “If I miscount not the years this is well-nigh the thirtieth winter since we swam across the swift Ister. All that time we have escaped defeat at the hands of Rome. Yet never, Alaric, has Mars brought your fortunes to such

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straits. Take the advice of an old man who has been through countless fights, one who like a father was wont to give thee in thine earliest youth little quivers to sling across thy back and to fit short bows to thy young shoulders. Often did I urge in vain that thou should’st observe the treaty and remain safe at home in Emathia. But if the fire of hot youth hurried thee into war, now at least, I beg thee, make good thine escape from out this net if thou hast any love left for thy people. The enemy’s forces are far away; thou hast the chance; flee headlong from Italy’s lands lest, in thy desire for fresh spoils, thou lose even what thou hast got and like a wolf pay the penalty of former depredations to the shepherd by being killed within the sheepfold. Why dost thou have ever on thy lips the richness of Tuscan vineyards and some Rome or other with its Tiber? If our parents speak sooth, never has any who has assailed that city in mad war returned to boast that he has done her violence. The gods desert not their own home; thunderbolts, they tell, are hurled from afar upon her foes and unearthly fires flash before her walls, whether ’tis heaven or Rome that thunders. If thou fearest not the gods beware the might of Stilicho; fortune is ever on his side against assaulting enemies. Thou thyself knowest how high with bones he piled our funeral pyres in Arcadia, and with what vast outpourings of our blood he made the rivers of Greece run warm; and thou hadst been killed had not treason in the guise of law and the goodwill of the Emperor of the East protected thee.”

While the elder spake thus Alaric, eyeing him

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askance with fiery brow, brooked his words no longer, but his enkindled pride broke forth in furious speech: “Did not witless age that has deprived thee of thy senses grant thee indulgence never, on my life, should Danube listen unavenged to such coward insults. Am I who have routed so many emperors (Hebrus’ river is my witness) to endure flight at thine advice—I whom all nature obeys? Have I not seen the mountains levelled at my feet, the rivers dried up? Never may my country’s gods, the spirits of my forefathers, allow that I retrace my footsteps on a backward path. This land shall be mine whether I hold it in fee as conqueror or in death as conquered. I have overrun so many peoples and cities, I have burst through the Alps and drunk of the waters of Eridanus from out a victor’s helmet. What is left me but Rome? My nation was strong even when it has no allied arms to help it. But now that I hold sway over Illyria, now that its people has made me their leader, I have forced the Thracians to forge me spears, swords, helmets with the sweat of their brows, and Roman towns (whose rightful overlord I now am) to contribute iron for mine own uses. Thus is fate on my side. Rome, whose territories I have laid waste year by year, has become my slave. ’Tis she has supplied me with arms; her own metal has glowed in the furnace, artfully molten and fashioned for her own undoing by reluctant smiths. The gods, too, urge me on. Not for me are dreams or birds but the clear cry uttered openly from the sacred grove: ‘Away with delay, Alaric; boldly cross the Italian Alps this year and thou shalt reach the city.’ Thus far the

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path is mine. Who so cowardly as to dally after this encouragement or to hesitate to obey the call of Heaven?”

So he spake and made ready his army to take the road, exhorting them to combat. Prophecy serves to augment his vain pride. Ah! for the grudging oracles ever dumb with mystic utterance; ’tis the event alone that (too late) discloses the true meaning which the seers themselves could not read. Alaric reached the farthest confines of Liguria where flows a river with the strange name of the City.[57] There he suffered defeat and even then scarcely realized (though that defeat made it clear) that fate had tricked him with an ambiguous word.

Stilicho, too, fails not: at full speed he advanced his army clamorous for battle and spurs their march with these words: “Friends of Rome, the time has now come for you to exact vengeance for outraged Italy. Wipe out the disgrace which the investment of your emperor by his foes has brought upon you, and let your swords end the shame which the defeat on the Timavus[58] and the enemy’s passage of the Alps has caused to Rome. This is the foe whom ye so often put to flight on the plains of Greece, whom not their own valour but a world torn by civil strife has kept safe thus far, as they treacherously mock at treaties and traffic in perjury now with the West, now the East. Reflect that all the fierce peoples of Britain and the tribes who dwell on Danube’s and Rhine’s banks are watching and stand ready. Win a victory now and so be conquerors in many an unfought war. Restore Rome to her former glory; the frame of empire is tottering; let your shoulders support it. A

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single battle and all will be well; but one victory and the world’s peace will be assured. We fight not on the slopes of Thracian Haemus nor await our foe where Maenalus throws his shadow across the banks of Alpheus. We defend not Tegea nor Argos. No: as ye see, the scene of war is the very centre and heart of Italy. Protect Father Tiber with your shields.” Thus spake Stilicho to foot and horse.

Orders were at the same time sent to the auxiliary troops. The Alans, now subject to Roman rule, followed our trumpets’ call, taught by their chief to lay down their lives in the cause of Italy. Small was his stature but great his soul and fierce anger blazed from his eyes. Covered with wounds was he and with a visage rendered the more glorious and the more proud by reason of the scar some spear-thrust had left. At Stilicho’s command he hastened up with his cavalry, fated to bite the soil of Italy in death. Happy warrior, worthy of the Elysian fields and of my meed of song, who wast eager even at the cost of life to cleanse thy loyalty from stain! The sword that spilled thy generous blood, it was thy judge, acquitting thee of that most unjust charge of treachery. Thrown into confusion by the hero’s death his horsemen turned rein and, its flank thus exposed, the whole host would have reeled had not Stilicho quickly gathered a legion and hastening to the spot rallied the cavalry to the fight with infantry support.

What poet, were he inspired by the Muses or even by Apollo himself, could relate the blessings showered that day by Mars upon the city whose founder he himself was? Never was the sword of Rome plunged so deep in the Scythians’ throat;

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never was Tanais’ pride abased by such a crushing defeat nor the horns of Ister so broken. Thirsting to drink the enemy’s hateful blood our soldiers passed by rich and varied raiment, carts laden with gold, heaps of silver, and, eager for the foe’s destruction, spurned his wealth. They held blood of more account than gold; none of them would stoop to pick up the fortune that lay at their feet but drew their swords and sated their wild fury. The crafty foe threw in the path of our advancing troops the robes of scarlet dye, and other spoils reft from Valens[59] who perished in the flames, heavy mixing-bowls looted from unhappy Argos and lifelike statues rescued from burning Corinth—all in vain, for this ill-omened booty, so far from delaying our men, reminded them of past reverses and so the more inflamed their righteous indignation.

The crowd of prisoners is loosed from its fetters and all the peoples of different tongue whom the Getae had led away captive. Freed at last by the slaughter of their captors they plant thankful kisses on the bloody hands of their deliverers and hasten back to their long-lost homes and their dear children. At each his household looks in wonder as they tell the story of their woes and then recount the marvel of welcome victory.

What must then have been thy despair, Alaric, when ruin overwhelmed thy wealth and all that gear that years of robbing had won thee, when there struck thine ear the cries of that wife of thine who, too confident in her long unconquered husband, demanded in her madness the jewelled necklaces of Italian matrons for her proud neck and Roman girls for her tire-women! The fair girls

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of Greece from Corinth and Sparta were, forsooth, not good enough now for so great a lady. But Nemesis, the goddess worshipped at Rhamnus, she whose pleasure it is to check unbridled desire, was wroth and turned her wheel; harsh poverty overwhelms the vanquished, and in one day Rome’s arm requites all that we have lost in thirty years.

Thy glory, Pollentia, shall live for ever; worthy is thy name to be celebrated by my song, a fit theme for rejoicing and for triumph. Fate pre-ordained thee to be the scene of our victory and the burial-place of the barbarians. Full often have thy fields and plains seen ample vengeance exacted for aggression against the descendants of Romulus. ’Twas there, in that same countryside, that the Cimbric hordes, bearing down upon Rome from Ocean’s farthest shore and crossing the Alps by another pass, suffered their final defeat. The coming generation should mingle the bones of these two races and engrave with this one inscription the monument which records our double victory: “Here beneath the soil of Italy lie the bodies of brave Cimbri and Getae: their death they owed to our famous generals Marius and Stilicho. Learn, presumptuous peoples, not to despise Rome.”

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SHORTER POEMS

I. (XIII.)

To Stilicho.

Crown with a wreath of flowers, Stilicho, that head more often graced with the shining helmet. Bid cease the trumpets and let the happy marriage-torch banish fierce war afar. Let the blood derived from a kingly race flow on through royal veins. Do a father’s duty and establish the firm bond of wedlock between thy daughter and adoptive son. Thou wert an emperor’s son-in-law; now an emperor will be thine. What cause is there now for envy, what excuse for jealousy? Stilicho is at once father and father-in-law.

II. (LXXXV.)

Description of the harbour at Smyrna.

The city that meets our gaze veils the mountain peaks, fronting a tranquil sea. The two headlands that enclose the harbour protect the quiet water from the north wind. Here the sea is disarmed by the encircling land and learns to lie in undisturbed tranquillity.

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III. (LXXXI.)

To Aeternalis.[61]

Phoebus’ every breath from the Castalian spring, the tripod’s every moan within the shrine of prophecy—all these are poetry. Of prose the Muses will have none. In poetry only can I express myself, so wholly does my patron, Apollo, possess me.

IV. (LIV.)

Description of a Herd.

Not such were the beauteous herds that the land once ruled over by triple Geryon produced. Not such the bulls thou bathest, Clitumnus, in thy stream for pious vows to offer duly to Tarpeian Jove. Not such the steer that, they say, scattered the sand of Tyre[62] what time he brought home his well-loved burden. Not the fields of Crete, nor Gnossos that knew of passion for a bull, nor Ida could have pastured the like. Even he whose monstrous figure united ill-assorted limbs, the Cretan child[63] who by his strange form revealed his mother’s shame—even he could scarce have shown a shape so fair had all his rough limbs resembled those of his sire.

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V. (LXXXVI.)

A distant Scene.

There is a place deep buried in a huge bay where an island, stretching far out into the sea, stills the rough waves to quiet, and steep cliffs, jutting out into the broken water, curve themselves into a peaceful harbourage.

VI. (LXXVIII.)[64]

Anger affords a weapon to him who seeks one.

Whate’er it carries, that rage converts into a weapon. Wrath supplies all with arms. When an angry man thirsts for blood anything will serve him for a spear. Fury turns a stick into a cudgel.

VII. (LXXXVII.)

Statue of a Chariot.

1. Who had the skill to fashion so many figures out of one block of marble? The chariot melts into the charioteer; the horses with one common accord obey the same reins. These are distinguishable by their various forms but made from one and the same material without distinction.

2. The driver is of one piece with the car: to this are attached the steeds, each joined to, and proceeding out of, another. How admirable the artist’s skill! A single block combines within itself all these bodies: one mass of marble by submitting to the chisel has grown into all these various shapes.

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VIII. (LXIX.)

Of Polycaste and Perdiccas.[65]

To what deeds of cruelty will the flames of love not inspire mankind? Here is a mother who dares not love her child, the fruit of her body. Holding the unhappy boy to her snowy breast and wishing to give him suck, she conceives for him, though she is his mother, a shameful passion. Cupid, thou goest too far; put down thy cruel quiver. Consult Venus; mayhap she feels like pangs.

IX. (XLV.)

The Porcupine.

I had heard the strange tale, Stymphalus, that the birds that haunted thy marshes let fall from them arrows of death in their flight, and for long I could not bring myself to believe this story of iron feathers. But here is proof: the porcupine who is surely related to those birds of Hercules is their warrant.

His long snout is like that of a swine. Stiff bristles like horns stand up from his forehead. Red and fierce are his fiery eyes. Under his bristly back are short legs like those of a small dog. Small as this animal is, nevertheless Nature has seen fit to dower him with a wonderful means of defence. All over the body grows a threatening thicket: a harvest of brightly coloured spears bristles up ready

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for battle. The roots of these weapons are white and are firmly fixed in the animal’s skin. The quills are themselves parti-coloured with black bands and come to a stiff quill-like point, diminishing in diameter towards the tip which is smooth and sharp.

But his armoury is not fixed like that of the woodland hedgehog. He can take the offensive and also protect himself at a distance by the frequent discharge of these darts of his, hurling through the air the flying missiles which his own back supplies. At times like the flying Parthian he wounds his pursuers; at times he entrenches himself and strikes his foe by the discharge of a storm of these terrible weapons which bristle on his shoulders out of which they grow. He fights with his whole body, and his back, as it moves, emits a raucous sound. You would think it was the trumpet’s note stirring an army to close with the foe and fight. Small is the animal but great the din. Besides his arms he displays cunning and a cold, calculated fury that never wastes its weapons but cautiously contents itself with threats, for he never expends a dart but in defence of his life. His aim is sure; the blow, such is his skill, unerring, nor can distance delude his range. The motion of his skin in the act of discharging ensures the speed, and accurately directs the flight, of the weapon.

Has human endeavour, with reason to guide it, ever done the like? Men rob of their horns the wild goats of Crete, then they force them to become pliant over the fire[66]; they use the guts of cattle to string their bows; they tip their arrows with iron and wing them with feathers. But here is a small animal whose arms are contained in his own body

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and who needs no external defence. He carries all his own arms; himself his own quiver, arrow, and bow. Alone he possesses all the resources of war.

But if all human activities as they grow have had their source in imitation we may see here the exemplar of combat by means of missiles. It is from him that the Cretans learned to shoot and the Parthians to strike while in flight. These did but follow the example of the animal that is armed with arrows.

X. (XCII.)

Of Beaver’s Overcoat.[67]

’Tis but the shadow of a name that is left. I cannot call it a coat of beaver, not though Beaver swear it is one. It cost six shillings. Now you know what it is like. If you don’t believe me, believe the price.

XI. (XCI.)

On the Tomb of a Beauty.

Fate allows not beauty a long life: sudden is the end of all that is noble and pre-eminent. Here lies a lovely woman: hers was the beauty of Venus and hers the illwill of Heaven for a gift so rare.

XII. (LXXXIV.)

Quintius’ Baths.

Stay awhile and bathe in these waters, traveller; then set forth again upon thy journey refreshed.

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An thou become its guest, warm will be thy gratitude towards him that built this bath and set it by the side of this long dusty road.

XIII. (LXXIX.)

To a gouty Critic.

Canst thou talk of feet? Dost blame my verses and criticize my lines, thou whose own feet are so weak? This couplet, you say, will scarcely stand: the scansion is shaky. Dear friend, a gouty man thinks nothing at all can stand.

XIV. (LXXXII.)

To thank Maximus for a Gift of Honey.

Thou dost ever send me sweet gifts, Maximus; ’tis honey whatsoever thou sendest, methinks.

XV. (LXXXIX.)

The Poor Lover.

Biting poverty and cruel Cupid are my foes. Hunger I can endure; love I cannot.

XVI. (XC.)

The Same.

A hungry pauper am I, a victim fallen to love. Two ills; but poverty is the lesser.

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XVII. (L.)

On the Statues of Two Brothers at Catina.[68]

See these two brothers toiling beneath a burden piety bade them bear. They deserve the tribute of divine honours at the hands of all men: at the sight of them the respectful flames ceased their ravages and Etna in admiration restrained his flooding lava. Seizing their parents they set them upon their shoulders and, with eyes raised to heaven, hasten their steps. The aged parents, thus carried aloft by their two sons, impede their flight, but dear to the children is that very delay. See, the old man points to the cruel flames; the aged mother’s trembling lips call upon the gods for help. Fear has set their hair on end, the bronze is terror-stricken and a pale shiver runs over all the metal. In the countenances of the sons is seen courage in face of danger, and, if fear, then fear for their burdens, none for themselves. The wind has blown back their cloaks. One raises his right hand; his left is enough to sustain his aged sire. But the other needs must clasp his burden with both arms, taking greater care for that it is his mother, one of the weaker sex, that he bears. This, too, as thou passest by, leave not unnoted, for well the craftsman’s dumb hands deserve such regard; both he has moulded with a likeness such as brothers bear, yet the one resembles rather his mother, the other his father.

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The artist’s cunning has succeeded in expressing a difference of age in their faces, though a likeness to either parent is apparent in the features of both the sons; while, to ensure a further dissimilarity in that resemblance, he has varied the tenderness that either countenance expresses.

Faithful were ye to Nature’s law, bright example of divine justice, model for youth, fond hope of age! Wealth ye despised, and dashed into the flames to rescue nought save your venerable parents. Not undeservedly, methinks, did such piety quench the fires in Enceladus’ jaws. Vulcan himself checked the flow of molten lava from Etna that it should not harm those patterns of filial duty. The very elements were influenced thereby: father air and mother earth did their best to lighten the burden.

If signal piety raised Castor and Pollux to the skies, if Aeneas won immortality by rescuing his sire from burning Troy, if ancient story has rendered famous the names of those Argive brothers, Cleobis and Biton,[69] who harnessed themselves to their mother’s car, why does not Sicily dedicate a temple to the ageless memory of Amphinomos and Anapius? Though the three-cornered isle has many titles to fame, let her be sure that she has never given birth to a nobler deed. Let her not weep the destruction wrought by the spreading flames nor lament the houses burned down by the fire’s fury. The flames abating had never put affection to the proof; the great disaster purchased immortal fame.

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XVIII. (LI.)

Of French Mules.

Behold the docile children of fast-flowing Rhone that at their master’s word come together and at that word disperse. See how they go this way or that according to the different cries he utters, and, guided only by his voice, take the path he would have them take. Though each unguided by the rein takes his own course and no collar presses upon their necks they obey as though harnessed and, insensible to fatigue, hear and follow the directions shouted by their barbarous master. Though far away from their owner they nevertheless respect his commands, obeying the word of the muleteer as it were a bridle. It is his voice that even at a distance gathers them together when scattered or scatters them when gathered together; this that checks their haste or quickens their dragging steps. Does he shout “left,” they turn them to the left: does he alter his cry to “right,” to the right they go. Slaves, yet without bonds, free, but without licence, they go unbridled but obedient. Covered with tawny pelts they haul along the rumbling carts, each cheerfully doing his fair share. Dost thou wonder that Orpheus tamed the wild beasts with his song when the words of a Gaul can guide these swift-footed mules?

XIX. (XLIII.)

Letter to Gennadius,[70] ex-Proconsul.

Glory of all Italy, who dwellest on the pleasant banks of Rubicon, ornament of the Roman bar

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second only to Cicero, well known to the peoples of Greece and to Egypt, land of my birth (for both have feared and loved thy rule), dost thou ask for poems to appease thy hungry throat?

By our friendship, I swear there are none at home. My verses soon learn to trust to their own wings and leave the nest, flying far afield nor ever returning to their humble home.

XX. (LII.)

Of an old Man of Verona who never left his home.

Happy he who has passed his whole life mid his own fields, he of whose birth and old age the same house is witness; he whose stick supports his tottering steps o’er the very ground whereon he crawled as a baby and whose memory knows but of one cottage as the scene where so long a life was played out. No turns of fortune vexed him with their sudden storms;[71] he never travelled nor drank the waters of unknown rivers. He was never a trader to fear the seas nor a soldier to dread the trumpet’s call; never did he face the noisy wrangles of the courts. Unpractised in affairs, unfamiliar with the neighbouring town, he finds his delight in a freer view of the sky above him. For him the recurring seasons, not the consuls, mark the year: he knows autumn by his fruits and spring by her flowers. From the selfsame fields he watches the sun rise and set, and, at his work, measures the day with his own round of toils. He remembers yon mighty oak an acorn, and sees the plantation, set when he was born, grown old along

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with him. Neighbouring Verona is, for him, more distant than sun-scorched India; Benacus he accounts as the Red Sea. But his strength is unimpaired and the third generation see in him a sturdy, stout-armed grandsire. Let who will be a wanderer and explore farthest Spain: such may have more of a journey; he of Verona has more of a life.[72]

XXI. (LXXX.)

Of Theodore and Hadrian.[73]

Manlius Theodorus sleeps night and day; the sleepless Egyptian steals alike from gods and men. Peoples of Italy, be this your one prayer—that Manlius keep awake and the Egyptian sleep.

XXII. (XXXIX.)

Apology to Hadrian.

Must the violence of thine anger last so long? Are my tears never to cease to flow? Dost thou thus suddenly turn thy favour to hatred? Where, then, is that leniency that knows not to harm any, that loving-kindness? Shall envy have such licence? Has the clamour of calumny so prevailed?

What though rash wrath, though heedless youth tempted me, though pride urged, though passion led me astray, yet shouldst thou be above meeting me with like weapons. Human murmurs never touch the gods nor do the loose railings of man disturb the peace of heaven. My punishment has

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been too severe; spare a fallen foe. Behold me; I confess my faults and ask pardon for my sin.

Fierce Achilles showed mercy to the shade of Hector, Orestes appeased his mother’s avenging furies, Hercules restored to Priam the cities which he had taken. A king’s overthrow won the pity of Pella’s youthful monarch, who wept, men say, for the death of Darius at a slave’s hand, and consoled his ghost with a lofty mausoleum. To captive Porus Alexander gave back an ampler kingdom. ’Twas thus the founder of our country[74] spared his conquered foes. Thine own nobility demands that thou shouldst follow his example. If it is one of the gods that I have insulted let him send down punishment upon me and sate his anger.

Now that I have lost thy favour I am become a prey to grinding poverty, my house is desolate, my friends reft from me. Death with torture is the fate of one, exile of another. What further losses can I suffer? What more cruel plagues can befall me?

The power to despoil and kill softens anger. Wild beasts turn away from their stricken prey, and fierce lions, eager to destroy, abandon the dead victim, and with a nobler hunger riot only in the flesh of the warlike steer. Envy has snapped the thread of my prosperity and turned my happiness into mourning. I am fordone with punishment and my pride is broken; look on me again with favour. Is a humble client worth so heavy a weight of anger? Aeolus makes not trial of himself where the sea’s waters are shallow; no lowly hill encounters Boreas’ blasts; ’tis the Alps he shakes, the summit of Rhodope he harasses. Never doth the lightning

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strike the humble willows nor do the modest shrubs deserve the Thunder’s angry bolt; lofty oaks and agèd elms are his victims.

Instead of the suppliant’s branch plucked from Minerva’s sacred olive, instead of incense, I offer thee this poem. Have mercy on thy servant. Restore me, even me, to my former state, heal my cruel wounds, bid life and honour return to me. Do thou, who didst overthrow my fortune, build it up again. Telephus came back cured by the magic of Achilles.[76] The same hand dealt death and healing—an enemy restoring him to health by the assuagement of the very pains he had inflicted.

But if neither my prayers nor my tears can soften thee, spurn the Muses with thy foot and take away my unlucky decorations, deprive me of my rank, cast me aside who was once thy companion. A noteworthy victory this thou hast won over a poor poet; redoubtable indeed the spoils that will grace such a triumph. Let a fellow-countryman’s power overwhelm his wretched fellows.[77] Be my fate told to our common fatherland and to Pharos, known of all who sail the distant seas, and let Father Nile raise his weeping head from out the flood and mourn my cruel case along the banks of all his seven mouths.

XXIII. (LXXIV.)

Apology to Alethius, the Quaestor.[78]

As I hope never to cross the plains of Ethiopia beneath a summer sun, never to pass a winter naked

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beneath the northern pole, never to entrust my bellying sails to the Ionian Sea what time the Kids bring round the rainy nights, never, driven by the Furies’ hellish blows, to re-read the verses of an angry pedant,[79] ’twas not, I swear, impudent effrontery that moved me, nor did my tongue exceed a just outspokenness. I admit I incautiously found fault with a few lines, not realizing, luckless wight, the heinousness of my offence. Others attack the books of Orpheus and nothing is said; nor does thy fame, Maro, support thee in safety. The very father of poetry, Homer, lord of Helicon, knew the stigma of the censor’s pen. Yet neither Vergil nor Homer complains, for neither was a quaestor and both were poor. See, then, I applaud! See, in terror I praise every word and loudly cry again and again “bravo!” Let him be appeased and pardon at last, let him cease from wrath—and with secure voice recite whate’er he will; I applaud.

XXIV. (LXXXIII.)

The Lobster.

Long horns project from his head; fierce eyes stand out from his forehead; his back is protected by the armour of his self-grown shell. Nature herself has rendered his skin a sufficient defence, covering it with small, red, pointed spikes.

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XXV (XXX, XXXI)

Epithalamium of Palladius and Celerina.[80]

PREFACE

Asked to improvise a song in honour of a marriage I find myself unwilling to refuse the bridegroom and unable to say no to his father-in-law. The former was my comrade-in-arms, the latter my general; at court the first is of equal rank with me, the second my superior. Similarity of age and pursuits made me a friend of Palladius; age and dignity set Celerinus far above me. The love I bear the one demands my good offices as a poet, the awe in which I hold the other a soldier’s obedience: I must sing.

It chanced that Venus had one day retired into the bosom of a cave overgrown with vine to woo sleep mid its alluring cool, and had laid her goddess limbs on the thick grass, her head upon a heap of flowers. The vine branches stir gently in the breeze and sway the full-veined grapes. Slumber befits the disorder of her brow, the midday heat will none of coverings, and the leaves show through them the gleam of her bare breast. Round her lie the nymphs of Ida and hard by beneath a lofty oak-tree the three Graces sleep with interlaced arms. Here and there, where’er the shade invites them, repose winged Cupids. Their bows are unstrung and their quivers hang from the branches of neighbouring trees, instinct with latent fire. Some

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wake and play or wander through the thickets in search of birds’ nests or take delight in plucking dewy apples as a gift for Venus or hunt the gadding vine for grapes, and, poised on their wings, climb its branches to the very tops of the elm-trees. Others keep guard over the wood and drive off the wanton, curious Dryads, the country gods and the woodland deities, discharging flaming darts at the amorous Fauns who try from a distance to catch a glimpse of Venus’ bower. Suddenly there arose cries and shoutings from the neighbouring city; joyous acclamations of youth and the strains of the lyre accompanying dancing in the streets. Through all the hills of Italy the name of Celerina is chanted and every field re-echoes that of her husband Palladius.

The pleasant sound reached the goddess’ ears; aroused by the noise she sat up and with her fair hands rubbed from her eyes the residue of sleep; then, just as she was, her hair disordered, her breasts uncovered, she leapt from her soft couch and summoned Hymen from among the unnumbered Loves that formed her bodyguard. (Him, son of the Muse, Cytherea chose out and made the patron god of marriage. Without his sanction is no entry into wedlock nor is it lawful but with his leave to uplift the first wedding-torches.) At last he is found. There he lay stretched beneath a tall plane-tree joining with wax pipes of unequal length, seeking to repeat with his lips Maenalian measures and pastoral tunes, while, as his mouth ran over them, he varied his breathing upon the slender reed.

Seeing Venus he stopped; noiseless to the ground from out the nerveless grasp of his fingers fell the

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pipe. Affection lights up his eyes; a modest blush suffuses those sun-browned cheeks so snowy-white by nature, clothed, too, with the scarce seen down of youth where ceased the ne’er cut hair. Silent he stood and the goddess first addressed him. “Wilt thou, boy, never leave thy beloved song? Wilt thou never have enough of thy mother’s gifts, ever devoted to the Muses’ task and too eager to rival thy parent[82]? What is it thou dost practise all alone in the midday heat? Dost thou now despise the lyre and seekest thou rather the woods of Lycaeus and the herds and Echo resounding from the rocks? Come hither and tell me the reason for this general rejoicing. What marriage is this that is attended with such ceremony and such demonstrations of joy? Who is the newly dowered bride? Of what country, what race are they that are wed? Tell me from what land they spring and what their parentage. Needs must thou know, for no marriage can take place without thee and by covenant with thee are wedlock’s joys first tasted.”

He replied: “Long have I been wondering, goddess, at thy delay, and marvelled that thou didst take no notice of so world-famed an union. They are no common folk that now submit them to thy laws. Two families are united illustrious with consulships, upheld by the highest offices, in whose veins flows the noblest blood of all the world. What island on whose coasts thunder the waves of the Red Sea, what tract of Ethiopia, what land so far withdrawn from human intercourse but has heard the blessings that the affection of his country calls down on the head of Palladius’ sire for his clemency, his learning, his wit, his genial age? He has trodden

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every rung of the ladder of honours, has held every place at court, and reached the highest of all offices, directing the deliberations of the senate of the East with a sure authority. Such is the bridegroom’s brilliance. The bride first saw the light in the old city of Tomi by the mouth of the Danube. She is descended on her mother’s side from noble ancestors famed in war and enriched by war’s spoils and derives especial glory from the renown of that stalwart Celerinus who, when appointed to the defence of Meroë and the Nile, and, after the death by lightning of Carus[84] in Parthia, offered the throne and dominion of the world by his soldiers, paid no heed to their clamour and preferred repose to an empire. Of his own will he refused when it was offered that which men will use every sort of violence and outrage every sort of right to acquire. For the first time virtue was reckoned above a throne and sovereignty, making offer of herself, met with a refusal. Sadly did Fortune confess herself beaten by a mortal. Great it is to deserve high office, still greater to have despised it.

“Celerina’s father has won every title that a warrior may. Step by step he has reached the highest of all ranks, that of commander-in-chief; it is he who dispenses titles of honour, settles the garrisons of the provinces, unites the scattered forces of the empire, and checks the disposition of its troops. He decides the defences of Sarmatia and the legions that are to face the wild Getae or keep Saxon and Scot in subjection. He knows how many cohorts fringe the shore of Ocean, how great an army maintains peace along the banks of the Rhine. In the family of Celerina is to be found unspotted

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virtue, unfeigned loyalty, and diligence guided by knowledge. She is Stilicho’s choice; to such choice and judgement no praise can be added. It were a shame, Venus, shouldst thou not be present at the marriage of such a maid. Come, bring all thy train. Fain would I shake the withering wreaths, brandish the torches, and devote the night to pleasure. Now even this my pipe gives no dishonoured service answering the choirs’ songs.”

Scarce had Hymen spoken and she bathes her in the cool stream, gathers her flowing hair, and renews her charms, taking from out the press the wondrous garments spun by her mother Dione. Her chariot is heaped with flowers and the yoke thereof is fragrant with blossoms. Flowers entwine the reins that fetter her bright doves. From all sides the birds flock together, those that soothe with their song the roar of Athesis, those whom Larius hears, Benacus feeds, or Mincius welcomes with his quiet flood. Quiet are those waters now that the birds’ plaintive notes resound there no more. The swans have flown away and left the banks of Eridanus and the sounding marshes of Padusa. Right glad are the wanton Loves; they catch and harness the birds and ride them through the clouds before the eyes of Venus. There they join in noisy battle, lean forward to strike one another, and fall but suffer no hurt. Fallen they overtake their steeds with flight swifter than theirs, for the charioteer is fleeter than the chariot.

Soon as they reached the doors of the marriage-chamber they empty baskets full of red spring flowers, pouring forth showers of roses and scattering from their laden quivers violets gathered in Venus’ meadow, violets untouched e’en by the heat of the

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Dog-star who had tempered for their frail beauty his accustomed fires. Others throughout the palace poured forth from jewelled caskets unguents gathered by the banks of the Nile from trees whose bark, when wounded by the cruel finger-nail, oozed with rich gum. Cytherea approaches the bride, and, despite her tears, drew her from her mother’s arms. Her swelling breast betokens maidenhood ripe for marriage, her skin is whiter than lilies or than snow, and her golden hair points to the Danube as her birthplace. Then, taking the hand of the bridegroom, Venus joins to it that of the bride and with these words blesses their union: “Live as one and fulfil all my rites. Give a thousand kisses, let arm be bruised with enfolding arm, and lips so join that soul may meet soul. And thou, husband, put not thy confidence in rude love-making; thy wife’s love cannot be won by threats, but must be gained by entreaty. And do thou yield to thy husband nor seek to show anger; use not thy nails as weapons like the women of Scythia. I beg thee submit to conquest; so shalt thou be indeed a wife, so a mother. Why are there tears in thine eyes? Believe me, thou shalt love him whom now thou fearest.”

So spake she, and chose from out her winged attendants the two whose bows were strongest and their aim most sure. At once Aethon and Pyrois leaped forward, their bright wings tinged with purple. Dipping their shafts in pure honey the one aims his at the bride, the other his at the bridegroom. They draw their bows; the strings twang and the sure arrows cleave the air with equal speed and implant themselves at equal depths in the hearts of the twain.

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XXVI. (XLIX.)

Aponus.[86]

Fount that prolongest life for the dwellers in Antenor’s city, banishing by thy neighbouring waters all harmful fates, seeing that thy marvels stir utterance even in the dumb, that a people’s love bids poets to honour thee in song, and that there is no hand whose fingers have not traced for thee some lines in thankful witness of prayers granted, shall I not be held guilty alike by the Muses and the Nymphs if I alone sing not thy praises? How can a spot whose fame is on so many lips rightly be passed over by me in slighting silence?

Lower than a lofty hill yet higher than the level plain rises a gentle eminence, clear to see from all around. Prolific is it in hot springs, for wherever water penetrates its recesses encountering fires drive it forth. The crumbling ground exhales vapours, and the water, closed down in its prison of burning rock, forces its way out by many a fissured channel. ’Tis a region of liquid fire where Vulcan’s flames spring forth from earth’s breast, a land of burning and of sulphur. Who would not think it barren? Yet are those fiery fields green with verdure; grass grows o’er the burning marl and, though the very rocks melt at the heat, plants, mocking at the flames, boldly flourish.

Beyond this are vast furrows cut in the rock, scarring and cleaving it in long lines. Traces are

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they—so tradition tells—of Hercules’ plough, or else chance did the ploughshare’s work. In the middle of the hill is what seems a broad, steaming sea, an azure lake of vast extent. Great is the space it covers, still greater its depth where it plunges down and loses itself beneath the rocky caverns. A thick pall of steam hangs over it; its waters cannot be touched nor drunk though they are transparent as crystal to the very bottom. Nature took counsel for herself and lest that lake should be entirely beyond our ken she let our eyes penetrate what, because of its heat, our bodies could not enter. When a breeze scatters the thick clouds of steam and clears the grey surface of the erstwhile vaporous water you can gaze with wonder on the valley floor below that glassy flood where glint old weapons, king’s gifts[87] of bygone days (between these a gulf of other hue, dark with the eddyings of black sand, swallows the hastening waters; below there opens a cavern into which the darkling flood pours, filling every nook and cranny with its swirling eddies); then are revealed the hidden places of the hill which, bent round in a bow, encircles the surface of the water with an overhanging rim.[88]

A verdant amphitheatre surrounds this steaming cauldron, and the ground floats lightly with slender film[89]; never will it give way beneath the visitor’s weight, upholding his timorous feet, trusty though seeming so unsure. One would think it the work of man’s hand, so smoothly does its circuit enfold the shore, slight and yet firm all the way. The water

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in the lake stands motionless, filling it to the brim and fearing to o’erstep its appointed limit. The overflow runs in a stream down a sloping rock and seeks the undulating plain below. A natural but tortuous channel carries the water away and thence it flows into an open conduit of lead. These pipes, noiselessly impregnated with some powderous mineral that the water carries down, produce a snow-white distillation of salt. The streams branch off in all directions carrying with them this natural wealth whithersoever art has directed their going, flexing this way and that their errant courses, flowing in swift torrent below aqueducts and warming the arches with the heat of their rushing waters. Within the arches, amid the roarings of the echoing rock, issues forth fiercer steam and vapour as the water rushes out. Then the sick, weak with sweating, seek next the stagnant pools that long time has made pleasantly cool.

Hail to thee, stream, generous giver of the waters of healing, chief glory of the land of Italy, doctor of all that come to thee, common helper of all Aesculapius’ sons; a very present deity for whose aid there is nought to pay. Whether it be that hell’s fiery streams have burst their banks and that Phlegethon gone astray bestows his heat upon the upper world, or that a river, originally of cold water, sinks down into veins of sulphur and rises thence afire (as one would think from the smell), or that the mountain in arbitration summons the two elements to a treaty, balancing a certain quantity of fire against a similar amount of water that neither yield to the other but under a just law of equipoise each may withstand the other’s might—whatsoever

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shall prove to be the cause, whatever the origin, of this we may be sure—that thou flowest not without design. Who would dare to ascribe such a miracle to chance? Who could deny that the overruling gods have so ordained? Nature’s lord, who measures the centuries by the stars, has given thee a place of honour among the works of his divinity, and, pitying the feebleness of our human bodies, has bidden pour forth healing waters for the earth, and from the riven hills burst forth streams that should win pardon from the Fates’ relentless distaffs.

Happy ye whose lot it is to dwell by those banks and to possess Aponus for your own; you no plague of earth, no pestilence-fraught winds of the south, nor Sirius with his cruel fires can harm. Should Lachesis’ fatal thread threaten death men find in thee a more propitious fate. If it chance that noxious humours swell their limbs or that excess of bile inflames their ailing bowels they need not to open their veins nor to cure one wound with another nor yet to drink medicine of bitter herbs. By thy water’s aid they renew their lost strength without suffering; ’mid luxury the sick find relief from pain.

XXVII. (XLIV.)

The Phoenix.[92]

There is a leafy wood fringed by Ocean’s farthest marge beyond the Indes and the East where Dawn’s panting coursers first seek entrance; it hears the lash close by, what time the watery threshold echoes to the dewy car; and hence comes forth the rosy

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morn while night, illumined by those far-shining wheels of fire, casts off her sable cloak and broods less darkly. This is the kingdom of the blessèd bird of the sun where it dwells in solitude defended by the inhospitable nature of the land and immune from the ills that befall other living creatures; nor does it suffer infection from the world of men. Equal to the gods is that bird whose life rivals the stars and whose renascent limbs weary the passing centuries. It needs no food to satisfy hunger nor any drink to quench thirst; the sun’s clear beam is its food, the sea’s rare spray its drink—exhalations such as these form its simple nourishment. A mysterious fire flashes from its eye, and a flaming aureole enriches its head. Its crest shines with the sun’s own light and shatters the darkness with its calm brilliance. Its legs are of Tyrian purple; swifter than those of the Zephyrs are its wings of flower-like blue dappled with rich gold.

Never was this bird conceived nor springs it from any mortal seed, itself is alike its own father and son, and with none to recreate it, it renews its outworn limbs with a rejuvenation of death, and at each decease wins a fresh lease of life. For when a thousand summers have passed far away, a thousand winters gone by, a thousand springs in their course given to the husbandmen that shade[93] of which autumn robbed them, then at last, fordone by the number of its years, it falls a victim to the burden of age; as a tall pine on the summit of Caucasus, wearied with storms, heels over with its weight and threatens at last to crash in ruin; one portion falls by reason of the unceasing winds, another breaks away rotted by the rain, another consumed by the decay of years.

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Now the Phoenix’s bright eye grows dim and the pupil becomes palsied by the frost of years, like the moon when she is shrouded in clouds and her horn begins to vanish in the mist. Now his wings, wont to cleave the clouds of heaven, can scarce raise them from the earth. Then, realizing that his span of life is at an end and in preparation for a renewal of his splendour, he gathers dry herbs from the sun-warmed hills, and making an interwoven heap of the branches of the precious tree of Saba he builds that pyre which shall be at once his tomb and his cradle.

On this he takes his seat and as he grows weaker greets the Sun with his sweet voice; offering up prayers and supplications he begs that those fires will give him renewal of strength. Phoebus, on seeing him afar, checks his reins and staying his course consoles his loving child with these words: “Thou who art about to leave thy years behind upon yon pyre, who, by this pretence of death, art destined to rediscover life; thou whose decease means but the renewal of existence and who by self-destruction regainest thy lost youth, receive back thy life, quit the body that must die, and by a change of form come forth more beauteous than ever.”

So speaks he, and shaking his head casts one of his golden hairs and smites willing Phoenix with its life-giving effulgence. Now, to ensure his rebirth, he suffers himself to be burned and in his eagerness to be born again meets death with joy. Stricken with the heavenly flame the fragrant pile catches fire and burns the aged body. The moon in amaze checks her milk-white heifers and heaven halts his revolving spheres, while the pyre conceives the new life; Nature takes care that the deathless bird

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perish not, and calls upon the sun, mindful of his promise, to restore its immortal glory to the world.

Straightway the life spirit surges through his scattered limbs; the renovated blood floods his veins. The ashes show signs of life; they begin to move though there is none to move them, and feathers clothe the mass of cinders. He who was but now the sire comes forth from the pyre the son and successor; between life and life lay but that brief space wherein the pyre burned.

His first delight is to consecrate his father’s spirit by the banks of the Nile and to carry to the land of Egypt the burned mass from which he was born. With all speed he wings his way to that foreign strand, carrying the remains in a covering of grass. Birds innumerable accompany him, and whole flocks thereof throng his airy flight. Their mighty host shuts out the sky where’er it passes. But from among so vast an assemblage none dares outstrip the leader; all follow respectfully in the balmy wake of their king. Neither the fierce hawk nor the eagle, Jove’s own armour-bearer, fall to fighting; in honour of their common master a truce is observed by all. Thus the Parthian monarch leads his barbarous hosts by yellow Tigris’ banks, all glorious with jewels and rich ornament and decks his tiara with royal garlands; his horse’s bridle is of gold, Assyrian embroidery embellishes his scarlet robes, and proud with sovereignty he lords it o’er his numberless slaves.

There is in Egypt a well-known city celebrated for its pious sacrifices and dedicated to the worship of the Sun. Its temple rests on a hundred columns hewn from the quarries of Thebes. Here, as the

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story tells, the Phoenix is wont to store his father’s ashes and, adoring the image of the god, his master, to entrust his precious burden to the flames. He places on the altar that from which he is sprung and that which remains of himself. Bright shines the wondrous threshold; the fragrant shrine is filled with the holy smoke of the altar and the odour of Indian incense, penetrating even as far as the Pelusiac marshes, fills the nostrils of men, flooding them with its kindly influence and with a scent sweeter than that of nectar perfumes the seven mouths of the dark Nile.

Happy bird, heir to thine own self! Death which proves our undoing restores thy strength. Thine ashes give thee life and though thou perish not thine old age dies. Thou hast beheld all that has been, hast witnessed the passing of the ages. Thou knowest when it was that the waves of the sea rose and o’erflowed the rocks, what year it was that Phaëthon’s error devoted to the flames. Yet did no destruction overwhelm thee; sole survivor thou livest to see the earth subdued; against thee the Fates gather not up their threads, powerless to do thee harm.

XXVIII. (XLVII.)

The Nile.[94]

Blessèd is the man who cleaves the soil of Egypt with his plough; he need not hope for clouds to shroud the heavens in darkness nor call upon the storm-winds that bring the chilling rain or the rainbow bright with its various colours.

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Fertile is Egypt without clouds; here alone is sunshine and yet rain. She regards not the sky, needs not the wind; enough for her the water she herself contains, Nile’s overflow. This swiftly-flowing river rises in the mountainous country of the south where it suffers the heats of the torrid zone and of the scorching Crab and issues forth from regions unknown into our world. Whence it comes none knows, for vain has ever been the search after its springing nor has any ever seen that source. ’Tis said that, fashioned without witness, it pours forth waters that have known a clime other than ours. Thence with errant stream it stretches through all Libya, and through Ethiopia’s thousand dusky kingdoms where it waters lands condemned to the sun’s unceasing fires, saviour of thirsting peoples, and threads its course across Meroë and black Syene and through the country of the wild Blemyae. The unconquered Garamantes and the Gyrraei who can tame wild animals drink of its waters, as do those tribes who dwell in huge rocky caverns, gathering the wood of ebony-trees and robbing the elephant of his tusks of ivory, and the folk who wear arrows in their hair.

Neither the cause nor yet the season of its overflow is the same as that of other rivers. Its waters rise neither because of melted snows nor by reason of rains flooding its rocky marge; for when dull winter giveth increase to other rivers Nile keeps within his banks; when other rivers flow with diminished stream, Nile, under other laws, rises. For of a truth whatever toll summer has exacted from all rivers Nature repays to the Nile, and waters gathered together from the whole world meet thus

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in one river. Then when the Dog-star increases the heat of the sun and sucks up all moisture, drying up earth’s veins and filling heaven with its scorching rays, winter comes upon the Nile, though elsewhere all is summer. Then, bringing back to the fainting husbandmen its accustomed waters, it o’erflows ampler than the Aegean, fiercer than the deep Ionian, and spreads itself over the low-lying country. All the fields are aswim; plough-land sounds to the beat of the oar, and full often the shepherd, o’ercome with summer’s heat, wakes to see flocks and fold carried away by the flood.

XXIX. (XLVIII.)

The Magnet.

Whosoever with anxious thought examines the universe and searches out the origin of things—the reason of the sun’s and moon’s eclipse, the causes of comets’ red and baneful fires, the source of the winds, the motion that makes the earth to quake, the force that splits the heavens in twain, the noise of the thunder, the brilliance of the rainbow, let this man (if man’s mind has any power to conceive the truth) explain to me something I would fain understand.

There is a stone called the loadstone; black, dull, and common. It does not adorn the braided hair of kings nor the snowy necks of girls, nor yet shine in the jewelled buckles of warriors’ belts. But consider the marvellous properties of this dull-looking stone and you will see that it is of more worth than lovely gems and any pearl sought of

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Indian amid the seaweed on the Red Sea’s shores. It lives on iron and feeds on its inflexible nature; iron is its food and nourishment; from iron it recruits its strength. This seemingly inedible food, circulating throughout its body, renews its hidden powers. Without iron the loadstone dies; its bulk wastes away from lack of nourishment and thirst parches its emptied veins.

Mars, who strikes cities with his bloody spear, and Venus, who changes human cares to ease, share a common shrine and temple built of gold. Each deity has his own image; Mars, a polished iron statue, Venus, one fashioned of the loadstone. The priest duly celebrates their union. The nuptial torch precedes the choir; myrtle wreaths adorn the portals, the couches are piled with roses, while cloth of scarlet dye, as befits a marriage, adorns the bridal chamber. But, lo, a prodigy: Cytherea, without quitting her station, attracts her husband to her, and recalling the scene of which heaven was once witness, clasps Mars to her bosom with amorous breath. There she holds him suspended; her arms enfold the helmet of the god and clasp his whole body in a lifelike embrace. He, stirred by the far-compelling influence of her breath, is drawn towards her by the secret chains of his jewel-bride. Nature presides over the divine marriage; a binding breath woos the steel to wedlock; suddenly two deities are mated in secret union.

What hidden warmth infuses mutual sympathy into these twin metals? What harmony makes one their stubborn souls? The stone sighs and burns, and smitten with love recognizes in the iron the object of its desire, while the iron experiences a

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gentle attraction for the stone. It is thus that Venus often holds the fierce god of war in check and softens his fiery glance when the angry blood boils within him and with drawn sword he whets his wrath. She alone can face his fierce steeds and appease the tumult of his heart, calming his anger with gentle flame. Peace and quiet are restored within his soul; he abjures the heat of battle and bends his head, helmed with ruddy plumes, to kiss the goddess.

Cruel boy, is aught beyond thy powers? Thou dost master the mighty thunderbolt; thou canst force the Thunderer to leave the sky and bellow amid the waves. Now thou showest that thou canst smite cold rocks and shapes not instinct with feeling or life, that stone can be wounded by thine arrows. Rocks are stirred by a passion of their own; iron is obedient to thy blandishments; thy flames exercise dominion over hardest marl.

XXX. (XXIX.)

In praise of Serena.[95]

Say, my Muse, why tarriest thou so long to crown Serena’s brows with the Pierian garland they so well deserve? Thinkest thou the gift too poor shouldst thou, a queen, deck but with flowers the head of a queen accustomed rather to wear a tiara bright with all the jewels of the Red Sea? Nay, those flowers of thine are such that neither Boreas’ cold blast nor Sirius’ scorching heat can hurt them; theirs is the bloom of everlasting spring for they

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have grown by Permessus’ fount and been watered by Aganippe’s wave. Those flowers have fed the holy bees that skim the meadows and transmit the honey of Helicon to coming generations.

Did ever the single theme of woman’s worth more fitly stir other bards? The Greeks sing of Alcestis, that chaste Thessalian, who, to win her husband from death, freely offered herself in his stead, allowing him to enjoy her own span of life. The Latin Muse takes prophetic Tanaquil[96] for her theme or Cloelia breasting Tiber’s waves in her return to Rome or the maiden Claudia dragging with her own hair the ship which bore Cybele, what time it stuck fast in that same stream. Does old Homer’s soaring soul essay aught else throughout his song? Dangers from Charybdis’ gulf, from Scylla’s dogs, from Circe’s cup, the escape of Ulysses from the greed of Antiphate, the passage of the ship between the rocks where sat the Sirens to whose alluring voices the rowers were deaf, the blinding of Cyclops, the desertion of Calypso—all these do but redound to the glory of Penelope, and the whole scene is set to display her chastity alone. Toils by land and sea, ten years of war, ten years of wandering, all do but illustrate the fidelity of a wife. Let Claudia rejoice in the goddess’ witness and with heaven’s help vindicate her claim to chastity, freeing at the same moment the vessel’s stern and her own character from shame. Let Penelope by artful delays deceive the madness of the suitors and, ever faithful to Ulysses, delude their solicitations, ever winding up again by night the warp of her day-spun web. Yet shall not one of these heroines dare to vie with Serena.

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But if noble birth opens the first path to fame and all its causes are to be traced to ancestry, what blood more noble, what birth more gentle than that of royalty? Such majesty could not have flourished within the house of a mere commoner nor could glory so great have sprung from any simple home. Thou art famous for that thine uncle was an emperor, more famous by reason of the warlike deeds of thy grandsire[97] who carried the Roman eagles across the British Channel and repulsed the armed bands of the Gaetulians. Cornelia, daughter of the Scipios, must cease to vaunt her high birth and to boast that she received for dower the spoils of Carthage. Thou canst point to ancestral triumphs in either hemisphere; on thy brow sit two crowns, the one won by thy sires from Scotland, the other from the South. Thou glory of the world, what time Lucina assisted at the birth of thee, our new star, thy house had not yet taken on itself the government of the whole earth; not till after Serena’s birth did it know world-empire.

What human voice can worthily sing thy praises, Spain? Though India first bathes the new-born sun in her ocean yet when the light dies thou waterest his wearied steeds and in thy waves the stars find refreshment. Rich in horses, bounteous in crops, dowered with mines, prolific in good emperors, to thee the world owes Trajan, from thee sprang the Aelian[98] race. From thy land came the brothers who now govern us and their father. Other races whom Rome has either received into alliance or subdued by arms serve the varying needs of empire: the corn of Egypt, the harvests of Africa go to feed our armies; Gaul recruits our powerful legions;

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Illyria produces stout horsemen for our cavalry. But Spain alone pays that rarest tribute—the gift of emperors. Corn, money, soldiers come from all the world over and are gathered together from every quarter of the globe; Spain gives us men to govern and direct all this. Nor was she content to be esteemed only for her famous heroes, did she not also excel in heroines, and, emulous to win glory from either sex, bestow upon us Flaccilla,[99] Maria, and the fair Serena.

At thy[100] birth they tell how swelling Tagus o’erflowed the rich fields with gold; Galicia laughed with flowers and on the rose-covered banks of Duria’s fair stream the once white fleeces of the sheep were everywhere turned to purple grain. The Cantabrian main cast up jewels upon the shore, and the pale Asturian delves no more into the bowels of the mountain; on the day hallowed by thy birth earth poured forth gold as dross from her open veins. Beneath the caves of the Pyrenees the river Nymphs gather the fiery thunder-stones. The Nereids, yielding to the flowing tide, followed the flooding waves up the river’s courses; there, in the sight of all, they acknowledged thee their queen by their applause and celebrated thy coming marriage in prophetic strains. And all the time beneath another sky grew the young Stilicho; he lived unwitting of his fortune, of the destined bride that awaited him afar, and in a distant world was the union of such high destinies prepared.

No mortal nurse was worthy to watch over thy cradle. First the Nymphs gave thee suck at their fragrant breasts; the three Graces held thee in their arms and breathing upon thee taught thee to speak. Roses sprang where’er thou didst creep over the

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grass and white lilies blossomed there; didst thou close thine eyes in quiet sleep, there burgeoned the purple violet to adorn thy grassy couch with her imperial colour. Thy mother dared not tell of such great omens and, knowing her own secret vow, hides with eager hope the fulfilment she prays for.

Thy father Honorius held thee in a close embrace. Whenever Theodosius—not emperor then—came to his brother’s house he covered thee with kisses and loved to take thee with him to his own home. Then turning to thy mother with gentle complaint, “Why,” thou saidst, “take me from my own home? This man ever commands.[101]” Prophetic was the sportive word and thine infant lips gave augury of empire. At the death of thy sire thine illustrious uncle adopted thee and to console thee for the bitterness of that loss, bestowed upon thee, his brother’s child, more love than he could have bestowed on any child of his own. Leda’s twin sons were not united with a bond of affection more sure. He gave his own son the name his brother had borne, hoping in some way to discover in that son the image of the brother he had loved and lost. Finally, when the people’s choice had summoned him to take up the reins of empire, Theodosius would not vouchsafe his sons any proof of his affection for them until he had summoned thee and thy faithful sister from Spain to the lands of morning.

So now they leave Tagus’ banks and the home of the west winds and hasten towards the cities that recognize the empery of the east. They come, the maidens twain, his brother’s children, on this side Serena the younger, on that Thermantia[102] the elder born, strange as yet to love; nor has Hymen bent

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their snowy necks to the yoke of Venus. Spirited yet modest is the glance of each; of each the beauty fires the hearts of men. Such as are Diana and her sister, motherless child of Jove, when they visit the realm of their uncle, lord of the sea (the foaming waves grow smooth before them in honour of the approach of the chaste goddesses; Galatea ceases her mad frolics, bold Triton dares not clasp Cymothoë in his embrace; o’er the whole ocean the dictates of purity hold sway and Proteus prevents even Neptune’s flocks from indulging in their shameless amours)—even such the daughters of Honorius enter the palace and view the home of their royal parent. Both did the prince embrace with a father’s love but justly did affection turn more readily to thee. Often when, his heart troubled by the anxieties of public business, he returned home depressed or angered, when his own sons fled his presence and even Flaccilla feared to approach her exasperated husband, thou alone wert able to stay his wrath and bring healing with sweet converse. On thy words he would hang, to thee confess his secret thoughts.

Thy modesty, worthy of an earlier age, surpassed even that of modest girlhood. Less chaste than thee was that daughter of Alcinous whom Homer, in his praises of her, compares to Diana; she who spread her clothes on the shore to dry and sported with her attendant maids, throwing a golden ball from hand to hand until she fled in alarm from Ulysses issuing forth from the thicket where he had been enjoying sleep after his shipwreck.

The study of the Muses and the songs of poets of olden time were thy delight. Turning the pages of Homer, bard of Smyrna, or those of Virgil,

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poet of Mantua, thou findest fault with Helen nor canst approve of Dido. Thy chaste mind fastens upon examples more noble: Laodamia following Protesilaus as he returned to the shades; Euadne who cast herself on the flaming pyre whereon her husband Capaneus perished, wishing to mingle her ashes with his; grave Lucrece who fell upon a chaste sword, she who self-slain bore witness to the tyrant’s crime, aroused to war her country’s righteous wrath, drove Tarquin into exile and died gloriously, having avenged by her one sacrifice both chastity and freedom. Of such deeds thou dost read with joy, thyself not less in virtue though more blessed of fortune.

Now that thou art of an age for marriage the hopes of the young courtiers run high, but the prince hesitates to select the happy man who is to share thy couch and regal state.

The pages of the poets tell how ancient kings bade suitors contend on the hard terms of purchasing the bride at hazard of their lives, and rejoiced that death should be the wooer of their daughters. Pelops escaped the weapons of Pisa’s king, thanks to the chariot Neptune gave him, for it was Myrtilus who tricked King Oenomaus by withdrawing the lynch-pin from the chariot-wheel. Panting Hippomenes got the better of Atalanta, daughter of Schoeneus, who followed close on his traces, a sword in her hand, by means of the golden apples. The inhabitants of Calydon watched from their high battlements the struggle of Hercules with the river-god when, Deianira being the prize of victory, the panting hero shouted in triumph and Achelous paled and shrank away, shorn of his horn, the wound whereof the astonished river nymphs sought to heal.

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But it is neither to the apples of the Hesperides nor to victory over a river nor to treacherous tampering with a chariot-wheel that Stilicho owes the winning of thy hand; the emperor himself adjudged him worthy thereof, for that his valour had been proved in countless wars; his own courage won him an empress to wife. Generals have often bestowed decorations on those who have deserved them in battle: one man wins the mural crown, another the civic wreath, a third, for having defeated an enemy’s fleet, the naval decoration. Stilicho is the only warrior who, as the reward for signal services in war, has won from a grateful father’s hand the crown of marriage.

Thermantia owes her uncle no lesser debt of gratitude: she too was married to a general. But how far inferior to thine, Serena, was thy sister’s fortune! For thee with fairer promise Rome’s guardian-angel kindles the torches, and glorious are the garlands that thy marriage brings. First to be set in his charge is the care of the horses reared in the royal stables, whose dams were Phrygian mares, or such as have pastured on Argos’ plains, whose sires were Cappadocians. Soon he exercises a double command in the army[105] and fulfils his functions with such energy and success that, howsoever great the honours heaped upon him by the emperor, his deserts are ever in excess of his reward. Whenever the cloud of war threatened thou mightest have seen experienced commanders of horse and foot give way to a leader younger and of less exalted rank and without more ado entrust to him the whole war. Neither rank nor age stays older men through shame from ready obedience to a youth. As when on a calm sea

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every sailor maintains his right to manage the rudder, but if the blustering south wind comes upon them and the waves buffet them on either side, then contention ceases and the sailors accepting a more skilful hand admit their fear (for the storm has set a term to their jealousy), even so Stilicho when the storm of war broke out in Thrace was chosen as commander-in-chief over the heads of all. Fear, that surest of judges, won him the votes of all; regard for safety o’ermastered ambition and jealousy was overthrown by dread.

How thou didst tremble and weep when the cruel bugles summoned thy lord to arms! With a countenance wet with tears thou saw’st him leave thy home praying for his safe return after snatching the final hasty kiss from between the bars of his crested helmet’s visor. But again what joy when at length he returned, preceded by the clarion of victory and thou couldst hold his still mailed form in thy loving arms once more! How sweet the long hours of the chaste night wherein thou badest him tell in safety the story of his battles. Whilst he was at the wars thou didst not comb thy shining hair nor wear the jewels that were wont to adorn thee. Thy time is spent in worship and in prayer as thy suppliant tresses sweep the temple floor; uncared for perishes the gracious beauty that shall return with thine own lord.

But love languishes not in idleness and sloth; as far as it could a woman’s watchful care seconds his deeds of glory. While he warred with foreign nations thou keepest guard lest mad envy or burning calumny should dare aught against him while far away, and lest, when war was ended abroad, treachery should lie secretly in wait to injure him

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at home. Thou didst indeed once show thy vigilance what time Rufinus, hatching his plots, sought means to destroy his master by traitorously stirring up the Getae against Rome, for thou didst search out his foul conspiracy and in fear for thy husband’s safety, didst send him warning by letters and messages.

XXXI. (XL.)

Letter to Serena.

At the first kindling of Orpheus’ marriage-torch when festive Hymen filled the countryside of Thrace the beasts and gay-plumaged birds strove among themselves what best gifts they could bring their poet. Mindful of the cave whose sounding rocks had offered a wondrous theatre for his tuneful lyre, the lynxes brought him crystal from the summits of Caucasus; griffins golden nuggets from regions of the north; doves wreaths of roses and other flowers which they had flown to gather from Venus’ meadow; the swan bore from the stream of its native Padus amber broken from the boughs of the famed sisters[106]; while the cranes, after their war with the pygmies, recrossed the Nile and gathered in their mouths the precious pearls of the Red Sea. There came, too, immortal Phoenix from the distant East, bearing rare spices in his curvèd talons. No bird nor beast was there but brought to that marriage-feast tribute so richly deserved by Orpheus’ lyre.

Busily Calliopea decked her son’s bride with her riches and all the treasures of Helicon, and, moreover,

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with a mother’s pride dared to invite to her son’s wedding the queen of starry heaven herself. The queen of the gods spurned not her request either out of respect for Calliopea herself or because she was drawn by a just affection for the pious poet who had so often in her honour chanted his songs before her altars, hymning Juno’s godhead with his sweet voice and telling of the battles of her lord the Thunderer waged on the plains of Phlegra, and of the menace of Enceladus and the Titans there broken. Straightway, counting the marriage—night worthy of her presence, she brought heavenly gifts to deck the bridal, gifts such as stoop not to adorn mortals, gifts that the gods alone may possess. But as Juno showed herself gracious to Thracian Orpheus, so wilt thou, Serena, be favourable to my prayers. The stars, her slaves, obey the nod of her head; thee land and sea, subdued beneath thy feet, obey. I did not, as other suitors use, promise at my courtship fields where graze unnumbered flocks nor hills covered with countless vines, nor rich olive-trees waving in the breeze their grey foliage, nor harvests reaped by a thousand scythes, nor a lofty palace with golden pillars. Enough was the mandate of a goddess; thy letter, Serena, stands me in stead of flocks, of harvests, of palace. The shadow of thy name has won over her parents and an imperial prayer concealed my poverty. When Serena writes, what with such words could not the empire’s spirit or duteous love accomplish?[107]

Would heaven had allowed me to solemnize the longed-for day in the light of thy presence, in thy

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lord’s camp, before thy son-in-law’s throne. The royal purple would have been a good omen for our union, the august assembly of the court would have graced the ceremony and the hand which, by writing that letter, promised me my bride would have kindled the torch to light her to the altar. Now that the envious sea deprives me of my fondest hopes and stretches between thee and the coasts of Libya, yet, though absent, be gracious unto me, O queen, and of thy goodness grant me a safe return as by a nod of thy head thou, a goddess, canst do. Make straight the paths of earth; bid but gentle breezes blow and a calm sea prosper my voyage, that the Muses and Aganippe’s stream, the fount of song, may hymn thy praises in gratitude for the saving of their servant, the poet.[109]

XXXII. (XCV.)

Of the Saviour.

Christ, lord of the world, founder of a new age of gold, voice and wisdom of the Most High, proceeding from the Father’s lofty mind and given by that Father a share in the governance of this great universe, thou hast overcome the sins of this our mortal life, for thou hast suffered thy Godhead to be clothed in human form and hath allowed mankind to address thee face to face and confess thee man. The swelling womb of the Virgin Mary conceived thee after that she had been visited by the angel, and the unwed mother, destined to give birth to her own creator, was astonished at the unborn

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child that grew within her body. A mortal womb hid the artificer of the heavens: the creator of the world became a part of human nature. In one body was conceived the God who embraces the whole wide world, and he whom nor earth nor sea nor sky can contain was enclosed by the limbs of a little child. Thou wert punished and didst suffer too, for our sins, to save us from destruction, and didst by thy death overcome Death. Then didst Thou ascend into Heaven, returning to the Father who rejoiced at the salvation of the world.

Bless Thou our Emperor that at holy seasons he may for many years to come observe the fast-days of the calendar.

XXXIII-XXXIX

On a Crystal enclosing a Drop of Water.

1. This piece of ice still shows traces of its original nature: part of it has become stone, part resisted the cold. It is a freak of winter’s, more precious by reason of its incomplete crystallization, for that the jewel contains within itself living water.

2. Ye waters, who confine waters in a prison akin to them, ye that are liquid still and ye that were so, what wit has united you? By what trick of freezing is the marvellous stone at once hard and wet? What containèd heat has protected those enclosed waters? what warm wind melted that heart of ice? How comes it that the jewel in whose heart the water ebbs and flows was either made solid or liquid by frost?

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3. Alpine ice was becoming so hard that the sun could not melt it, and this excess of cold was like to make it precious as diamond. But it could not imitate that stone in its entirety for at its heart lay a drop of water which betrayed its nature. As crystal its value is enhanced, for this liquid rock is accounted a miracle and the water enclosed within it increases its rarity.

4. See this vein which runs in a bright streak through the translucent ice. This hidden water fears not any blast of Boreas nor winter’s chill but runs this way and that. It is not frozen by December’s cold, nor dried up by July’s sun, nor wasted away by all-consuming time.

5. Safely hidden away in this round covering is a stream, an errant spring, enclosed within frozen waters. Mark you not how the crystal is all awash in its cavernous heart where living waters surge this way and that, and how, when the sun penetrates its frozen depths, the hues of the rainbow are reflected in it? Wonderful stone, wonderful water: stranger than all rivers and all stones because it is a stone and yet fluid.

6. Children love to handle this shining crystal and turn its chilly mass over and over in their little hands; they see imprisoned in the transparent rock the water which alone winter forebore to freeze. Placing the dry sphere against their thirsty lips they press useless kisses on that which guards the waters they desire.

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7. Do not despise this sphere of rock-crystal. Kings’ palaces contain no rarer jewel, nor are the Red Sea’s pearls of greater value. It may be shapeless ice, unpolished rock, a rough, uncarven mass, yet is it accounted among the most precious of riches.

XL. (XLI.)

Letter to Olybrius.

What am I to think, that you send me no greeting, that no “Good wishes” traced by your fingers come back to me in turn? Is writing so difficult? Nay, who so eloquent as thou whether thou dost compose verses or, a second Cicero, thunder forth thy speeches? Greater even than thy riches is thy genius, greater thine eloquence even than thy wealth. Are the posts infrequent? Nay, couriers’ feet never allow the dust to lie on the Flaminian Way. If, then, thou hast the power to write and messengers in plenty to carry thy letters what reason hast thou for thy silence unless indeed thou wish to slight me? I take it thou hast abandoned thy poet and wilt have none of him (though I can scarce believe it); or distance has made thy heart less fond. Dost thou forget me? Now shall Hydaspes lay the day to rest, and thou, O sun, rise from out the seas of Spain; now shall Egypt change her nature and glisten with Getic frost and the Bear bathe him in forbidden waters. No, if Olybrius now disdains my love then ’tis sure Orestes’ loyalty availed nought. Nay come, banish

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delay and to console thy friend speak to him from far away with richer eloquence; hither let many a letter hasten with winged speech, to find its way to my shelves and to my heart. Augustus disdained not to write to poor Vergil and my muse shall never bring thee shame. Farewell.

XLI.

Letter to Probinus.[110]

How long, pray, shall there be silence between us? When shall a welcome letter win a dear return? Is it right to call me timid or rather thee proud? Surely each shares the other’s fault. The days slip away and while each is ashamed to be the first to write our hesitation leads to an unbroken silence. Yet what am I to do? Respect forbids me to write first; love encourages me to do so. Let love have his way. Fortune favours the brave, as the old poet sang. Under her guidance I could not hesitate to speak, though thou still keep silence. If I shall seem overbold or guilty of some grave fault, thou mayst blame but I shall not bear the burden of ingratitude. ’Twas when thou wert consul that I first drank of the stream of Latin song and that my Muse, deserting Hellas, assumed the Roman toga.[111] From thy consulship my youth drew its omens and to thee I shall owe my future destiny. Be moved by my importunity and after so long a delay answer my letter. Farewell, Probinus; be thy father’s fortune thine.

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XLII. (LIII.)

The Wild Boar and the Lion.

A dark boar and a tawny lion met once in battle, each exulting in his strength: the one shook his cruel bristles, the other his dreadful mane. One was Mars’ favourite, the other Cybele’s: both are kings of the mountains, both engaged the labours of Hercules.

XLIII. (LXXV.)

Against Curetius.[112]

Uranius, Curetius’ father, could set deceptive stars in a sphere of glass, gloomily shake his head over the errant course of Saturn, or ensure for a trifle the favourable influence of Jupiter. The father’s chicanery meets with its punishment, so long deferred, in the son whose mouth needs must pay the just penalty. For filthy are his delights and he wastes all his substance in wantoning and debauchery. And so the tongue of the son has squandered all the riches which that of his lying father gathered together.

XLIV. (LXXVI.)

The Same.

Wouldst thou, Curetius, have sure knowledge of thy horoscope, I can give it thee better than even thy father. Thy madness thou owest to the evil influence of Mars; thine ignorance of poetry to

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enfeebling Mercury; thy shameful disease and premature decay to lady Moon and lady Venus; Saturn has robbed thee of thy property. But this one fact is beyond me:—what causes thy filthy ways?

XLV. (LV.)

The Shell.

Nymph, come from Helicon and pour herein thy limpid waters; fill all the vast extent of this wondrous shell. Surely the water that has bathed the face of the poetess Serena will have more virtue than all the streams of Castalia.

XLVI. (LXXII.)

On a Cloak and a Bridle.

His loving mother did not always fashion for her dear son Achilles those round shields that did affright the world; she did not constantly approach the fiery caverns of the god of Lemnos, begging a plumèd helmet for her son. She gave him, besides these, garments of peace and unwarlike adornments wherewith, after the toils of war, he might shine conspicuous among the chiefs of the Achaeans. With her own hand she wove him cloaks of purple and gold and with patient care studded with ocean gems bridles to adorn his fleet steeds, Xanthus and Balius.

On thee, most puissant emperor, thy wife’s parents bestow diverse presents. Stilicho gives thee warlike gifts—slaughter of barbarians and victories on the Rhine; Serena, content to do such work as befits a queen, plies her busy loom to weave thee raiment.

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XLVII. (LXXIII.)

On a Gift to a Horse.

Happy steed, whose good fortune it is to obey the directing hand of a god and to be guided by a sacred bit. Whether on the plains of Spain the wind tossed thy mane in sport, or thou didst bathe in the melted snows of Mount Argaeus, in some fertile valley of Cappadocia, or thou didst scour the rich pasture-lands of Thessaly in wind-swift course, receive this royal harness and, tossing thy proud mane, fleck with foam the bridle studded with emeralds. Arch thy haughty neck beneath its collar of pearls; let cloth of purple and gold clothe thy shoulders and a belt of many colours worked by Serena’s chaste hands pass beneath thy belly. ’Tis an ornament worthy the kings of Persia. Such is her motherly love that to enhance her son-in-law’s glory she disdains not to embroider the very harness of his horses.

XLVIII. (LXX.)

On a Strap embroidered by Serena for Honorius’ Horse.

Receive at a sister’s hand a small gift, revered prince, a gift embroidered by her own hand; the bridle of thy champing steed is of gold, his head-harness studded with jewels; use now this strap to pass beneath his belly. Whether his home was the grassy plain of Armenia, or by the Halys, swollen with the melted snows of Mount Argaeus wherein he was wont to bathe, he well deserves an emerald-encrusted bit to champ in his blood-flecked mouth and cloth of Tyrian purple to adorn his back. How

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conscious he is of his own beauty as he steps high and shakes his flowing mane over his proud neck! The slight nature of the present is dignified by the affection of Serena who for her brothers decks even their swift steeds.

XLIX. (XLVI.)

The Electric Ray.

Who has not heard of the invincible skill of the dread torpedo and of the powers that win it its name?

Its body is soft and its motion slow. Scarcely does it mark the sand o’er which it crawls so sluggishly. But nature has armed its flanks with a numbing poison and mingled with its marrow chill to freeze all living creatures, hiding as it were its own winter in its heart. The fish seconds nature’s efforts with its own guilefulness; knowing its own capabilities, it employs cunning, and trusting to its power of touch lies stretched full length among the seaweed and so attacks its prey. It stays motionless; all that have touched it lie benumbed. Then, when success has crowned its efforts, it springs up and greedily devours without fear the living limbs of its victim.

Should it carelessly swallow a piece of bait that hides a hook of bronze and feel the pull of the jagged barbs, it does not swim away nor seek to free itself by vainly biting at the line; but artfully approaches the dark line and, though a prisoner, forgets not its skill, emitting from its poisonous veins an effluence which spreads far and wide through the water. The poison’s bane leaves the sea and creeps up the line; it will soon prove too much for the distant fisherman.

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The dread paralysing force rises above the water’s level and climbing up the drooping line, passes down the jointed rod, and congeals, e’er he is even aware of it, the blood of the fisherman’s victorious hand. He casts away his dangerous burden and lets go his rebel prey, returning home disarmed without his rod.

L. (LXXVII.)

Against James Commander of the Cavalry.[114]

By the ashes of S. Paul and the shrine of revered S. Peter, do not pull my verses to pieces, General James. So may S. Thomas prove a buckler to protect thy breast and S. Bartholomew bear thee company to the wars; so may the blessed saints prevent the barbarians from crossing the Alps and Suzanna[115] endow thee with her strength; so, should any savage foe seek to swim across the Danube, let him be drowned therein like the swift chariots of Pharaoh; so may an avenging javelin strike the Getic hordes and the favour of Thecla[116] guide the armies of Rome; so may thy guests dying in their efforts to out-drink thee assure thy board its triumph of hospitality and the broached casks o’ercome thy thirst; so may thy hand ne’er be red with an enemy’s blood—do not, I say, pull my verses to pieces.

LI. (LXVIII.)

Archimedes’ Sphere.

When Jove looked down and saw the heavens figured in a sphere of glass he laughed and said to

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the other gods: “Has the power of mortal effort gone so far? Is my handiwork now mimicked in a fragile globe? An old man of Syracuse has imitated on earth the laws of the heavens, the order of nature, and the ordinances of the gods. Some hidden influence within the sphere directs the various courses of the stars and actuates the lifelike mass with definite motions. A false zodiac runs through a year of its own, and a toy moon waxes and wanes month by month. Now bold invention rejoices to make its own heaven revolve and sets the stars in motion by human wit. Why should I take umbrage at harmless Salmoneus and his mock thunder? Here the feeble hand of man has proved Nature’s rival.”

LII. (XXXVII.)

The Battle of the Giants.

Once upon a time mother Earth, jealous of the heavenly kingdoms and in pity for the ceaseless woes of the Titans, filled all Tartarus with a monster brood, thus giving birth to that which proved a very bane. Her womb swollen with this monstrous birth she opened Phlegra’s side and brought forth foes against heaven. With a noise as of thunder they burst forth in profusion and, scarce born, prepare their hands for war, as with twofold trail[117] they writhe their hissing course. Suddenly the stars grow pale, Phoebus turns his rosy steeds and, impelled by fear, retraces his steps. The Bear takes refuge in the Ocean, and the unsetting Triones learned to endure setting. Then their angry mother stirred up her sons to war with words such as these: “Children, ye shall conquer

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heaven: all that ye see is the prize of victory; win, and the universe is yours. At last shall Saturn’s son feel the weight of my wrath; shall recognize Earth’s power. What! can any force conquer me? Has Cybele born sons superior to mine? Why has Earth no honour? Why is she ever condemned to bitter loss? Has any form of injury passed me by? There hangs luckless Prometheus in yon Scythian vale, feeding the vulture on his living breast; yonder, Atlas supports the weight of the starry heavens upon his head, and his grey hair is frozen stiff with cruel cold. What need to tell of Tityus whose liver is ever renewed beneath the savage vulture’s beak, to contend with his heavy punishment? Up, army of avengers, the hour is come at last, free the Titans from their chains; defend your mother. Here are seas and mountains, limbs of my body, but care not for that. Use them as weapons. Never would I hesitate to be a weapon for the destruction of Jove. Go forth and conquer; throw heaven into confusion, tear down the towers of the sky. Let Typhoeus seize the thunderbolt and the sceptre; Enceladus, rule the sea, and another in place of the sun guide the reins of dawn’s coursers. Porphyrion, wreathe thou thy head with Delphi’s laurel and take Cirrha for thy sanctuary.”

This exhortation filled their minds with vain hopes. They think themselves already victors o’er the gods, imagine they have thrown Neptune into chains and dragged him a prisoner from Ocean’s bed. One thinks to lay Mars low, one to tear Phoebus’ locks from his head; one assigns Venus to himself, another anticipates in thought his marriage with Diana, and another is all aflame to do violence to chaste Minerva.

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Meanwhile Iris, messenger of the gods, summons the immortal council. There come the deities of river and lake; the very ghosts were there in heaven’s defence. Hell’s shady portals could not hold Proserpine afar; the king of the silent himself advances in his Lethaean chariot. His horses fear the light which hitherto their astonished eyes have never looked upon and, swerving this way and that, they breathe forth thick vapour from their soot-black nostrils. As, when an enemy’s siege-engine affrights a town, the citizens run together from all sides to defend their citadel, so gods of all shapes and forms came together to protect their father’s home. Them Jove thus addressed: “Deathless army, whose dwelling-place is, and must ever be, the sky, ye whom no adverse fortune can ever harm, mark ye how Earth with her new children conspires against our kingdom and undismayed has given birth to another brood? Wherefore, for all the sons she bore, let us give back to their mother as many dead; let her mourning last through the ages as she weeps by as many graves as she now has children.”

The clouds echo the blast of heaven’s trumpets; on this side Heaven, on that Earth, sounds the attack. Once more Nature is thrown into confusion and fears for her lord. The puissant company of the giants confounds all differences between things; islands abandon the deep; mountains lie hidden in the sea. Many a river is left dry or has altered its ancient course. One giant brandishes Thessalian Oeta in his mighty hand, another gathers all his strength and hurls Pangaeus at the foe, Athos with his snows arms another; this one roots up Ossa, that tears out Rhodope and Hebrus’ source, dividing the

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waters that before were one; Enipeus, gathered up with its beetling crags, scatters its waters over yon giant’s shoulders: robbed of her mountains Earth sank into level plains, parted among her own sons.

On all sides a horrid din resounds and only the air divides the rival armies. First impetuous Mars urges against the horrid band his Thracian steeds that oft have driven in rout Getae or Geloni. Brighter than flame shines his golden shield, high towers the crest of his gleaming helmet. Dashing into the fray he first encounters Pelorus and transfixes him with his sword, where about the groin the two-bodied serpent unites with his own giant form, and thus with one blow puts an end to three lives. Exulting in his victory he drives his chariot over the dying giant’s limbs till the wheels ran red with blood.

Mimas ran forward to avenge his brother. He had torn Lemnos and with it Vulcan’s fiery house from out the foaming main, and was on the point of hurling it when Mars’ javelin prevented him, scattering the brain from his shattered skull. What was giant in him died, but the serpent legs still lived, and, hissing vengeance, sought to attack the victor after Mimas’ death.

Minerva rushed forward presenting her breast whereon glittered the Gorgon’s head. The sight of this, she knew, was enough: she needed not to use a spear. One look sufficed. Pallas drew no nearer, rage as he might, for he was the first to be changed into a rock. When, at a distance from his foe, without a wound, he found himself rooted to the ground, and felt the murderous visage turn him, little by little, to stone (and all but stone he was) he called out, “What is happening to me? What

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is this ice that creeps o’er all my limbs? What is this numbness that holds me prisoner in these marble fetters?” Scarce had he uttered these few words when he was what he feared, and savage Damastor, seeking a weapon wherewith to repel the foe, hurled at them in place of a rock his brother’s stony corpse.

Then Echion, marvelling, all ignorant, at his brother’s death, even as he seeks to assail the author of the deed, turned his gaze upon thee, goddess, whom alone no man may see twice. Beaten audacity well deserved its punishment and in death he learned to know the goddess. But Palleneus, mad with anger, turning his eyes aside, rushed at Minerva, striking at her with undirected sword. Nigh at hand the goddess smote him with her sword, and at the same time the snakes froze at the Gorgon’s glance, so that of one body a part was killed by a weapon and a part by a mere look.

Impious Porphyrion, carried by his serpents into the middle of the sea, tries to uproot trembling Delos, wishing to hurl it at the sky. The Aegean was affrighted; Thetis and her agèd sire fled from their watery caverns; the palace of Neptune, regarded with awe by all the denizens of the deep, lay deserted. The summit of Cynthus rang with the cries of the gentle nymphs who had taught Phoebus’ unpractised hand to shoot at the wandering beasts with his bow, they who first had prepared the bed for weeping Latona when, in labour with the lights of heaven, she blessed the world with twin offspring. Delos in terror called her lord Phoebus to help her and begged him for aid. “In remembrance of the

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time when Latona entrusted thine infant life to my care, help me who thus call upon thee. Behold, once more they seek to uproot me.…”[118]

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RAPE OF PROSERPINE

BOOK I PREFACE

(XXXII.)

He who first made a ship and clave therewith the deep, troubling the waters with roughly hewn oars, who first dared trust his alder-bark to the uncertain winds and who by his skill devised a way forbidden of nature, fearfully at the first essayed smooth seas, hugging the shore in an unadventurous course. But soon he began to attempt the crossing of broad bays, to leave the land and spread his canvas to the gentle south wind; and, as little by little his growing courage led him on, and as his heart forgot numbing fear, sailing now at large, he burst upon the open sea and, with the signs of heaven to guide him, passed triumphant through the storms of the Aegean and the Ionian main.

BOOK I

(XXXIII.)

My full heart bids me boldly sing the horses of the ravisher from the underworld and the stars darkened by the shadow of his infernal chariot

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and the gloomy chambers of the queen of Hell. Come not nigh, ye uninitiate. Now has divine madness driven all mortal thoughts from my breast, and my heart is filled with Phoebus’ inspiration; now see I the shrine reel and its foundations totter while the threshold glows with radiant light telling that the god is at hand. And now I hear a loud din from the depths of the earth, the temple of Cecrops re-echoes and Eleusis waves its holy torches. The hissing snakes of Triptolemus raise their scaly necks chafed by the curving collar, and, uptowering as they glide smoothly along, stretch forth their rosy crests towards the chant. See from afar rises Hecate with her three various heads and with her comes forth Iacchus smooth of skin, his temples crowned with ivy. There clothes him the pelt of a Parthian tiger, its gilded claws knotted together, and the Lydian thyrsus guides his drunken footsteps.

Ye gods, whom the numberless host of the dead serves in ghostly Avernus, into whose greedy treasury is paid all that perishes upon earth, ye whose fields the pale streams of intertwining Styx surround, while Phlegethon, his rapids tossed in spray, flows through them with steaming eddies—do you unfold for me the mysteries of your sacred story and the secrets of your world. Say with what torch the god of love overcame Dis, and tell how Proserpine was stolen away in her maiden pride to win Chaos as a dower; and how through many lands Ceres, sore troubled, pursued her anxious search; whence corn was given to man whereby he laid aside his acorn food, and the new-found ear made useless Dodona’s oaks.

Once on a time the lord of Erebus blazed forth

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in swelling anger, threatening war upon the gods, because he alone was unwed and had long wasted the years in childless state, brooking no longer to lack the joys of wedlock and a husband’s happiness nor ever to know the dear name of father. Now all the monsters that lurk in Hell’s abyss rush together in warlike bands, and the Furies bind themselves with an oath against the Thunderer. Tisiphone, the bloody snakes clustering on her head, shakes the lurid pine-torch and summons to the ghostly camp the armèd shades. Almost had the elements, once more at war with reluctant nature, broken their bond; the Titan brood, their deep prison-house thrown open and their fetters cast off, had again seen heaven’s light; and once more bloody Aegaeon, bursting the knotted ropes that bound his huge form, had warred against the thunderbolts of Jove with hundred-handed blows.

But the dread Fates brought these threats to naught, and, fearing for the world, gravely laid their hoary locks before the feet and throne of the lord of Hell, and with suppliant tears touched his knees with their hands—those hands beneath whose rule are all things set, whose thumbs twist the thread of fate and spin the long ages with their iron spindles. First Lachesis, her hair unkempt and disordered, thus called out upon the cruel king: “Great lord of night, ruler over the shades, thou at whose command our threads are spun, who appointest the end and origin of all things and ordainest the alternation of birth and destruction; arbiter thou of life and death—for whatsoever thing comes anywhere into being it is by thy gift that it is created and owes its life to thee, and after a fixed

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cycle of years them sendest souls once more into mortal bodies—seek not to break the stablished treaty of peace which our distaffs have spun and given thee, and overturn not in civil war the compact fixed ’twixt thee and thy two brothers. Why raisest thou unrighteous standards of war? Why freest the foul band of Titans to the open air? Ask of Jove; he will give thee a wife.”

Scarce had she spoken when Pluto stopped, shamed by her prayer, and his grim spirit grew mild though little wont to be curbed: even so great Boreas, armed with strident blasts and tempestuous with congealed snow, his wings all frozen with Getic hail as he seeks battle, threatens to overwhelm the sea, the woods, and the fields with sounding storm; but should Aeolus chance to bar against him the brazen doors idly his fury dies away and his storms retire baulked to their prison-house.

Then he bids summon Mercury, the son of Maia, that he may carry these flaming words to Jove. Straightway the wingèd god of Cyllene stands at his side shaking his sleepy wand, his herald cap upon his head. Pluto himself sits propped on his rugged throne, awful in funereal majesty; foul with age-long dust is his mighty sceptre; boding clouds make grim his lofty head; unpitying is the stiffness of his dread shape; rage heightened the terror of his aspect. Then with uplifted head he thunders forth these words, while, as the tyrant speaks, his halls tremble and are still; the massy hound, guardian of the gate, restrains the barking of his triple head, and Cocytus sinks back repressing his fount of tears; Acheron is dumb with silent wave, and the banks of Phlegethon cease their murmuring.

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“Grandchild of Atlas, Arcadian-born, deity that sharest hell and heaven, thou who alone hast the right to cross either threshold, and art the intermediary between the two worlds, go swiftly, cleave the winds, and bear these my behests to proud Jove. ‘Hast thou, cruel brother, such complete authority over me? Did injurious fortune rob me at once of power and light? Because day was reft from me, lost I therefore strength and weapons? Thinkest thou me humble and cowed because I hurl not bolts forged by the Cyclops and fool not the empty air with thunder? Is it not enough that deprived of the pleasant light of day I submit to the ill-fortune of the third and final choice and these hideous realms, whilst thee the starry heavens adorn and the Wain surrounds with twinkling brilliance—must thou also forbid our marriage? Amphitrite, daughter of Nereus, holds Neptune in her sea-grey embrace; Juno, thy sister and thy wife, takes thee to her bosom when wearied thou layest aside thy thunderbolts. What need to tell of thy secret love for Lato or Ceres or great Themis? How manifold a hope of offspring was thine! Now a crowd of happy children surrounds thee. And shall I in this empty palace, sans joy, sans fame, know no child’s love to still instant care? I will not brook so dull a life. I swear by elemental night and the unexplored shallows of the Stygian lake, if thou refuse to hearken to my word I will throw open Hell and call forth her monsters, will break Saturn’s old chains, and shroud the sun in darkness. The framework of the world shall be loosened and the shining heavens mingle with Avernus’ shades.’”

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Scarce had he spoken when his messenger trod the stars. The Father heard the message and, communing with himself, debated long who would dare such a marriage, who would wish to exchange the sun for the caves of Styx. He would fain decide and at length his fixed purpose grew.

Ceres, whose temple is at Henna, had but one youthful daughter, a child long prayed for; for the goddess of birth granted no second offspring, and her womb, exhausted by that first labour, became unfruitful. Yet prouder is the mother above all mothers, and Proserpine such as to take the place of many. Her mother’s care and darling is she; not more lovingly does the fierce mother cow tend her calf that cannot as yet scamper over the fields and whose growing horns curve not yet moonwise over her forehead. As the years were fulfilled she had grown a maiden ripe for marriage, and thoughts of the torch of wedlock stir her girlish modesty, but while she longs for a husband she yet fears to plight troth. The voice of suitors is heard throughout the palace; two gods woo the maiden, Mars, more skilled with the shield, and Phoebus, the mightier bowman. Mars offers Rhodope, Phoebus would give Amyclae, and Delos and his temple at Claros; in rivalry Juno and Latona claim her for a son’s wife. But golden-haired Ceres disdains both, and fearing lest her daughter should be stolen away (how blind to the future!) secretly entrusts her jewel to the land of Sicily, confident in the safe nature of this hiding-place.

Trinacria was once a part of Italy but sea and tide changed the face of the land. Victorious Nereus brake his bounds and interflowed the cleft mountains

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with his waves whereby a narrow channel now separates these kindred lands. Nature now thrusts out into the sea the three-cornered island, cut off from the mainland to which it once belonged. At one extremity the promontory of Pachynum hurls back with jutting crags the furious waves of the Ionian main, round another roars the African sea that rises and beats upon the curving harbour of Lilybaeum, at the third the raging Tyrrhenian flood, impatient of restraint, shakes the obstacle of Cape Pelorus. In the midst of the island rise the charred cliffs of Aetna, eloquent monument of Jove’s victory over the Giants, the tomb of Enceladus, whose bound and bruised body breathes forth endless sulphur clouds from its burning wounds. Whene’er his rebellious shoulders shift their burden to the right or left, the island is shaken from its foundations and the walls of tottering cities sway this way and that.

The peaks of Aetna thou must know by sight alone; to them no foot may approach. The rest is clothed with foliage but the summit no husbandman tills. Now it sends forth native smoke and with pitch-black cloud darkens and oppresses the day, now with awful stirrings it threatens the stars and feeds its flame with the dread fruit of its own body. But though it boils and bursts forth with such great heat yet it knows how to observe a truce with the snow, and together with glowing ashes the ice grows hard, protected from the great heat and secured by indwelling cold, so that the harmless flame licks the neighbouring frost with breath that keeps its compact. What huge engine hurls those rocks; what vast force piles rock on