Silvae I.2 (Mozley): An Epithalamium in Honour of Stella and Violentilla

Whence comes this sound of divine melody upon the Latian hills? For whom, O Paean, dost thou ply thy quill anew and hang the eloquent ivory from thy tress-strewn shoulders? Lo! far away the goddesses troop down from musical Helicon, and toss on high with ninefold torch the flame that hallows wedded union and streams of song from Pierian fountains. Among them pert-faced Elegy draws nigh, loftier of mien than is her wont, and implores the goddesses as she goes about, fain to support her one lame foot, and desires to make a tenth Muse and mingles with the Sisters unperceived. The mother of Aeneas with her own hand leads forth the bride, downcast of look and the sweet blush of chastity upon her; herself she prepares the couch and the sacred rites, and with a Latin girdle dissembles her deity and tempers the brilliance of eyes and cheeks and tresses, eager to yield before the new bride.

Ah, now do I learn what day is this, what hath caused this solemn rite: ’tis thou, Stella, thou whom that choir—fling wide the gates!—is hymning; for thee Phoebus and Euhan and the swift Tegean from the shades of Maenalus bring garlands. Nor do winsome Love and Grace grow weary in scattering countless blossoms and cloudy perfumes o’er thee as thou holdest close-locked the snow-white limbs of thy longed-for bride. And now roses, now lilies mixed with violets dost thou receive upon thy brow, as thou shieldest the fair face of thy mistress.

This then was the day, laid up in the white wool of the Fates, whereon the marriage-song of Stella and Violentilla should be proclaimed and sung. Let cares and fears give place, and the clever hints of lying fables cease, and, Rumour, be thou silent; that love that ranged so free now brooks control and takes the bridle; we have done with gossip and our citizens have seen the kisses so long talked of. Yet thou in bewilderment—although a night so marvellous has been granted thee—still dost pray, and art affrighted that kindly heaven has given thee thy wish. Sigh no more, sweet poet, she is thine. The door lies open, and thou canst come and go with fearless step; no doorkeeper, no rule of honour stays thee now. At last take thy fill of the desired embrace—it is thine to take!—and remember the while those nights of misery.

Worthy indeed were thy reward, even though Juno set thee Herculean toils, and the Fates gave thee monsters to contend withal, though thou wert swept through the Cyanean surge. To gain her it were worth while to run the race in terror of Pisa’s law and hear the shouts of Oenomaus in hot pursuit. Nor had such a prize been thine, hadst thou, a bold shepherd lad, held thy court on Dardan Ida, nor though the warm-hearted Dawn had preferred thee, and snatched thee up and borne thee in her chariot through the air.

But what was the cause that brought to the poet the unhoped-for joys of wedlock? Do thou teach me, lovely Erato, here by my side, while the halls and portals are astir with folk, and many a staff beats upon the threshold. Time permits apt converse, and the poet’s home knows well how to listen.

Once on a time, where the milky region is set in a tranquil heaven, lay kindly Venus in her bower, whence night had but lately fled, faint in the rough embrace of her Getic lord. About the posts and pillows of her couch swarm a troop of tender Loves, begging her make sign where she bids them bear her torches, what hearts they shall transfix: whether to wreak their cruelty on land or sea, to set gods at variance or yet once more to vex the Thunderer. Herself she has yet no purpose, no certain will or pleasure. Weary she lies upon her cushions, where once the Lemnian chains crept over the bed and held it fast, learning its guilty secret. Then a boy of that winged crowd, whose mouth was fieriest and whose deft hand ne’er sent his arrow amiss, from the midst of the troop thus called to her in his sweet boyish voice—his quivered brethren held their peace.

“Mother,” says he, “thou knowest how no warfare finds my right hand idle; whomsoe’er of gods or men thou dost assign me, he feels the smart. Yet once, O Mother, suffer us to be moved by the tears and suppliant hands, by the vows and prayers of men; for not of steely adamant are we born, but are all thy offspring. There is a youth of famous Latin family, whom nobility rejoicing brought forth of old patrician stock, and in prescience of his beauty named straightway from our sky. Him ere now have I plied relentlessly—such was thy pleasure—with all my quiver’s armoury, and pierced him to his dismay with a thick hail of darts; and for all he is much sought by Ausonian matrons as a son-in-law, I have quelled and mastered him, and bidden him bear a noble lady’s yoke and spend long years in hoping. But her we spared—such was thy command—and did but lightly graze with the flame’s tip and loose-strung bow. Since then I can bear marvelling witness what fires the heart-sick youth is smothering, what strong urgency of mine he suffers night and day. None ever, mother, have I so fiercely pressed, thrusting home oft-repeated wounds. And yet I saw eager Hippomenes run the cruel course, but even at the very goal he was not so pale; and I saw, too, the youth of Abydos, whose arms did vie with oars, and praised his skill and often shone before him as he swam: yet less was that heat wherewith the savage sea grew warm; thou, O youth, hast surpassed those loves of old. I myself, amazed that thou couldest endure such gusts of passion, have strengthened thy resolve and wiped thy streaming eyes with soothing plumes. How oft has Apollo complained to me of his poet’s grief! Grant him at last, O Mother, the bride of his desire. Our comrade is he, and loyally bears our standard; he could tell of armed prowess and heroes’ famous deeds and fields flowing with blood, but his quill is dedicate to thee and he prefers to walk in gentle poethood and twine our myrtle with bay. The follies of lovers are his theme, and his own or others’ wounds; O Mother, what reverence hath he for thy Paphian godhead! ’twas he that bewailed the death of our poor dove.”

He made an end, and from his mother’s soft neck hung persuasive, making her bosom warm with his covering wings. With a look that scorned not his petition she replied: “A large request and rarely granted e’en to lovers that I myself have proved, this of Pieria’s young votary! Marvelling at this maiden’s peerless beauty, that rivalled the glory of her sires and her family’s renown, I took her to me at her birth and cherished her in my bosom: nor, child, has my hand grown weary of giving comeliness to face and form and smoothing with rich balm her tresses. She has grown up my own sweet image. Behold even from here the lofty beauty of her brow and high-piled hair. Reckon how far she doth tower above the matrons of Rome: even so far as the Latonian maid out-tops the nymphs, or I myself stand out above the Nereids. This girl is worthy to rise with me from out the dark-blue waves; she could sit with me upon my chariot-shell. Nay, could she have climbed to the flaming mansions and entered this abode, even you, ye Loves, would be deceived. Although in my bounty I have given her the boon of wealth, her mind is a yet richer dower. Already I complain that the avaricious Seres are stripping their diminished groves, that Clymene’s fruit is failing, that the green Sisters weep not tears enough; that already too few fleeces are blushing with Sidonian dye, and too rarely freeze the crystals of the immemorial snows. For her Tagus and Hermus at my bidding run down their yellow sand—nor yet do they suffice for her arraying; for her Glaucus and Proteus and every Nereid go in search of Indian necklaces. If thou, Phoebus, hadst seen her on the fields of Thessaly, Daphne had wandered unafraid. If on Naxos’ shore she had been spied by Theseus’ couch, Euhan, too, would have fled from the Cretan maid and left her desolate. Nay, had not Juno appeased me by her endless plaint, heaven’s lord would for this maid have taken the disguise of horns or feathers, on her lap had Jove descended in true gold. But the youth whom thou favourest, my son, my chiefest power, shall have his will, though many a time she refuse with tears to bear the yoke of a second wedlock. She herself, I have noticed, is already yielding, and in her turn grows warm toward her lover.” With these words she raised her starry limbs, and passing the proud threshold of her chamber called to the rein her Amyclaean doves. Love harnesses them, and seated on the jewelled car bears his mother rejoicing through the clouds. Soon appears the Ilian citadel of Tiber: a lofty mansion spreads wide its shining halls, and the swans exulting beat their wings on its bright portals. Worthy of the goddess was that abode, nor mean after the radiant stars. Here is marble of Libya and Phrygia, and the hard green Laconian rock; here the winding pattern of the onyx, and the vein that matches the deep sea’s hue, and the brilliant stone that is envied by Oebalian purple and the mixer of the Tyrian cauldron. The ceilings rest poised on columns innumerable; the beams glitter in lavish decking of Dalmatian ore. Coolness down-streaming from ancestral trees shuts out the rays of the sun, translucent fountains play in basins of marble; nor does Nature keep her wonted order: here Sirius is cool, midwinter warm, and the house sways the altered seasons to its pleasure.

Kindly Venus rejoiced to see the house of her queenly fosterling, no less than if from the deep sea she were drawing nigh to Paphos or her Idalian home or her shrine at Eryx. Then she addressed the maiden, as she reclined alone upon her couch: “How long this slothfulness, this modest, unshared bed, O well-beloved of me among Laurentian girls? What limit wilt thou set to chastity and thy sworn vow? Wilt thou never submit to a husband’s yoke? Soon sadder years will come. Employ thy beauty and use the gifts that are quick to fly. Not for that end did I give thee such charm and pride of countenance and my own spirit, to see thee pass year after year of loneliness, as though thou wert not dear to me. Enough, ay and too much to have despised thy former suitors. For truly this one with his whole manhood’s reverent devotion loves thee alone among all others, nor lacks he beauty or noble birth; and, for his poetry, what youths, what maidens all the city through have not his songs by heart? Him also shalt thou see—so far may the Ausonian prince prove gracious!—raise high the twelvefold rods before the due age; of a truth already has he opened Cybele’s gates and read the Euboean Sibyl’s song. Soon will the Latian Father, whose purpose I may foreknow, bestow upon the youth the purple raiment and the curule ivory, and will permit him to celebrate (a greater glory this) the spoils of Dacia and the laurels newly won. Come, marry then and have done with youth’s tarrying. What races, what hearts has my torch failed to subdue? Birds, cattle, savage herds of beasts, none have said me nay: the very air, when rain-showers empty the clouds, do I melt into union with the earth. Thus life succeeds to life, and the world’s age is renewed. Whence could have come Troy’s later glory and the rescuer of the burning gods, had I not been joined to a Phrygian spouse? how could Lydian Tiber have renewed the stock of my own Iuli? Who could have founded the walls of sevenfold Rome, the head of Latium’s empire, had not a Dardan priestess suffered the secret embrace of Mars, which I forbade not?”

By such winning words she inspires the silent girl with the pride of wedlock; her suitor’s gifts and prayers are remembered, his tears and wakeful pleading at her gates, and how the whole city sang of the poet’s Asteris, before the banquet Asteris, Asteris at night, Asteris at dawn of day, as never Hylas’ name resounded. And now she begins gladly to bend her stubborn heart, and now to account herself unfeeling.

Blessing on thy bridal couch, gentlest of Latian bards! Thou hast endured thy hard voyage to the end and the labours of thy quest, and gained thy haven. So does the river that fled sleek Pisa, aflame for an alien love afar, flow with unsullied streams through a channel beneath the sea, until at last arriving he drinks with panting mouth of the Sicanian springs; the Naiad marvels at the freshness of his kisses, nor can believe her lover has come from the open main.

What a day was that, O Stella, for thy eager spirit, when the gods showed thee signal bounty! How thy hopes surged within thy heart, when thy lady’s favouring look gave promise of the bliss of wedlock! Thou didst seem to tread the sky and walk among the shining heavens. Less exultant was the shepherd on Amyclae’s sand when Helen came to the ships of Ida; less eager seemed Peleus to Thessalian Tempe, when Chiron high on his horse’s body looked forth and beheld Thetis draw nigh to the Haemonian strand. How tardy are the lingering stars! how slow is Aurora to a lover's prayer!

But when the son of Leto, sire of poets, and Euhan, Semele’s son, perceived from afar that Stella’s marriage-chamber was preparing, from Ortygia the one, from Nysa the other they set their swift companies in train. To Apollo the Lycian hills and cool resorts of shady Thymbra sound responsive, and thou, Parnassus; Pangaea and Ismara re-echo Bacchus, and the shores of Naxos, once his bridal bower. Then did they enter the doors they loved, and brought to their tuneful friend their gifts of lyre and quill, of dappled yellow fawnskin and mystic wands: the one adorns the poet’s brow with bay, the other sets a Minoan crown upon his hair.

Scarce is the light of day sent forth, and already the omens of a happy union are at hand, already either house is aglow with festal pomp. The doorposts are green with foliage, the cross-roads bright with flame, and the most populous part of immeasurable Rome rejoices. No office of State, no train of lictors but seeks that threshold; Senators’ robes are jostled by crowds of common folk; yonder are knights, and women’s gowns that mix and struggle in a throng of youths. Each they call happy, but more among the multitude envy the bridegroom. Long since leaning against the portal hath Hymen sought to utter a new song in honour of their marriage, and to gladden the poet’s heart. Juno brings the holy bonds, and Concord marks the union with twofold torch. Such was that day: of the night let the bridegroom sing! This only may we know: ’twas thus that Ilia, bride of Mars, o’ercome by deceitful slumber, laid her side on the river's bank; less fair was Lavinia when she tinged her snow-white cheeks and blushed ’neath the eyes of Turnus; not so did Claudia turn to meet the people’s gaze, when the ship moved and her maidenhood was sure.

Now, comrades of the Aonian sisters and ministers of the tripods, now must we strive in manifold measures: send forth the inspired train, chapleted and ivy-crowned, each bard in the strength of his own exultant lyre. But above all, ye who spoil of its last pace your noble rhyme, bring songs that are worthy of the marriage feast. Philetas himself with Cos to applaud him and old Callimachus and Propertius in his Umbrian grot would fain have praised this day, and Naso too right gladly e’en in Tomi, and Tibullus by the glowing hearth that was his wealth.

For my part, verily, ’tis no one love, no single impulse that makes me sing: thou, Stella, hast a Muse like to and closely joined with mine, at similar altars do we feel the poet’s rage, and together draw water from the springs of song. Thee, lady, at thy birth my own Parthenope first fostered in her bosom, and in thy infancy thou wert the glory and delight of my native soil. Let the Euboean land be exalted to the starry pole, and Sebethos swell with pride of his fair nursling; nor let the Lucrine Naiads boast more of their sulphur caves, nor Pompeian Sarnus in his sweet repose.

Come now, hasten ye to bestow on Latium noble sons who will make her laws and rule her armies, and practise poesy. May merciful Cynthia hasten the tenth month for the bringing-forth, but spare her, Lucina, I pray thee; and thou, O babe, spare thy mother, hurt not her tender womb and swelling breasts; and when Nature in secrecy has marked thy features, much beauty mayst thou draw from thy father, but more from thy mother. And thou, loveliest of Italian maids, won at last by a husband worthy of thee, cherish the bonds he sought so long; so may thy beauty suffer no loss, and the fresh prime of youth abide for many a year upon thy brow, and that comeliness be slow to age.