Silvae I.3 (Mozley): The Villa of Manilius Vopiscus at Tibur

If anyone has been privileged to behold eloquent Vopiscus’ cool retreat at Tibur and the double dwelling threaded by Anio’s stream, or to see the friendly intercourse of bank with bank, and each villa striving to keep their master to itself, on him the hot star of Sirius has not barked, nor leafy Nemea’s offspring looked with fierce aspect; such icy coolness is in the house, so pitilessly does the cold break the sun’s power, nor does the dwelling swelter in Pisa’s summer heat.

Pleasure herself with her own delicate hand <is said> to have traced with thee . . . Then Venus poured Idalian perfumes upon the roof-tops and caressed them with her hair, and left a winsome charm upon the house and bade her winged sons abide there for ever.

O ever memorable day! What raptures of the mind, what cloying of the sight by countless marvels do I recall! How kindly the temper of the soil! How beautiful beyond human art the enchanted scene! Nowhere has Nature more lavishly spent her skill. Lofty woods lean over rushing waters; a false image counterfeits the foliage, and the reflection fences unbroken over the long waves. Anio himself—marvellous to believe—though fully of boulders below and above, here silences his swollen rage and foamy din, as if afraid to disturb the Pierian days and music-haunted slumbers of tranquil Vopiscus. On either shore is home, and that most gentle river parts thee not in twain. Stately buildings guard either bank, and complain not that they are strange to each other, or that the stream bars approach. Now let Fame boast of the Sestian gulf, and the bold youth who swam the sea and outstripped the dolphins! Here is eternal quiet, storms have here no power, waters ne'er grow angry. Here can one see and talk, ay all but join hands across the stream. Thus do the ebbing waves repel Chalcis, thus the eurve of Bruttian Shore that the deep has sundered regards Sicanian Pelorus.

What shall be my first, what my middle theme, whereon shall I conclude? Shall I marvel at the gilded beams, the Moorish lintels on every side, patterned veins of glittering marbles, the water-nymphs that hie them through every bed-chamber? This way my eyes, that way my mind would see me. Shall I tell of the forest’s venerable age? Of the courtyard which sees the river’s lower reaches, or of that other which looks back towards the mute woodland, where it hath quiet unbroken and the silence of night unmarred by any storm, and murmuring sounds that invite to gentle slumber? Or of the smoking baths upraised on the grassy bank and the fire kindled upon the icy flood? Or where the river, chained to the vaporous furnace, laughs at the nymphs that gasp in its stream hard by?

Works of art I saw and masterpieces of the ancients and metals that lived in manifold forms. A labour is it to tell of the shapes of gold, the ivories and the gems worthy to adorn a finger, and of all that the artist’s hand first playfully wrought in silver or smaller bronze, and made trial of huge colossal forms. While I wandered gazing and cast my eyes on all, I was treading on riches unaware. For the radiance down-streaming from on high and the tiles that reflected the brilliant light displayed to me the floor, where the ground rejoices in manifold skill of painting, and with strange shapes surpasses the Unswept Pavement: awe held my steps.

Why should I now marvel at the central buildings, or at the outer wings each with its upper story? why at thee, preserved in the very heart of the house, thou tree that risest up through roof and roof-beam to the pure air above, and under any other lord wouldest endure the cruel axe? Even now, though thou knowest it not, some lissome Naiad or Hamadryad perchance doth owe to thee the life that no stroke has severed.

Why should I tell of feasts held now on this bank, now on that, of white-gleaming pools and springs deep-hidden ’neath the flood, or of thee, O Marcia, that glidest athwart the river’s depths and in bold lead dost cross its channels? Shall only the river of Elis come safe by an unsalt path to Aetna’s haven beneath Ionian waves? There Anio himself, leaving his grotto and his spring, in night’s mysterious hour puts off his grey-green raiment and leans his breast against the soft moss hereabouts, or plunges in all his bulk into the pools and swimming splashes among the glassy waters. In that shade Tiburnus reclines, there Albula would fain dip her sulphurous tresses; this bower could steal woodland Phoebe from Egeria and empty cold Taygetus of Dryad choirs, and summon Pan from the Lycean glades. Ay, did not the Tirynthian shrine as well give oracles, even the Sisters of Praeneste might change their abode. Why should I belaud the twice-bearing apple-orchards of Alcinous and the boughs that never stretched unladen to the air? Let the domain of Telegonus give place and Turnus’ Laurentian fields, and the Lucrine dwellings and the shore of cruel Antiphates; let the perfidious height of glassy Circe yield, where the Dulichian wolves once howled, and Anxur’s haughty towers and the home that the kind old nurse owes to her Phrygian foster-child; let the shores of Antium give place, which when the suns are narrowed in their path and winter’s storms are come will call thee to them.

Ay, here that serious mind broods on weighty themes; here silence shrouds a fruitful quiet and grave virtue tranquil-browed, sane elegance and comfort that is not luxury, such as the Gargettian sage had himself preferred and left his own Athens and his garden behind him; these were worth seeing despite Aegean storms and the Hyades’ snowy constellation and the Olenian star, even though the bark must be thrown on Malea’s mercy and the way lie through Sicilian surges: why do men look slightingly on pleasure near at hand? Here thy lyre delights the Fauns of Tibur and Alcides himself and Catillus, sung of by a mightier harp, whether thou hast a mind to strive with the Pindaric quill or dost lift thy lyre to the height of heroic deeds or stirrest up the black venom of thy bitter satire, or whether thy letters glow and sparkle, composed with no less skill.

O worthy of the wealth of Midas and of Croesus and of Persian treasure, all blessing on thy wealth of soul, thou o’er whose watered fields Hermus should have flowed with yellow channel and Tagus with his shining sand! So mayst thou full oft enjoy thy learned leisure, I pray, so with heart unclouded mayst thou outpass the limits of old Nestor’s age!