Silvae III.1 (Mozley): The Temple of Hercules Built by Pollius Felix at Surrentum

Pollius renews thy interrupted rites, O lord of Tiryns, and makes clear the causes of a year’s neglect, seeing that now thou art worshipped beneath a mightier dome, and no longer hast a beggarly home on the naked shore, a shanty where wandering mariners can lodge, but shining portals and towers upheld by Grecian marbles, as though purified by the brands of ennobling fire thou hadst a second time ascended heavenward from Oeta’s flames. Scarce can sight or memory be trusted. Art thou verily that inglorious warden of a gateless threshold and a puny altar? Whence hath the rustic Alcides this new court and this unwonted splendour? Gods have their destinies and places also! What swift devotion! Here of late could be seen but barren sands, a wave-beaten mountain-side, and boulders rough with scrub, and cliffs that would scarce admit a foothold. What sudden fortune has embellished these stark crags? Did those walls rise to Tyrian music or to the Getic harp? The year itself marvels at the toil. and the months in their twelvefold orbit are amazed to see the work of ages. ’Twas the god that brought and uplifted his own towers, and by might and main moved the resisting boulders, and with huge breast drove back the mountain; you would have thought his cruel stepdame bade him.

Come then, whether free at last from thraldom thou dwellest in thy ancestral Argos, and spurnest Eurystheus in his grave, or whether the throne of thy father Jove and the stars thy valour won thee are thy abode, and Hebe with robe upgirt, more charming than the banished Phrygian lad, hands thee the draught of blissful nectar: hither come, and bring thy presence to the new-born shrine. No harmful Lerna calls thee, nor the acres of poor Molorchus nor Nemea’s dreaded field, nor Thracian caves nor the polluted altars of the Pharian prince, but a blest and innocent home that knows naught of evil fraud, an abode most worthy of a divine guest. Lay aside thy ruthless bow and thy quiver’s cruel horde and the club that plenteous blood of kings hath stained; cast off the foe that is spread upon thy stalwart shoulders: here are high-piled cushions for thee, embroidered with acanthus in purple hue, and a lofty couch all rough with ivory carving. Come in a peaceable and gentle spirit, not turbulent with wrath nor suspicious like a slave, but in such mood as when Auge the Maenalian maid detained thee, worn out with revel and drenched with thy brother’s wine, or when Thespius, the father of thy many brides, marvelled at thee after the reproach of that roving night. Here hast thou a festal playing-ground, where ungloved youths in innocent rivalry perform the yearly, swift-recurring contests. Here on thy temple is written thy priest’s name to the joy of his grandsire: small is he yet, and like to thee when with thy hand thou didst quell the first monsters of thy stepdame and weep that they were slain.

But come, august Calliope, tell how the sudden shrine arose; Alcides will bear thee company with ringing voice, and twang his bowstring to imitate thy strains.

’Twas the season when the vault of heaven bends its most scorching heat upon the earth, and the Dog-star smitten by Hyperion’s full might pitilessly burns the panting fields. And now the day had come, when the torch-smoke rises from Trivia’s grove at Aricia, refuge of the runaways who reign there, and the lights twinkle on the lake that knew the secret of Hippolytus; Diana herself sets garlands on her faithful hounds, and polishes her darts and lets the wild beasts go free, while at its virtuous hearths all Italy celebrates the Ides of Hecate. But I, although beneath Dardanian Alba’s hills an estate of my own and a rivulet that runs for me by the grace of our great prince sufficed to soothe my cares and to allay the summer heat, was making the rocks of the Sirens and the home of eloquent Pollius my abode, no stranger there, and zealously gaining knowledge of his peaceful soul and studying the new Pierian blooms of his innocent Muse. It chanced that, while we were spending Trivia’s day upon the watery shore, and discontented with narrow doors and wonted house were sheltering from the sun ’neath the foliage of a spreading tree, the sky was hid, the bright light gave place to sudden cloud and the faint breeze changed to a heavy downpour from the south; such a storm as Saturnia brought upon Libya, while wealthy Elissa was given to her Ilian lover and the witnessing Nymphs shrieked in the pathless glades. Helter-skelter we fly, and the slaves snatch up the festal banquet and wreathed goblets; nor was there any refuge for the guests, though countless houses were planted on the happy fields above, and the mountain glittered with a wealth of towers: but the lowering clouds and the assurance that the fair weather, though ruined, would return, urged us to seek the nearest shelter. There stood a mean shanty bearing the name of a sacred shrine, that confined the great Alcides within its humble walls, scarce large enough to house sea-wandering mariners and searchers of the deep Hither all the crowd of us gather, hither throng the band of slaves with the costly couches and the feast, and all the pleasant household of elegant Polla. The doors would not contain us, the narrow shrine lacked room. The god blushed, and laughing stole into the heart of his beloved Pollius, a with caressing arms embraced his friend: “Art thou,” said he, “that lavisher of wealth, who with generous heart hast filled full alike the dwellings of Dicarcheus and youthful Parthenope? who on my own mount hast set so many towers, so many verdant groves, so many lifelike marbles and bronzes, and waxen forms that the glow of colour animates? For what was that house of thine, that country before it rejoiced in thee? Thou didst clothe bare rock with a long pathway, and where before was but a track, now stands a lofty colonnade with painted pillars, that the road might be seemly. Upon the curving strand thou didst imprison heated waters ’neath cupolas twain. Scarce can I number all thy works: and to me alone is Pollius needy and in want? yet even such a shrine I enter cheerfully, and love the shore thou openest to me. But Juno hard by scorns my dwelling, and laughs silently at my shrine. Give me a temple and an altar worthy of thy endeavours, an altar such as no vessel would fain neglect though speeding with prosperous sail, one to which the ethereal Sire and the guests of heavenly banquets and my sister invited from her lofty shrine might come. Nor be dismayed that a mass of stark, malignant mountain doth confront thee, which unnumbered ages have not worn away; I will myself be present to aid so great an enterprise, and will break through the flinty bowels of the unwilling earth. Begin, and dare the task, trusting in Hercules’ encouragement. Amphion’s towers will not have risen more swiftly, nor the toilsome walls of Troy.” He spoke, and went from out his heart.

Without delay the design is sketched and the plan shaped. Innumerable workers gather: some have the task of felling trees or planing beams, others sink the foundations in the soil. Moist clay is baked to protect against storm and to keep out frost, and untamed limestone is melted in the round furnace. But the chief labour is to cleave by might and main the opposing rock and the boulders that resist the steel. Hereupon the patron of the place, the Tirynthian himself, lays by his arms and sweats at the work, and himself with strong axe hews at the shapeless mass, when the lowering sky is veiled by the shades of night. Rich Caprae and green Taurubulae resound, and the mighty echo of the sea returns again to the land. Not so loud is Aetna’s din, when the anvils are busy and Brontes and Steropes ply the hammer, nor greater the noise from the Lemnian caves when Mulciber amid his flames forges the aegis and makes chaste gifts for Pallas. The cliffs diminish, and the workmen returning in the rosy dawn marvel at the achievement. Scarce has a second panting summer come, when the Tirynthian enriched by a mighty dome looks down upon the waves and challenges his stepdame’s neighbouring abode, and invites Pallas to a temple worthy of her. Already the peaceful trumpets give the signal, already the sand smokes and burns with the valiant contests. Such honours would neither Pisaean Jove nor the sire of leafy Cirrha spurn. No sadness is here: let tearful Isthmos and cruel Nemea give place; a luckier infant here makes sacrifice. The very Nymphs of the green waters leap forth unbidden from their pumice caves; they cling to the streaming rocks nor think shame to gaze unseen on the naked wrestlers. Gaurus too beholds them with its grove of Icarian vines, and the wood that crowns the peak of Nesis set fast in ocean, and calm Limon and Euploea of good omen for ships and the Lucrine Venus; thou too, Misenus, from thy Phrygian height shalt learn the Grecian trumpet-calls, while Parthenope smiles with kindly heart upon the ceremonies of her race and the naked bouts of youths and the humble garlands that imitate her own.

Come now thyself, and graciously deign to honour the feats of thine own festival with thy invincible might: whether it please thee to cleave the clouds with the discus, or with thy shaft to outstrip the speedy Zephyrs, or to lock fast thy arms in a Libyan wrestle, grant our rites this boon, and, if thou hast still the apples of the Hesperides, place them in the lap of venerable Polla; for she is worthy to take them, and will not dishonour so great a gift. Nay, might she but recover the charm and beauty of her youth—forgive me, Alcides—perchance for her thou hadst even spun the wool.

Such is the offering I have brought in joyful revelry to the new-born shrine. Lo! now he himself upon the threshold—I see him opening his mouth and speaking: “A blessing on thy spirit and thy wealth, wherewith thou hast imitated my own labours, who canst tame the rugged rocks and the abhorred wastes of barren nature, and turnest to thy use the wild beasts’ lairs, and bringest forth my godhead from shameful hiding! What reward shall I now give thee for thy merits? How show my gratitude? I will hold fast the threads of the Fates and stretch out the wool upon their distaffs—I can subdue remorseless Death—I will bid sorrow flee and suffer not sad loss to harm thee, and I will renew thee in a green old age untouched by time, and grant thee long to behold thy growing grandchildren, until the one is ripe for a bride and the other for a husband, and from them a new progeny springs, and a merry band now clambers about their grandsire’s shoulders, now run in eager and loving rivalry for the kisses of tranquil Polla. To this shrine shall no term of age be set, so long as the fabric of the flaming sky shall carry me. Not in Nemea or ancient Argos shall I more often dwell, or in my home at Tibur or in Gades, resting-place of the sun.” So he speaks, and touching the fire that rose upon the altar and nodding his temples white with poplar-leaves he swore by Styx and by the thunderbolt of his ethereal sire.