Silvae III.5 (Mozley): The Poet to His Wife Claudia

Why are you sad, my wife, in the day-time and in the nights we share together? Why do you sigh for anxiety and wakeful sorrow? I have no fear lest it be unfaithfulness and a rival passion in your heart; you are safe against all poisoned shafts, ay—though the Rhamnusian hear my words and frown—safe indeed! Even were I torn from my native shores and after twenty years of war and seafaring a wanderer still, you would repel unharmed a thousand wooers; nor would you plan to weave again the unravelled web, but would be frank and open, and even with arms deny your chamber. But say, whence comes this sullen brow, this clouded countenance? Is it that, broken in health, I purpose to return to my Euboean home, and to settle in old age on my native soil? Why does this cause you sorrow? Certainly there is no wantonness in your heart; the contests of the rushing Circus have no charm for you, no clamorous theatre-crowds find a place in your soul, but virtue and sheltered quiet and innocent joys.

But what are the waters o’er which I fain would hurry you with me? although even if I went to dwell at the cold North, or beyond the misty seas of western Thule, or to the unattainable source of sevenfold Nile, you would be urging our departure. For it is you—you, whom Venus of her grace united to me in the springtime of my days, and in old age keeps mine, you, who while yet I roved in youth nor knew aught of love did transfix my heart—you it is whose rein in willing submission I obeyed, and yet press the bit once put within my mouth, without e’er thought of change. When the Alban wreath adorned my gleaming locks, and I put on Caesar’s sacred gold, you clasped me to your bosom, and showered breathless kisses on my garlands; when the Capitol rejected my lyre, you shared my defeat and mourned the cruelty and ingratitude of Jove. Your wakeful ears caught the first notes of the songs I ventured and whole nights of murmured sound; you alone knew of my long labour, and my Thebaid grew with the years of your companionship. When lately I was near snatched away to the Stygian shades, and already heard close at hand the stream of Lethe, how grateful wert thou to my sight! My eyes, already failing in death, were stayed. Surely it was in pity of thee alone that Lachesis prolonged my exhausted term of life, and the gods above feared thy displeasure. After that do you hesitate to go with me on this short journey to the desirable bay? Ah! where is that loyalty of yours, well-known and put to many a test, that makes you one with the heroines of Greece and Rome? Penelope would have rejoiced to go to Ilium’s town—for what deters true lovers?—had Ulysses suffered her; Aegiale chafed, and Meliboea chafed to be left behind, and she too whom grief—how savage!—drove to frenzy. Yet you no less than these are loyal, and your life is devoted to your lord. Not otherwise indeed do you still seek the ashes and shade of your former husband, and embracing the relics of your poet-spouse renew your bitter heartfelt lamentation, even now that you are mine. As great too is your care and devotion for your daughter; your love as a mother is as tender; she is never absent from your heart, but the thought of her abides day and night in the inmost chambers of your being. Less lovingly does Alcyone of Trachis flutter round her nest, and Philomela cherish her vernal home, and give her young ones the warmth of her own life. ’Tis she now keeps you, because alone and unmarried she is wasting her youth and beauty in barren leisure. But wedlock will come, ay come with all its festal torches. So assuredly does she deserve for her sweet face and virtuous mind; whether she clasp and strike the lute, or with voice as tuneful as her sire’s sing melodies that the Muses might learn, while she follows the course of my songs, or whether with lithe movement she toss her snow-white arms: her innocence and modesty surpass her talent and her skill. Surely the nimble Loves, surely thou, Cytherea, wilt feel shame that such loveliness is wasted. Nor is it only Rome that is fruitful in marriage unions and blazing festal torches: in my country too are bridegrooms found. Not so utterly has Vesuvius’ peak and the flaming tempest of the baleful mountain drained of their townsmen the terror-stricken cities; they stand yet and their people flourish. Here are the dwellings of Dicarchus, founded with Phoebus’ auspices, and the harbour and the shores that the whole world visits; there are the walls that counterfeit the vastness of mighty Rome, which Capys filled with newcomers from Troy. There too is my own Parthenope, too small for her own citizens, yet with no lack of strangers, Parthenope, whom after she had fared across the sea Apollo himself by the help of Dione’s dove guided to a kindly soil.

This is the spot—for neither barbarous Thrace nor Libya is my native land—whither I fain would bring you; mild winters and cool summers temper its climate, its shores are lapped by the sluggish waters of a harmless sea. Peace untroubled reigns there, and life is leisurely and calm, with quiet undisturbed and sleep unbroken. No madness of the forum, no laws unsheathed in quarrel; our citizens admit but duty’s ordinance, and Right holds sway without rod or axe. Why should I now praise the gorgeous scenes and adornments of that land, the temples and wide halls spaced off by countless columns, the two great theatres, one open and one covered, and the quinquennial contests that rival the Capitoline festival? Why should I praise the shore and the freedom of Menander, a blend of Roman dignity and Grecian licence? Nor are there lacking all around the amusements that a varied life affords: whether you please to visit Baiae with its steaming springs and alluring coast, or the prophetic Sibyl’s inspired abode, or the hill made memorable by the Ilian oar; whether you prefer the flowing vineyards of Bacchic Gaurus, or the dwellings of the Teleboae, where the Pharus raises aloft the beacon that rivals the night-wandering moon and is welcomed by affrighted sailors, or the Surrentine hills beloved of fiery Bacchus, which my friend Pollius before all men honours by his dwelling, or the health-giving lake of Aenaria and Stabiae reborn? Shall I recount to you the thousand beauties of my country? No; ’tis enough, my wife, enough to say: This land bore me for you⟨,⟩ and bound me to you in partnership for many a year. May it not worthily be deemed the mother and foster-mother of us both? But ’twere ingratitude in me to add more words and to doubt your loyalty; you will come with me, dearest wife, ay, even go before me; without me Tiber, prince of streams, and the halls of armed Quirinus will seem dull and worthless in your eyes.