Silvae IV.4 (Mozley): A Letter to Vitorius Marcellus

Haste at no laggard speed, my letter, o’er the Euboean plains; set out upon thy road where the famous Appia branches sideward, and a solid mound is planted on the yielding sands. And when swiftly travelling thou hast reached the towers of Romulus, seek forthwith the right bank of yellow Tiber, where the Lydian shore straitens narrowly the naval basin, and suburban pleasure-gardens fringe the water. There shalt thou see Marcellus, peerless both in valour and in looks, and thou shalt know him by the mark of his lofty stature. First pay thy greeting in the accustomed manner, then remember to deliver this verse-embodied message:

“Already the flight of rainy spring sets free the earth and the rushing pole, and scorches the heaven with Icarian bayings; already the high walls of crowded Rome grow empty. Some sacred Praeneste shelters, some Diana’s ice-cool glade or rugged Algidus or the shades of Tusculum; others are eager for the groves of Tibur or Anio’s cold waves. And thou—what gentler region draws thee from the clamorous city? With what sky art thou baffling the summer suns? And Gallus, thy favourite, thy chiefest care, whom I too love—whether more to be praised for virtue or for wit I know not—does he pass the summer on Latium’s coast, or seek again the walls of Luna rich in mines and his Tyrrhenian home? But if he is close by thy side, my name now is not far from thy converse; ay, ’tis certain; that is why both my ears are buzzing. But do thou, while the angry mane of Cleonae’s star is blazing, possessed by Hyperion’s exceeding might, set free thy heart from cares and escape from constant toil. The Parthian puts up his noxious arrows and unstrings his bow, and the charioteer refreshes in Alpheus the steeds that Elean labours have exhausted, and my lyre grows weary and is relaxed: timely repose heartens and nourishes strength, valour is increased by a spell of ease. Even so Achilles, when he had sung of Briseis, went forth the fiercer, and putting by his quill burst out against Hector. Thee too will leisure sought once more awhile secretly kindle, and thou wilt go forth refreshed and exultant to thy wonted tasks. Now indeed the Roman courts have ceased to bicker, ’tis the season of idleness and peace, and the return of the harvest has emptied the forum. Defendants no more throng thy chambers, no querulous clients pray thee to come forth. Idle is the spear that rules the Hundred Judges, before whom even now, in all the brilliance of high renown, thy eloquence is pre-eminent and outstrips thy youthful years. Happy thou in thy labours, who carest not for the chaplets of Helicon nor for unwarlike bays from Parnassus’ summit, but thy intellect is keen, and thy mind girt up for mighty deeds endures whatever may befall: we beguile a leisured life with song, and seek the fickle delights of fame. Lo! I myself, in quest of sleep and that genial shore where the stranger Parthenope found refuge in an Ausonian haven, pluck at my frail strings with feeble fingers, and seated by the threshold of Maro’s shrine take heart and make melody at the mighty master’s tomb. But thou, if Atropos gives thee a long span of life—and ’tis my prayer she may, and that the godhead of the Latian prince may so appoint, whose zealous worshipper, ay even before the Thunderer, thou art, and who adds another duty to thy year of office, and bids thee renew the hilly courses of the Latin Way—thou perchance shalt go to curb the cohorts of Ausonia, or ’tis thy task to guard the peoples of the Rhine or dark Thule’s shores, or Ister and the dread approaches of the Caspian gate. For it is not only the gift of powerful eloquence that is thine: thou hast limbs that are made for war, and thews that with difficulty put on the heavy corselet; should’st thou prepare to go on foot, thy helmet’s peak will nod high above the ranks; should’st thou bend the jingling reins, the mettlesome charger will do thy bidding. We, singing the deeds of others, fall into old age: thou resplendent in thy armour shalt perform actions meet for song, and set a noble pattern before the youthful Geta, of whom already his warrior grandsire is demanding worthy feats and grants him to know the triumphs of his house. Up, then, be doing, and overtake thy sire, though he be a man and thou but a lad, happy alike in thy mother’s lineage and thy father’s prowess. Already blissful Glory nourishes thee, and fondles thee in her robe of Tyrian dye, and delights to promise thee all the curule chairs.”

Such, Marcellus, is the song I am singing thee on the Chalcidic strand, where Vesuvius hurls forth broken rage, outpouring fire that would rival Trinacrian flames. Marvellous, but true! Will future ages believe, when once more crops are growing, and these wastes are green again, that cities and peoples lie beneath, and that their ancestral lands have perished by alike fate? And still that peak threatens ruin. Far be that fate from thy Teate, nor may such madness seize the Marrucinian hills!

If now perchance you ask what my muse is attempting, my Thebaid having completed her Sidonian toils has at last furled her sails in the wished-for haven, and on the ridges of Parnassus and in the glades of Helicon has thrown incense on the festal flames and the entrails of a virgin heifer, and hung up my chaplets on a votive tree. And now another band new twined encircles my vacant locks: ay, ’tis Troy I am attempting and great Achilles, but the Sire that wields the bow calls me elsewhere and points me to the mightier arms of the Ausonian chief. Long since has impulse urged me thither, but fear holds me back. Will my shoulders sustain so great a burden, or will my neck yield under the weight? Tell me, Marcellus, shall I essay the task? or must my bark that knows but lesser seas not yet be trusted to Ionian perils?

And now farewell, and let not regard for the poet who is wholly devoted to thee pass from thy mind; for neither was the Tirynthian chary of warm-hearted friendship; to thee shall yield the fame of loyal Theseus, and of him who to comfort his slain friend dragged Priam’s mangled son around the walls of Troy.