Silvae IV.5 (Mozley): A Lyric Ode to Septimius Severus

Happy amid the glories of my small estate, where ancient Alba dwells in her Trojan home, I salute in unwonted strains the brave and eloquent Severus. At last harsh winter has fled to the Parrhasian North, o’erwhelmed by lofty suns; at last the cold winds are softened into mild zephyrs, and sea and land are smiling. Now every tree puts forth her yearly tresses of spring leaves, now are heard the birds’ new plainings and the unpractised songs which they planned in the silent winter. As for me, my thrifty domain and ever-wakeful hearth and rooftree blackened by many a fire console me, and the wine that I take from the jar where lately it fermented. Here no thousand woolly sheep utter bleatings, no cow lows to its sweet lover; and only to their master’s voice, as he sings, whene’er he sings, do the mute fields re-echo. But this land, after my native country, holds first place in my love: here the maiden queen of battles favoured my songs with Caesar’s golden crown, when you, striving with all your might, succoured your friend in his joyous hazard, even as Castor trembled at all the noise of the Bebrycian arena.

Did Leptis that loses itself in the distant Syrtes beget you? soon shall she bear Indian harvests, and despoil the perfumed Sabaeans of their rare cinnamon. Who would not think that my sweet Septimius had crawled an infant on all the hills of Rome? Who would not say that he had drunk, his weaning done, of Juturna’s fountain? Nor is your prowess to be wondered at: straightway, still ignorant of Africa and its shallows, you entered the havens of Ausonia, and sailed, an adopted child, on Tuscan waters. Then, still a lad, you grew to manhood among the sons of the Senate, content with the glory of the narrow purple, but with patrician soul seeking unmeasured labours. Neither your speech nor your dress is Punic, yours is no stranger’s mind: Italian are you, Italian! Yet in our city and among the knights of Rome are men who might well be foster-sons of Libya. Pleasing too is your voice in the strident courts, but your eloquence is never venal; your sword sleeps in its scabbard, save when your friends bid you draw it. But oftener do you enjoy the quiet country, now in your father’s home on Veientine soil, now on the leafy heights of Hernica, now in ancient Cures. Here will you plan more themes in the words and measures that move unfettered, but remembering me at times strike anew the lyre that lies hid in some shy grotto.