Silvae V.5 (Mozley): A Lament for His Adopted Son

Woe is me! for with no hallowed words can I begin, hateful now as I am to Castalia’s vocal streams and detested of Phoebus. What rites of yours, Pierian sisters, what altars have I violated? Speak; after the punishment let the crime be known. Have I set foot in some untrodden grove? or drunk from a forbidden spring? what fault, what error so great that I am atoning? Lo! as with dying arms he clings to my heart, ay, to my very soul, my child is torn away: no child of my own blood, or bearing my name or features; his sire I was not, but look upon my woe and my livid cheeks, and give credence, O ye bereaved, to my lament: for verily bereaved am I. Let fathers come hither, and mothers with open bosom; and let her endure to behold these ashes and this crime, whoever with tottering step has borne her sons to the grave in her own arms beneath full breasts, and beaten a teeming bosom, and quenched with her milk the glowing embers; whoever has plunged into the fire a lad still marked with the bloom of tender youth, and seen the cruel flames creep over the fresh down of the dead boy—let him come and grow weary with me in alternate wailing; his tears will be outdone, and thou wilt feel shame, O Nature. So fierce am I, so senseless in my grief. And while I thus strive, now when thirty days are past, leaning against the tomb I turn my mourning into verse, and contrive discordant strains, and words that are but sobs; the power of my lyre is awake, its spirit brooks not silence. But no wonted bays are on my head, no chaplet’s glory on my brow. Behold, the yew-sprays wither on my hair, and the lamentable cypress-leaves exclude the cheerful ivy, nor do I strike the chords with quill of ivory, but with errant fingers tear distractedly my uncertain harp. I delight, ay, alas! delight to pour forth hateful strains, and to lay bare my wretched grief in random utterance. Is such my desert? Must the gods behold me thus with the garb and music of woe? Must Thebes and young Achilles be put to shame? Will calm utterance flow nevermore from my lips? Yet I am he who was able—how many a time!—to soothe by appeasing words the pain of mother and of sire, and the sorrow of bereavement; I, the gentle consoler of the afflicted, whose voice was heard in the hour of untimely death by spirits departing, I now am at a loss, and seek healing hands and remedies, ay, the most powerful, for my wounds. Now is the time, my friends, whose streaming eyes and pierced breasts I stanched; bring me succour, pay your debt of frenzied gratitude. Doubtless when I in sad strains <bewailed> your losses <one among you spake> rebuking: “Thou who dost grieve for others’ loss, preserve thy ill-omened tears, and keep thy melancholy song.” ’Twas true: exhausted are my powers, I have no store of speech, my mind can find nought to match so great a blow; too feeble is all my music, no word but is unworthy. Forgive me, lad: ’tis thou dost cloud my mind with sorrow. Ah! verily hard of heart was Thracian Orpheus, if he found a song that pleased him when he saw the wound of his dear spouse, and Apollo, if holding the corpse of Linus in his arms he was not mute! Too violent am I called perchance and greedy of woe, and extravagant beyond due measure in my weeping? Who art thou that blamest my groans and tears? Ah! too happy he, and heartless, and ignorant, Fortune, of thy law, who dares to set conditions to lamentation, or adjudge the bounds of grief! Alas! mourning incites to mourn: sooner wilt thou check the rivers that hurry past their banks or stay devouring fire than forbid the sorrowful to lament. Yet let him learn, that severe judge, whoe’er he be, my wound and my complaint.

No chattering favourite was it, bought from a Pharian vessel, no infant skilled in the repartee of his native Nile, with over-ready tongue and impudent wit, that won my heart; mine was he, mine indeed. When he lay on the ground, a new-born babe, I saw him, and with a natal ode I welcomed his anointing, and as with tremulous wailing he claimed his new heritage of air, I set him among living souls. What more did his own parents give? Nay, another birth I gave thee, little one, and thy liberty while yet at the breast, though yet thou didst laugh ungrateful at my gift. Hasty my love may have been, yet with good reason so, lest even a day be lost to so tiny a freedom. And shall I not then all unkempt hurl my reproaches at the gods and at unjust Tartarus? Shall I not mourn for thee, dear lad? Whilst thou didst live, I desired no sons, thou wert my first-born and from thy very birth I bound thee to myself and made thee truly mine; I taught thee sounds and words, and soothed thy complainings and thy hidden hurts, and as thou didst crawl on the ground, I stooped and lifted thee to my kisses, and lovingly in my bosom lulled to sleep thy drooping eyes, and bade sweet slumber take thee. My name was thy first speech, my play thy infant happiness, and my countenance was the source of all thy joy. . . .