Delphi Complete Works of Petronius

by Petronius

  “What hinders us then,” cried Eumolpus, “to arrange our little comedy? Make me master, if you like my plan.” None of us ventured to disapprove a project where we had nothing to lose. Accordingly, to ensure the deception being faithfully kept up by all concerned, we swore an oath in terms dictated by Eumolpus, to endure fire, imprisonment, stripes, cold steel, and whatsoever else he might command us, in his behalf. Like regular gladiators we vowed ourselves most solemnly to our master, body and soul.

  After completing the oath-taking, we salute our master with pretended servility, and are instructed all to tell the same tale, — how Eumolpus had lost a son, a young man of prodigious eloquence and high promise; how consequently the poor old father had quitted his native city, that the sight of his boy’s clients and companions and the vicinity of his tomb might not be continually renewing his grief. This sad event, we were to add, had been followed by a recent shipwreck, which had cost him two million sesterces; that it was not however so much the loss of the money which annoyed him as the fact that for want of a proper retinue he could not fittingly keep up his rank. Further, that he had thirty millions in Africa invested in landed estates and securities, and such a host of slaves scattered over the length and breadth of Numidia that they could storm Carthage at a pinch.

  In accordance with this scheme, we direct Eumolpus to cough a great deal, to have a weak digestion at any rate, and in company to grumble at every dish set before him; to be for ever talking about gold and silver, and unproductive farms, and how terrible barren land always was; also every day to sit over accounts, and regularly once a month to add new codicils to his will. And to make the farce quite complete, whenever he wished to call one of us, he was to use the wrong name, plainly showing the master was thinking of other servants no longer with him.

  Matters being thus arranged, after praying the gods for “good success and happy issue,” as the phrase runs, we set forward. But poor Giton could not stand his unusual load; while Corax, Eumolpus’s hired man, objecting strongly to his job, kept everlastingly dropping his pack and cursing us for going too fast; he swore he would either throw away his traps, or else make off with the swag altogether. “Do you take me for a beast of burden,” he grumbled, “or a stone-ship? I contracted for a man’s work, not a dray- horse’s! I’m as much a freeman as you are, though my father did leave me a poor man.” Not content with bad language, he kept lifting up his leg again and again, and filling the road with a filthy noise and a filthy stench. Giton only laughed at his impudence, and after each explosion gave a loud imitation of the noise with his mouth.

  [CXVIII] But even this did not hinder the poet from relapsing into his accustomed vein. “Many are the victims, my young friends,” he began, “poetry has seduced! The instant a man has got a verse to stand on its feet and clothed a tender thought in appropriate language, he thinks he has scaled Helicon right off. Many others, after long practice of forensic talents, finally retreat to the tranquil calm of verse-making as to a blessed harbor of refuge, imagining a poem is easier put together than an argument all embroidered with scintillating conceits. But a mind of nobler inspiration is revolted by this flippancy; and no intellect that is not flooded with a mighty tide of learning, can either conceive or bring to birth a worthy poetic child. In diction, anything approaching commonness, if I may use the word, is to be avoided; a poet must choose words devoid of base associations, and hold to Horace’s,

  I hate and bid avaunt the vulgar herd.

  Again, care should be exercised to avoid sentiments that stand out as mere excrescences on the framework of the main conception; let the fabric be as brilliant as it may, its colors must be ingrained in the stuff. I may instance Homer, and the Lyric poets, and our Roman Virgil, and Horace with his happy preciosity. The rest, one and all, were blind to the true path to Parnassus, or if they did see it, were afraid to tread it.

  “Look at that mighty subject, the Civil Wars; anyone attempting it, if not a man of the ripest scholarship, will sink under the burden. It is no question of a string of facts to be catalogued in verse, a task the Historian will perform far better; nay! rather must the untrammeled spirit be hurried along through a series of digressions and divine interventions and all the intricacies of myth and fable. The inspired frenzy of the bard should be more apparent than the tested pedantry of scrupulous precision. For example, see how you like this rapid sketch, though indeed it has not yet received the final touches:

  [CXIX] Now haughty Rome reigned mistress of the Globe,

  Where’er the Ether shines with heavenly fires,

  Or Earth extends, or circling Ocean rolls.

  Yet still insatiate, her winged navies plowed

  The burdened main, to each unplundered shore;

  For to the rich she bore immortal hate,

  And her own avarice still prepared her Fall.

  E’en former pleasures were beheld with scorn,

  As joys grown threadbare by too vulgar use.

  The soldier now admired th’ Assyrian dye,

  And now th’ Hesperian charmed his fickle pride.

  Numidia here the lofty roof sustained;

  There shone the honors of Serean looms;

  Arabia of her balmy sweets was spoiled;

  Yet still unquenched, the lust of ravage burned.

  In Maurian wilds, and Ammon’s distant reign,

  Monsters were captived for our cruel sports.

  The stranger tiger in his golden cage

  Now crossed the main to press our friendly shore;

  Whilst joyful Rome her monster entertained

  With purple streams of her own kindred blood.

  I blush to speak, I tremble to recite

  Our Persian manners, and our curse of Fate!

  From Youth they snatched the Man with cruel art,

  Whilst Venus frowned o’er the retreating tide;

  As if they thought to favor the deceit,

  E’en Age itself would like that tide retire!

  Nature was lost, and sought herself in vain.

  Hence naught but lewd effeminacies please,

  Soft curling hair, and wantonness of dress,

  And all that can disgrace man’s godlike form.

  From Afric slaves and purple carpets come,

  With citron tables, rich in golden stains,

  Around whose costly, but dishonored pride,

  Buried in wine, the giddy drunkards lie.

  Nothing escapes our raging lust of taste;

  The soldier draws his sword in rapine’s cause;

  And from Sicilia’s distant main the scar

  Is brought alive to our luxurious board;

  The Lucrine shore is of its oysters spoiled,

  And hunger purchased with th’ expensive sauce;

  Phasis is widowed of its feathered race,

  And nothing heard o’er all the desert strand

  But trees remurmuring to the passing gales.

  Nor less in Mars’s Field Corruption swayed,

  Where every vote was prostitute to gain;

  The People and the Senate both were sold.

  E’en Age itself was deaf to Virtue’s voice,

  And all its court to sordid interest paid,

  Beneath whose feet lay trampled Majesty.

  E’en Cato’s self was by the crowd exiled,

  Whilst he who won suffused with blushes stood,

  Ashamed to snatch the power from worthier hands.

  Oh! shame to Rome and to the Roman name!

  ’Twas not one man alone whom they exiled,

  But banished Virtue, Fame and Freedom too.

  Thus wretched Rome her own destruction bought,

  Herself the merchant, and herself the ware.

  Besides, in debt was the whole Empire bound,

  A prey to Usury’s insatiate jaws;

  Not one could call his house, or self, his own;

  But debts on debts like silent fevers wrought,

  Till through the members they the vitals seize
d.

  Fierce tumults now they to their succor call,

  And War must heal the wounds of Luxury;

  For Want may safely dare without a fear.

  And sunk in hopeless misery, what could wake

  Licentious Rome from her voluptuous trance,

  But fire, and sword, and all the din of arms?

  [CXX] Three mighty chiefs kind Fortune had supplied,

  Whom cruel Fate in various manner slew.

  The Parthian fields were drunk with Crassus’ gore;

  Great Pompey perished on the Libyan main;

  And thankless Rome saw greater Julius bleed.

  Thus as one soil too narrow were to hold

  Their rival dust, their ashes shared the World.

  But their immortal glory never dies.

  ‘Twixt Naples and Dicharchian fields extends

  A horrid Gulf, immensely deep and wide,

  Through which Cocytus rolls his lazy streams,

  And poisons all the air with sulphurous fogs.

  No Autumn here e’er clothes himself with green,

  Nor joyful Spring the languid herbage cheers;

  Nor feathered warblers chant their mirthful strains

  In vernal comfort to the rustling boughs;

  But Chaos reigns, and ragged rocks around

  With naught but baleful cypress are adorned.

  Amidst these horrors Pluto raised his head,

  With mingled flames and ashes sprinkled o’er,

  Stopped Fortune in her flight, and thus addressed:

  Oh! thou controller of both Earth and Heaven,

  Who had’st the power which too securely stands,

  And only heap’st thy favors to resume;

  Dost thou not sink beneath Rome’s ponderous weight,

  Unable to sustain her tottering pride?

  E’en Rome herself beneath her burden groans,

  And ill sustains Monopoly of Power.

  For see elate in Luxury of Spoils,

  Her golden domes invade the frighted skies!

  Sea’s turned to land, and land is turned to sea,

  And injured Nature mourns her slighted Laws.

  E’en me they threaten, and besiege my Throne;

  The Earth is ransacked for her treasured stores,

  And in the solid hills such caverns made,

  That murmuring ghosts begin to hope for day.

  Change, Fortune, ergo change this prideful scene!

  Fire every Roman’s breast with civil rage,

  And give new subjects to my desert reign!

  For ne’er have I been joyed with human gore,

  Nor my Tisiphone e’er quenched her thirst,

  Since Sulla’s sword let loose the purple tide,

  And reaped the harvest of insatiate death.

  [CXXI] He spoke . . . and lo! the opening Earth disclosed,

  And to the Goddess’ hand his hand he joined.

  Then Fortune, smiling, this reply addressed:

  Oh! Father who Cocytus’ empire sways!

  If dangerous truths may safely be revealed,

  Enjoy your wish! not less my anger boils,

  And in my breast as fierce resentment burns.

  I hate the height to which I’ve lifted Rome,

  And my own lavished favors now repent.

  But that same God who built her haughty power,

  Shall soon rehumble to the dust her pride.

  Then I’ll with transport light the general flame,

  And with the plenteous slaughter feast revenge.

  Methinks I see Thessalia’s fatal plain

  Already heaped with dead, and funeral piles

  Innumerous blazing on Iberia’s shore!

  I see the Libyan sands distained with blood,

  And sevenfold Nile groans with prophetic fears!

  On every side the clang of arms resounds,

  An Actium’s flight seems present to my eyes!

  Then open all the portals of thy Reign,

  And give thy crowding subjects free access!

  Old Charon in his boats can ne’er convey

  The shoals of ghosts that for their passage wait,

  But needs a fleet! — Tisiphone may then

  Quench her dire thirst, and cloy herself with Fate.

  The mangled World is hurrying to thy Reign.

  [CXXII] Scarce ended she her words, when from a cloud

  Blue lightnings flashed, and sudden thunders roared.

  Affrighted Pluto feared his brother’s darts,

  And trembling hid his head in shades of night.

  The Gods by dreadful omens straight disclosed

  The deathful horrors of approaching Fate.

  The Sun in bloody clouds obscured his rays,

  As if he mourned the dreadful scene begun;

  Whilst trembling Cynthia fled the impious sight,

  Quenching her orb, and from the World withdrew.

  Mountains by sudden storms were overturned;

  And erring rivers left their channels dry.

  E’en Heaven itself confesses the alarm,

  And fierce battalions skirmish in the clouds;

  Etna redoubles all her sulphurous rage,

  And darts strange lightnings at th’ affrighted sky;

  Unburied ghosts too wander round the tombs,

  And with impatient threatenings ask repose;

  A fiery comet shakes her blazing hair;

  And wondering Jove descends in showers of blood.

  Nor was it long that Heaven th’ event concealed;

  For mighty Caesar panting for revenge,

  Gave peace to Gaul, and flew to Civil Arms.

  Upon the towering Alps’ remotest height,

  Where the cragg’d rocks look down upon the clouds,

  A Grecian altar to Alcides smokes.

  There everlasting Winter bars access,

  And the ambitious summit props the skies;

  No Summer ever darts his genials beams,

  Nor vernal Zephyrs cheer the joyless air;

  But snows on snows accumulated rise,

  The icy pillars of the starry Orb.

  Here Caesar with his joyful legions climbed;

  Here camped; and from the lofty precipice,

  Surveying all Hesperia’s fertile plains.

  With hands uplifted, thus addressed his prayer:

  Almighty Jove! And thou, Saturnian Earth,

  So oft by me with filial triumphs graced!

  Witness these arms I with reluctance bear,

  Compelled by matchless wrongs to War’s redress.

  Exiled and interdicted, whilst the Rhine

  I swelled beyond its banks with native gore,

  And to his Alps confined the haughty Gaul,

  Once more to storm your Capitol prepared.

  But what reward has all these toils repaid?

  Conquest alas! is by herself undone!

  Germania vanquished a new crime is deemed,

  And sixty Triumphs are with exile crowned.

  But what are they my glory thus compels

  To count the aid of mercenary arms?

  Oh! shame to Rome! My Rome disowns their birth

  Nor shall they long her injured honors stain,

  Beneath this arm their envious Chief shall fall!

  Come fellow-victors, rouse your martial rage,

  And with your conquering swords assert my cause!

  One is our danger, and our crime the same.

  It was not I alone reaped glory’s field,

  But thanks to you! by you these laurels won;

  Then since disgrace and punishment’s decreed,

  Mutual our trophies and victorious toils,

  The die be thrown! and Fortune judge the cast!

  Let each brave warrior grasp his shining blade!

  For me my rights already crowned appear,

  Nor ‘midst so many heroes doubt success.

  He spoke. . . . When swift-descending from the Sky,

/>   The Bird of Jove urged his auspicious flight.

  Strange voices in the left-hand woods were heard;

  And issuing flames flashed through the sylvan gloom.

  Phoebus himself assumed his brightest beams,

  And with unusual splendor cheered the day.

  [CXXIII] Fired with the omen, dauntless Caesar bids

  His engines move; himself the first t’ essay

  The dangerous path; for yet in frost confined

  And peaceful horrors lay the passive ground.

  But when with ardent feet th’ innumerous train

  Of men and horse and icy fetters loosed,

  To fierce resistance swelled the melted snows,

  And sudden rivers o’er the mountains rolled.

  But soon again as if by Fate’s command,

  The rising waves in icy billows stood;

  Whilst in confusion o’er the treacherous path

  Horses and men and mingled standards lay.

  To aid the horror, sudden winds compel

  The gathering clouds, and burst into a storm,

  Thick o’er their ringing arms and hail descends,

  And from the Ether pours an icy sea;

  One common ruin conquers Earth and Sky,

  And frighted rivers hurry o’er their banks;

  But dauntless Caesar aided by his spear

  Still presses forward with unshaken soul.

  With such an ardor was Alcides fired,

  When down Caucasian steeps he rushed to fame.

  And thus descending from Olympus’ brow,

  Almighty Jove the Giants put to flight.

  Meantime on trembling pinions through the Skies

  To Mount Palatium frighted Rumor flew.

  And to astonished Rome these tidings bore: