Ovid: Fasti
Book Four
Translated
by A. S. Kline © 2004 All Rights Reserved
This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose.
Contents
Book IV: April 4
The Megalesian Festival of Cybele
Book IV: April 12:
The Games of Ceres
Book IV: April 15:
The Fordicidia
Book IV: April 19:
The Cerialia
Book IV: April 21:
The Parilia
Book IV: April 23:
The Vinalia
Book IV: April 25:
The Robigalia
Book IV: April 28:
The Floralia
‘Kindly mother of the
twin Cupids, favour me!’ I said.
She glanced back
towards her poet: ‘Why do you
Need me?’ she said.
‘Surely, you sing greater themes.
Have you some old
wound lingering in your heart?’
‘Goddess, ‘ I replied,
‘you know my wound.’ She laughed,
And the sky
immediately cleared in her direction.
‘Hurt or whole have I
ever deserted your cause?
You were always my
intent and my labour.
As was fitting in my
youth, innocently I played,
And now my horses
sweep out a wider field:
From ancient texts I
sing the days and reasons,
And the star-signs
that rise and set, beneath the Earth.
I’ve reached the
fourth month, where you’re most honoured,
And you know, Venus, both month and poet are
yours.’
The goddess, moved,
touching my brow lightly
With Cytherean myrtle, said: ‘Finish what
you’ve begun.’
I was inspired, and
suddenly knew the origins of days:
Sail, my boat, while
you can, while the breezes blow.
If there’s any part of
the calendar that might stir you,
Caesar, in April you’ll find what
should interest you.
This month you inherit
from a mighty lineage,
Yours by adoption into
a noble house.
When Romulus established the length of
the year,
He recognised this,
and commemorated your sires:
And as he granted
first place among months to fierce Mars,
Being the immediate
cause of his own existence,
So he granted the
second month to Venus,
Tracing his descent
from her through many generations:
Searching for the
roots of his race, unwinding the rolls
Of the centuries, he
came at last to his divine kin.
He couldn’t be
ignorant that Electra daughter of Atlas
Bore Dardanus, that Electra had slept
with Jove.
From Dardanus came Ericthonius, and from himTros:
He in turn produced Assaracus, and Assaracus Capys.
Next was Anchises, with whom Venus
Didn’t disdain to
share the name of parent.
From them came Aeneas, whose piety was seen, carrying
Holy things, and a
father as holy, on his shoulders, through the fire.
Now at last we come to
the fortunate name of Iulus,
Through whom the Julian
house claims Teucrian ancestors.
Postumus was his, called Silvius among the Latin
Race, being born in
the depth of the woods.
He was your father, Latinus. Alba followed Latinus:
Epytus was next to take your titles
Alba.
Epytus gave his son Capys a Trojan name,
And the same was your
grandfather Calpetus.
When Tiberinus ruled his father’s
kingdom after him,
It’s said he drowned
in a deep pool of the Tuscan river.
But before that he saw
the birth of a son Agrippa,
And a grandson Remulus, who was struck by lightning.
Aventinus followed them, from whom the
place and the hill
Took their name. After
him the realm passed to Proca.
He was succeeded by Numitor, brother to harsh Amulius.
Ilia and Lausus were then the children of Numitor.
Lausus fell to his
uncle’s sword: Ilia pleased Mars,
And bore you Quirinus, and your brother Remus.
You always claimed
your parents were Mars and Venus,
And deserved to be
believed when you said so:
And you granted
successive months to your race’s gods,
So your descendants
might not be in ignorance of the truth.
But I think the month
of Venus took its title
From the Greek: she
was named after the sea-foam.
Nor is it any wonder
it was called by a Greek name,
Since the land of
Italy was Greater Greece.
Evander had reached here with ships
full of his people:
Alcides had arrived, both Greek by race.
(A club-bearing guest
fed his cattle on Aventine grass,
And one of the great
gods drank from the Albula):
Ulysses, the Neritian leader, also
arrived: witness
The Laestrygones, and the shore that
bears Circe’s name.
Telegonus’s walls were already
standing, and the walls
Of damp Tibur, constructed by Greek hands.
Halaesus had come, spurred by the
fate of the Atrides,
Halaesus from whom the
Faliscan country derives its name.
Add to this, Antenor, who advised the Trojans to make
peace,
And Diomedes, the Oenid, son-in-law to
Apulian Daunus.
Aeneas arrived later, after Antenor,
bringing his gods
To our country, out of
the flames of Ilium.
He had a comrade, Solymus, from Phrygian Ida,
From whom the walls of
Sulmo take their name,
Cool Sulmo, my native place, Germanicus.
Ah me, how far that
place is from Scythia’s soil!
And I, so distant –
but Muse, quell your complaints!
Holy themes set to a
gloomy lyre are not for you.
Where does envy not
reach? Venus, there are some
Who’d grudge you your
month, and snatch it away.
They say Spring was
named from the open (apertum) season,
Because Spring opens (aperit)
everything and the sharp
Frost-bound cold
vanishes, and fertile soil’s revealed,
Though kind Venus sets her hand there and claims
it.
She rules the whole
world too, and truly deserves to:
She owns a realm not
inferior to any god’s,
Commands earth and
heaven, and her native ocean,
And maintains all
beings from her source.
She created the gods
(too numerous to mention):
She gave the crops and
trees their first roots:
She brought the crude
minds of men together,
And taught them each
to associate with a partner.
What but sweet
pleasure creates all the race of birds?
Cattle wouldn’t mate,
if gentle love were absent.
The wild ram butts the
males with his horn,
But won’t hurt the
brow of his beloved ewe.
The bull, that the
woods and pastures fear,
Puts off his
fierceness and follows the heifer.
The same force
preserves whatever lives in the deep,
And fills the waters
with innumerable fish.
That force first
stripped man of his wild apparel:
From it he learned
refinement and elegance.
It’s said a banished
lover first serenaded
His mistress by night,
at her closed door,
And eloquence then was
the winning of a reluctant maid,
And everyone pleaded
his or her own cause.
A thousand arts are
furthered by the goddess: and the wish
To delight has
revealed many things that were hidden.
Who dares to steal her
honour of naming the second month?
Let such madness be
far from my thoughts.
Besides, though she’s
powerful everywhere, her temples
Crowded, doesn’t she
hold most sway in our City?
Venus, Roman, carried weapons to
defend your Troy,
And groaned at the
spear wound in her gentle hand:
And she defeated two
goddesses, by a Trojan judgement,
(Ah! If only they
hadn’t remembered her victory!)
And she was called the
bride of Assaracus’s son,
So that mighty Caesar
would have Julian ancestors.
No season is more fitting
for Venus than Spring:
In spring the earth
gleams: in spring the ground’s soft,
Now the grass pokes
its tips through the broken soil,
Now the vine bursts in
buds through the swollen bark.
And lovely Venus
deserves the lovely season,
And is joined again to
her darling Mars:
In Spring she tells
the curving ships to sail, over
Her native seas, and
fear the winter’s threat no longer.
Perform the rites of
the goddess, Roman brides and mothers,
And you who must not
wear the headbands and long robes.
Remove the golden
necklaces from her marble neck,
Remove her riches: the
goddess must be cleansed, complete.
Return the gold
necklaces to her neck, once it’s dry:
Now she’s given fresh
flowers, and new-sprung roses.
She commands you too
to bathe, under the green myrtle,
And there’s a
particular reason for her command (learn, now!).
Naked, on the shore,
she was drying her dripping hair:
The Satyrs, that wanton crowd, spied the
goddess.
She sensed it, and hid
her body with a screen of myrtle:
Doing so, she was
safe: she commands that you do so too.
Learn now why you
offer incense to Fortuna Virilis,
In that place that
steams with heated water.
All women remove their
clothes on entering,
And every blemish on
their bodies is seen:
Virile Fortune
undertakes to hide those from the men,
And she does this at
the behest of a little incense.
Don’t begrudge her
poppies, crushed in creamy milk
And in flowing honey,
squeezed from the comb:
When Venus was first
led to her eager spouse,
She drank so: and from
that moment was a bride.
Please her with words
of supplication: beauty,
Virtue, and good
repute are in her keeping.
In our forefather’s
time Rome lapsed from chastity:
And the ancients
consulted the old woman of Cumae.
She ordered a temple
built to Venus: when it was done
Venus took the name of Heart-Changer
(Verticordia).
Loveliest One, always
look with a benign gaze
On the sons of Aeneas, and guard their many wives.
As I speak, Scorpio, the tip of whose raised
tail
Strikes fear, plunges
down into the green waves.
When the night is
past, and the sky is just beginning
To redden, and the
birds, wet with dew, are singing,
And the traveller
who’s been awake all night, puts down
His half-burnt torch,
and the farmer’s off to his usual labours,
The Pleiades will start to lighten
their father’s shoulders,
They who are said to
be seven, but usually are six:
Because it’s true that
six lay in the loving clasp of gods
(Since they say that Asterope slept with Mars:
Alcyone, and you, lovely Celaeno, with Neptune:
Maia, Electra, and Taygete with Jupiter),
While the seventh, Merope, married you, Sisyphus, a mortal,
And repents of it,
and, alone of the sisters, hides from shame:
Or because Electra couldn’t bear to watch Troy’s
destruction,
And so her face now is
covered by her hands.
Let the sky turn three
times on its axis,
Let the Sun three
times yoke and loose his horses,
And the Berecyntian
flute will begin sounding
Its curved horn, it
will be the Idaean Mother’s feast.
Eunuchs will march,
and sound the hollow drums,
And cymbal will clash
with cymbal, in ringing tones:
Seated on the soft
necks of her servants, she’ll be carried
With howling, through
the midst of the City streets.
The stage is set: the
games are calling. Watch, then,
Quirites, and let
those legal wars in the fora cease.
I’d like to ask many
things, but I’m made fearful
By shrill clash of
bronze, and curved flute’s dreadful drone.
‘Lend me someone to
ask, goddess.’ Cybele spying her learned Granddaughters, the Muses, ordered them to take care of me.
‘Nurslings of Helicon,
mindful of her orders, reveal
Why the Great Goddess
delights in continual din.’
So I spoke. And Erato replied (it fell to her to speak
about
Venus’ month, because
her name derives from tender love):
‘Saturn was granted
this prophecy: “Noblest of kings,
You’ll be ousted by
your own son’s sceptre.”
The god, fearful,
devoured his children as soon as
Born, and then
retained them deep in his guts.
Often Rhea (Cybele) complained, at being so
often pregnant,
Yet never a mother,
and grieved at her own fruitfulness.
Then Jupiter was born
(ancient testimony is credited
By most: so please
don’t disturb the accepted belief):
A stone, concealed in
clothing, went down Saturn’s throat,
So the great
progenitor was deceived by the fates.
Now steep Ida echoed
to a jingling music,
So the child might cry
from its infant mouth, in safety.
Some beat shields with
sticks, others empty helmets:
That was the Curetes’ and the Corybantes’ task.
The thing was hidden,
and the ancient deed’s still acted out:
The goddess’s servants
strike the bronze and sounding skins.
They beat cymbals for
helmets, drums instead of shields:
The flute plays, as
long ago, in the Phrygian mode.’
The goddess ceased. I
began: ‘Why do fierce lions
Yield untamed necks to
the curving yoke for her?’
I ceased. The goddess
began: ‘It’s thought their ferocity
Was first tamed by
her: the testament to it’s her chariot.’
‘But why is her head
weighed down by a turreted crown?
Is it because she
granted towers to the first cities?’
She nodded. I said
‘Where did this urge to cut off
Their members come
from?’ As I ended, the Muse spoke:
‘In the woods, a
Phrygian boy, Attis, of handsome face,
Won the tower-bearing
goddess with his chaste passion.
She desired him to
serve her, and protect her temple,
And said: “Wish, you
might be a boy for ever.”
He promised to be
true, and said: “If I’m lying
May the love I fail in
be my last love.”
He did fail, and in
meeting the nymph Sagaritis,
Abandoned what he was:
the goddess, angered, avenged it.
She destroyed the
Naiad, by wounding a tree,
Since the tree
contained the Naiad’s fate.
Attis was maddened,
and thinking his chamber’s roof
Was falling, fled for
the summit of Mount Dindymus.
Now he cried: “Remove
the torches”, now he cried:
“Take the whips away”:
often swearing he saw the Furies.
He tore at his body
too with a sharp stone,
And dragged his long
hair in the filthy dust,
Shouting: “I deserved
this! I pay the due penalty
In blood! Ah! Let the
parts that harmed me, perish!
Let them perish!”
cutting away the burden of his groin,
And suddenly bereft of
every mark of manhood.
His madness set a
precedent, and his unmanly servants
Toss their hair, and
cut off their members as if worthless.’
So the Aonian Muse, eloquently answering the question
I’d asked her,
regarding the causes of their madness.
‘Guide of my work, I
beg you, teach me also, where She
Was brought from. Was
she always resident in our City?
‘The Mother Goddess
always loved Dindymus, Cybele,
And Ida, with its
pleasant streams, and the Trojan realm:
And when Aeneas
brought Troy to Italian fields, the goddess
Almost followed those
ships that carried the sacred relics.
But she felt that fate
didn’t require her powers in Latium,
So she stayed behind
in her long-accustomed place.
Later, when Rome was
more than five centuries old,
And had lifted its
head above the conquered world,
The priest consulted
the fateful words of Euboean
prophecy:
They say that what he
found there was as follows:
‘The Mother’s absent:
Roman, I command you: seek the Mother.
When she arrives, she
must be received in chaste hands.’
The dark oracle’s
ambiguity set the senators puzzling
As to who that parent
might be, and where to seek her.
Apollo was consulted, and replied:
‘Fetch the Mother
Of all the Gods, who
you’ll find there on Mount Ida.’
Noblemen were sent. Attalus at that time held
The Phrygian sceptre:
he refused the Italian lords.
Marvellous to tell,
the earth shook with long murmurs,
And the goddess, from
her shrine, spoke as follows:
‘I myself wished them
to seek me: don’t delay: send me,
Willingly. Rome is a
worthy place for all divinities.’
Quaking with fear at
her words, Attalus, said: ‘Go,
You’ll still be ours:
Rome claims Phrygian ancestry.’
Immediately countless
axes felled the pine-trees
Those trees pious Aeneas employed for his flight:
A thousand hands work,
and the heavenly Mother
Soon has a hollow
ship, painted in fiery colours.
She’s carried in
perfect safety over her son’s waves,
And reaches the long
strait named for Phrixus’ sister,
Passes fierce Rhoetum and the Sigean shore,
And Tenedos and Eetion’s ancient kingdom.
Leaving Lesbos behind she then steered for the Cyclades,
And the waves that
break on Euboea’s Carystian shoals.
She passed the Icarian
Sea, as well, where Icarus shed
His melting wings,
giving his name to a vast tract of water.
Then leaving Crete to
larboard, and the Pelopian waves
To starboard, she
headed for Cythera, sacred to Venus.
From there to the Sicilian Sea, where Brontes, Steropes
And Aemonides forge their red-hot iron,
Then, skirting African
waters, she saw the Sardinian
Realm behind to
larboard, and reached our Italy.
She’d arrived at the mouth
(ostia) where the Tiber
divides
To meet the deep, and
flows with a wider sweep:
All the Knights, grave
Senators, and commoners,
Came to meet her at
the mouth of the Tuscan river.
With them walked mothers,
daughters, and brides,
And all those virgins
who tend the sacred fires.
The men wearied their
arms hauling hard on the ropes:
The foreign vessel
barely made way against the stream.
For a long time
there’d been a drought: the grass was dry
And scorched: the boat
stuck fast in the muddy shallows.
Every man, hauling,
laboured beyond his strength,
And encouraged their
toiling hands with his cries.
Yet the ship lodged
there, like an island fixed in mid-ocean:
And astonished at the
portent, men stood and quaked.
Claudia Quinta traced her descent
from noble Clausus,
And her beauty was in
no way unequal to her nobility:
She was chaste, but
not believed so: hostile rumour
Had wounded her, false
charges were levelled at her:
Her elegance,
promenading around in various hairstyles,
And her ready tongue,
with stiff old men, counted against her.
Conscious of virtue,
she laughed at the rumoured lies,
But we’re always ready
to credit others with faults.
Now, when she’d
stepped from the line of chaste women,
Taking pure river
water in her hands, she wetted her head
Three times, three
times lifted her palms to the sky,
(Everyone watching her
thought she’d lost her mind)
Then, kneeling, fixed
her eyes on the goddess’s statue,
And, with loosened
hair, uttered these words:
“ Kind and fruitful
Mother of the Gods, accept
A suppliant’s prayers,
on this one condition:
They deny I’m chaste:
let me be guilty if you condemn me:
Convicted by a goddess
I’ll pay for it with my life.
But if I’m free of
guilt, grant a pledge of my innocence
By your action: and,
chaste, give way to my chaste hands.”
She spoke: then gave a
slight pull at the rope,
(A wonder, but the
sacred drama attests what I say):
The goddess stirred,
followed, and, following, approved her:
Witness the sound of
jubilation carried to the stars.
They came to a bend in
the river (called of old
The Halls of Tiber): there the stream turns left,
ascending.
Night fell: they tied
the rope to an oak stump,
And, having eaten,
settled to a tranquil sleep.
Dawn rose: they loosed
the rope from the oak stump,
After first laying a
fire and offering incense,
And crowned the stern,
and sacrificed a heifer
Free of blemish, that
had never known yoke or bull.
There’s a place where
smooth-flowing Almo joins the Tiber,
And the lesser flow
loses its name in the greater:
There, a white-headed
priest in purple robes
Washed the Lady, and
sacred relics, in Almo’s water.
The attendants howled,
and the mad flutes blew,
And soft hands beat at
the bull’s-hide drums.
Claudia walked in
front with a joyful face,
Her chastity proven by
the goddess’s testimony:
The goddess herself,
sitting in a cart, entered the Capene Gate:
Fresh flowers were
scattered over the yoked oxen.
Nasica received her. The name of her
temple’s founder is lost:
Augustus has re-dedicated it, and,
before him, Metellus.’
Here Erato ceased.
There was a pause for me to ask more:
I said: ‘Why does the
goddess collect money in small coins?’
She said: ‘The people
gave coppers, with which Metellus
Built her shrine, so
now there’s a tradition of giving them.’
I asked why people
entertain each other at feasts,
And invite others to
banquets, more than at other times.
She said: ‘It’s because
the Berecynthian goddess by good luck
Changed her house, and
they try for the same luck, by their visits.’
I was about to ask why
the Megalesia are the first games
Of the City’s year,
when the goddess (anticipating) said:
‘She gave birth to the
gods. They yielded to their mother,
And she was given the
honour of precedence.’
Why then do we call
those who castrate themselves, Galli,
When the Gallic country’s
so far from Phrygia?’
‘Between green Cybele
and high Celaenae,’ she said,
‘Runs a river of
maddening water, called the Gallus.
Whoever drinks of it,
is crazed: keep far away, all you
Who desire a sound
mind: who drinks of it is crazed.’
‘They consider it no
shame to set a dish of salad
On the Lady’s table.
What’s the reason?’ I asked.
She replied: ‘It’s
said the ancients lived on milk,
And on herbs that the
earth produced of itself.
Now they mix cream
cheese with pounded herbs,
So the ancient goddess
might know the ancient food.’
When the stars have
vanished, and the Moon unyokes
Her snowy horses, and
the next dawn shines in the sky,
He’ll speak true who
says: ‘On this day long ago
The temple of Public Fortune was dedicated
on the Quirinal.’
It was the third day
of the games (I recall), and a certain
Elderly man, who was
sitting next to me at the show, said:
‘This was the day when
Julius Caesar crushed proud
Juba’s treacherous army, on the shores
of Libya.
Caesar was my leader,
under whom I’m proud
To have been a
tribune: he ordered me so to serve.
I won this seat in
war, and you in peace
Because of your role
among the Decemvirs.’
We were about to speak
again when a sudden shower
Parted us: Libra balanced there shed heavenly waters.
But before the last
day completes the spectacle,
Orion with his sword will have sunk in the
sea.
When the next dawn
gazes on victorious Rome,
And the fleeing stars
have given way to the Sun,
The Circus will be
thronged with a procession of many gods,
And horses swift as
the wind will compete for the winner’s prize.
Next, the Games of Ceres, there’s no need to say why:
Obvious: the bounteous
promise and gifts of the goddess.
The bread of primitive
humans was made of plants,
That the earth
produced without being asked:
They sometimes plucked
wild grasses from the turf,
Sometimes tender
leaves from the treetops made a meal.
Later the acorn was
known: its discovery was fine,
Since the sturdy oak
offered a rich horde.
Ceres was first to
summon men to a better diet,
Replacing their acorns
with more nourishing food.
She forced bulls to
bow their necks to the yoke:
So the deep-ploughed
soil first saw the light.
Copper was prized
then, iron was still hidden:
Ah! If only it could
have been hidden forever.
Ceres delights in
peace: pray, you farmers,
Pray for endless peace
and a peace-loving leader.
Honour the goddess
with wheat, and dancing salt grains,
And grains of incense
offered on the ancient hearths,
And if there’s no
incense, burn your resinous torches:
Ceres is pleased with
little, if it’s pure in kind.
You girded attendants
lift those knives from the ox:
Let the ox plough,
while you sacrifice the lazy sow,
It’s not fitting for
an axe to strike a neck that’s yoked:
Let the ox live, and
toil through the stubborn soil.
Now, this part
requires me to tell of a virgin’s rape:
You’ll recognise much
you know, but part is new.
The Trinacrian land took its name
from its shape:
It runs out in three
rocky capes to the vast ocean.
It’s a place dear to
Ceres. She owns, there, many cities,
Among them fertile Enna, with its well-ploughed soul.
Cool Arethusa gathered together the mothers
of the gods:
And the yellow-haired
goddess came to the sacred feast.
Her daughter, Persephone, attended by girls,
as ever,
Wandered barefoot
through Enna’s meadows.
In a shadow-filled
valley there’s a place,
Wet by the copious
spray from a high fall.
All the colours of nature
were displayed there,
And the earth was
bright with hues of various flowers.
On seeing it she
cried: ‘Come here to me, my friends,
And each carry back,
with me, a lapful of flowers.’
The foolish prize
enticed their girlish spirits,
And they were too busy
to feel weary.
One filled baskets
woven from supple willow,
Another her lap, the
next loose folds of her robe:
One picked marigolds:
another loved violets,
And one nipped the
poppy-heads with her nails:
Some you tempt,
hyacinth: others, amaranth, you delay:
Others desire thyme,
cornflowers or clover.
Many a rose was taken,
and flowers without name:
Proserpine herself
plucked fragile crocuses and white lilies.
Intent on gathering
them, she gradually strayed,
And none of her
friends chanced to follow their lady.
Dis, her uncle saw her, and swiftly
carried her off,
And bore her on
shadowy horses to his realm.
She called out: ‘Oh,
dearest Mother, I’m being
Carried away!’ and
tore at the breast of her robe:
Meanwhile a path
opened for Dis, since his horses
Can scarcely endure
the unaccustomed daylight.
When her crowd of
friends had gathered their flowers,
They shouted:
‘Persephone, come for your gifts!’
But silence met their
call: they filled the hills with their cries,
And sadly beat their
naked breasts with their hands.
Ceres was startled by
their grief (she’d just now come from Enna),
And cried instantly
‘Ah me! Daughter, where are you?’
She rushed about,
distracted, as we’ve heard
The Thracian Maenads run with flowing hair.
As a cow bellows, when
her calf’s torn from her udder,
And goes searching for
her child, through the woods,
So the goddess groaned
freely, and ran quickly,
As she made her way,
Enna, from your plains.
There she found marks
of the girlish feet, and saw
Where her familiar
form had printed the ground:
Perhaps her wandering
would have ended that day,
If wild pigs hadn’t
muddied the trail she found.
She’d already passed Leontini, the river Amenanas,
And your grassy banks,
Acis, on her way:
She’d passed Cyane, the founts of slow Anapus,
And you, Gelas, with whirlpools to be shunned.
She’d left Ortygia, Megara and the Pantagias,
And the place where
the sea receives Symaethus’
waves,
And the caves of Cyclopes, scorched by their forges,
And the place who’s
name’s derived from a curving sickle,
And Himera, Didyme, Acragas and Tauromenium,
And the Mylae, that rich pasture for sacred
cattle.
Next she reached Camerina, Thapsus, and Helorus’ Tempe,
And where Eryx stands, ever open to the Western
winds.
She’d crossed Pelorias, Lilybaeum and Pachynum,
Those three projecting
horns of her land.
Wherever she set foot,
she filled the place with sad cries,
Like the bird mourning for her lost Itys.
Alternately she cried:
‘Persephone!’ and ‘My daughter’,
Calling and shouting
both the names in turn,
But Persephone heard
not Ceres, nor the daughter
Her mother, and both
names by turns died away:
If she spied a
shepherd or farmer at work,
Her cry was: ‘Has a
girl passed this way?’
Now the colours faded,
and the darkness hid
Everything. Now the
wakeful dogs fell silent.
High Etna stands above vast Typhoeus’ mouth,
Who scorches the earth
with his fiery breath:
There the goddess lit
twin pine branches as torches:
And since then there
are torches handed out at her rites.
There’s a cave, its
interior carved from sharp pumice,
A place not to be
approached by man or beast:
Reaching it she yoked
serpents to her chariot,
And roamed the ocean
waves above the spray.
She shunned the Syrtes and Zanclaean Charybdis,
And you, hounds of Scylla, wrecking monsters,
Shunned the wide
Adriatic, and Corinth between two seas:
And so came to your
harbour, country of Attica.
Here she sat for the
first time, mournfully, on cold stone:
That stone the Athenians named the Sorrowful.
She lingered many days
under the open sky,
Enduring both the
moonlight and the rain.
Every place has its
destiny: What’s now called
Ceres’ Eleusis was then old Celeus’ farm.
He was bringing acorns
home, and berries he’d picked
From the briars, and
dry wood for the blazing hearth.
His little daughter
was driving two she-goats from the hill,
While confined in his
cradle was a sickly son.
‘Mother!’ the girl
said (the goddess was moved
By that word mother)
‘Why are you alone in the wilderness?’
The old man stopped
too, despite his heavy load,
And begged her to
shelter under his insignificant roof.
She refused. She was
disguised as an old woman, her hair
Covered with a cap.
When he urged her she replied:
‘Be happy, and always
a father! My daughter’s been
Stolen from me. Ah,
how much better your fate than mine!’
She spoke, and a
crystal drop (though goddesses cannot weep),
Like a tear, fell on
her warm breast. Those tender hearts,
The old man and the
virgin girl, wept with her:
And these were the
righteous old man’s words:
‘Rise, and don’t scorn
the shelter of my humble hut,
And may the lost
daughter you mourn be safe and sound.’
The goddess said:
‘Lead on! You’ve found what could persuade me’
And she rose from the
stone and followed the old man.
Leading, he told his
follower, how his son was sick
Lying there sleepless,
kept awake by his illness.
About to enter the
humble house, she plucked
A tender,
sleep-inducing, poppy from the bare ground:
And as she picked it,
they say, unthinkingly, she tasted it,
And so, unwittingly,
eased her long starvation.
And because she first
broke her fast at nightfall,
Her priests of the
Mysteries eat once the stars appear.
When she crossed the
threshold, she saw all were grieving:
Since they’d lost hope
of the child’s recovery.
Greeting the mother
(who was called Metanira)
The goddess deigned to
join her lips to the child’s.
His pallor fled, his
body suddenly seemed healthier:
Such power flowed out
of the goddess’ mouth.
There was joy in the
house, in the father, mother
And daughter: those
three were the whole house.
They soon set out a
meal, curds in whey,
Apples, and golden
honey on the comb.
Kind Ceres abstained,
and gave to the boy
Poppy seeds in warm
milk to make him sleep.
It was midnight:
silent in peaceful slumber,
The goddess took Triptolemus on her lap,
Caressed him with her
hand three times, and spoke
Three spells, not to
be sounded by mortal tongue,
And she covered the
boy’s body with live embers
On the hearth, so the
fire would purge his mortal burden.
His good, fond,
foolish mother, waking from sleep,
Crying: ‘What are you
doing?’ snatched him from the coals,
To her the goddess
said: ‘Though sinless, you’ve sinned:
My gift’s been
thwarted by a mother’s fear.
He will still be
mortal, but first to plough,
And sow, and reap a
harvest from the soil.’
Ceres spoke, and left
the house, trailing mist, and crossed
To her dragons, and
was carried away in her winged chariot.
She left Sunium’s
exposed cape behind, and Piraeus’ safe harbour,
And all that coast
that lies towards the west.
From there she crossed
the Aegean, saw all the Cyclades,
Skimmed the wild
Ionian, and the Icarian Sea,
And, passing through
Asia’s cities, sought the long Hellespont,
And wandered her
course, on high, among diverse regions.
Now she gazed at
incense-gathering Arabs, now Ethiopians,
Beneath her Libya now,
now Meroe and the desert lands:
Then she saw the
western rivers, Rhine, Rhone, Po,
And you, Tiber, parent
of a stream full of future power.
Where, now? Too long
to tell of the lands she wandered:
No place on earth
remained unvisited by Ceres.
She wandered the sky
too, and spoke to the constellations
Those near the chilly
pole, free of the ocean waves:
‘You Arcadian stars
(since you can see all things,
Never plunging beneath
the watery wastes)
Show this wretched
mother, her daughter, Proserpine!’
She spoke, and Helice answered her in this way:
‘Night’s free of
blame: Ask the Light about your
Stolen daughter: the
Sun views, widely, things done by day.’
The Sun, asked, said:
‘To save you grief, she whom you seek
Is married to Jupiter’s brother, and rules the
third realm.’
After grieving a
while, she addressed the Thunderer:
And there were deep
marks of sorrow in her face:
‘If you remember by
whom I conceived Persephone,
Half of the care she
ought to be shown is yours.
Wandering the world
I’ve learnt only of her wrong:
While her ravisher is
rewarded for his crime.
But Persephone didn’t
deserve a thief as husband:
It’s not right to have
found a son-in-law this way.
How could I have
suffered more, as captive to a conquering
Gyges, than now, while you hold the
sceptre of the heavens?
Well, let him escape
unpunished, I’ll suffer it, un-avenged,
If he returns her,
amending his old actions by the new.’
Jupiter soothed her,
excusing it as an act of love,
‘He’s not a son-in-law
who’ll shames us,’ he said,
‘I’m no nobler than
him: my kingdom’s in the sky,
Another owns the waters, another the empty
void.
But if your mind is
really so set against alteration,
And you’re determined
to break firm marriage bonds,
Let’s make the
attempt, but only if she’s kept her fast:
If not, she’ll remain
the wife of her infernal spouse.’
The Messenger God had his orders, and took
flight for Tartarus,
And, back sooner than
expected, told what he’d clearly seen:
‘The ravished girl,’
he said ‘broke her fast with three seeds
Concealed in the tough rind of a
pomegranate.’
Her gloomy mother
grieved, no less than if her daughter
Had just been taken,
and was a long time recovering even a little.
Then she said:
‘Heaven’s no place for me to be, either:
Order that I too may
be received by the Taenarian
vale.’
And so it would have
been, if Jupiter hadn’t promised,
That Persephone should
spend six months each year in heaven.
Then, at last, Ceres
recovered her countenance and spirits,
And set garlands,
woven from ears of corn, on her hair:
And the tardy fields
delivered a copious harvest,
And the
threshing-floor barely held the heaped sheaves.
White is fitting for
Ceres: dress in white clothes for Ceres’
Festival: on this day
no one wears dark-coloured thread.
Jupiter, titled the Victor, keeps the
Ides of April:
A temple was dedicated
to him on this day.
And if I’m not wrong,
on this day too, Liberty
Began to occupy a hall
worthy of our people.
On the next day, you
sailors, seek safe harbours:
The westerly wind will
blow mixed with hail.
Be that as it may, it
was on this day, a day of hail,
That a Caesar, armed, clashed shields
at Modena.
When the third day
after the Ides of April dawns,
You priests, offer a
pregnant (forda) cow in sacrifice.
Forda is a cow in calf and fruitful, from ferendo
(carrying):
They consider fetus
is derived from the same root.
Now the cattle are big
with young, and the ground’s
Pregnant with seed: a
teeming victim’s given to teeming Earth.
Some are killed on
Jupiter’s citadel, the Curiae (wards)
Get thirty cows:
they’re drenched with plenty of sprinkled blood.
But when the priests
have torn the calves from their mother’s womb,
And thrown the slashed
entrails on the smoking hearth,
The oldest Vestal burns the dead calves
in the fire,
So their ashes can
purge the people on the day of Pales.
In Numa’s kingship the harvest failed to
reward men’s efforts:
The farmers, deceived,
offered their prayers in vain.
At one time that year
it was dry, with cold northerlies,
The next, the fields
were rank with endless rain:
Often the crop failed
the farmer in its first sprouting,
And meagre wild oats
overran choked soil,
And the cattle dropped
their young prematurely,
And the ewes often
died giving birth to lambs.
There was an ancient wood,
long untouched by the axe,
Still sacred to Pan, the god of Maenalus:
He gave answers, to
calm minds, in night silence.
Here Numa sacrificed
twin ewes.
The first fell to Faunus, the second to gentle Sleep:
Both the fleeces were
spread on the hard soil.
Twice the king’s
unshorn head was sprinkled with spring water,
Twice he pressed the
beech leaves to his forehead.
He abstained from sex:
no meat might be served
At table, nor could he
wear a ring on any finger.
Dressed in rough
clothes he lay down on fresh fleeces,
Having worshipped the
god with appropriate words.
Meanwhile Night
arrived, her calm brow wreathed
With poppies: bringing
with her shadowy dreams.
Faunus appeared, and
pressing the fleece with a hard hoof,
From the right side of
the bed, he uttered these words:
‘King, you must
appease Earth, with the death of two cows:
Let one heifer give
two lives, in sacrifice.’
Fear banished sleep:
Numa pondered the vision,
And considered the
ambiguous and dark command.
His wife, Egeria, most dear to the grove, eased
his doubt,
Saying: ‘What’s needed
are the innards of a pregnant cow,’
The innards of a
pregnant cow were offered: the year proved
More fruitful, and
earth and cattle bore their increase.
Cytherea once commanded the day to pass
more quickly,
And hurried on the
Sun’s galloping horses,
So this next day young
Augustus might receive
The title of Emperor
sooner for his victory in war.
And when you see the
fourth dawn after the Ides,
The Hyades will set in the sea at night.
When the third dawn
from the vanishing of the Hyades
Breaks, the horses
will be in their stalls in the Circus.
So I must explain why
foxes are loosed then,
Carrying torches
fastened to scorched backs.
The land round Carseoli’s cold, not suited for growing
Olives, but the soil
there’s appropriate for corn.
I passed it on the way
to my native Pelignian
country,
A small region, yet
always supplied by constant streams.
There I entered, as
usual, the house of my former host:
Phoebus had already
unyoked his weary horses.
My host used to tell
me of many things, including this,
As a preparation for
my present work:
‘In that plain,’ he
said (pointing at the plain),
A thrifty peasant
woman and her sturdy husband had a small
Plot, he tilled the
land himself, whether it needed ploughing,
Or required the
curving sickle or the hoe.
They would sweep the
cottage, set on timber piles,
She’d set eggs to
hatch under the mother hen’s feathers,
Or collect green
mallows or gather white mushrooms,
Or warm the humble
hearth with welcome fire,
And still worked her
hands assiduously at the loom,
To provision them
against the threat of winter cold.
She had a son: he was
a playful child,
Who was already twelve
years old.
In a valley, he
caught, in the depths of a willow copse,
A vixen, who’d stolen
many birds from the yard.
He wrapped his captive
in straw and hay, and set fire
To it all: she fled
the hands that were out to burn her:
In fleeing she set the
crops, that covered the fields, ablaze:
And a breeze lent
strength to the devouring flames.
The thing’s forgotten,
but a relic remains: since now
There’s a certain law
of Carseoli, that bans foxes:
And they burn a fox at
the Cerialia to punish the species,
Destroyed in the same
way as it destroyed the crops.
Next dawn when Memnon’s saffron-robed mother,
With her rosy horses,
comes to view the wide lands,
The sun leaves the
Ram, Aries, leader of the woolly flock,
Betrayer of Helle, and meets a nobler victim
on leaving.
Whether it’s Jupiter the Bull, or Io the Heifer’s hard to tell:
The front of the
creature appears: the rest’s concealed.
But whether the sign’s
a bull or whether it’s a heifer,
It enjoys that reward
for its love, against Juno’s wishes.
The night has gone:
dawn breaks. I’m called upon to sing
Of the Parilia, and not in vain if kindly Pales aids me.
Kindly Pales, if I
respect your festival,
Then aid me as I sing
of pastoral rites.
Indeed, I’ve often
brought ashes of a calf, and stalks
Of beans, in chaste
purification, in my full hands:
Indeed, I’ve leapt the
threefold line of flames,
And the wet laurel’s
sprinkled me with dew.
The goddess, moved,
blesses the work: my ship
Sets sail: may
favourable winds fill my sails.
Go, people: bring
fumigants from the Virgin’s altar:
Vesta will grant them, Vesta’s gift
will purify.
The fumigants are
horse blood and calf’s ashes,
And thirdly the
stripped stalks of stringy beans.
Shepherd, purify your
sated sheep at twilight:
First sprinkle the
ground with water, and sweep it,
And decorate the
sheepfold with leaves and branches,
And hide the festive
door with a trailing garland.
Make dark smoke with
pure burning sulphur,
And let the sheep
bleat, in contact with the smoke.
Burn male-olive wood,
and pine, and juniper fronds,
And let scorched
laurel crackle in the hearth.
Let a basket of millet
keep the millet cakes company:
The rural goddess
particularly loves that food.
Add meats, and a pail
of her milk, and when the meat
Is cut, offer the warm
milk, pray to sylvan Pales,
Saying: ‘Protect the
cattle and masters alike:
And drive everything
harmful from my stalls.
If I’ve fed sheep on
sacred ground, sat under a sacred tree,
While they’ve unwittingly
browsed the grass on graves:
If I’ve entered a
forbidden grove, or the nymphs
And the god, half-goat, have fled at sight
of me:
If my knife has pruned
the copse of a shady bough,
To fill a basket of
leaves for a sick ewe:
Forgive me. Don’t
count it against me, if I’ve sheltered
My flock, while it
hailed, in some rustic shrine,
Don’t harm me for
troubling the pools. Nymphs,
Forgive, if trampling
hooves have muddied your waters.
Goddess, placate the
springs, and placate their divinities
On our behalf, and the
gods too, scattered in every grove.
Let us not gaze on Dryads, or on Diana bathing,
Nor on Faunus, as he lies in the fields at
noon.
Drive off disease: let
men and beasts be healthy,
And healthy the
vigilant pack of wakeful dogs.
May I drive back as
many sheep as dawn revealed,
Nor sigh returning
with fleeces snatched from the wolves.
Avert dire famine: let
leaves and grass be abundant,
And water to wash the
body, water to drink.
May I press full
udders, may my cheeses bring me money,
May the wicker sieve
strain my liquid whey.
And let the ram be
lusty, his mate conceive and bear,
And may there be many
a lamb in my fold.
And let the wool prove
soft, not scratch the girls,
Let it everywhere be
kind to gentle hands.
Let my prayer be
granted, and every year we’ll make
Huge cakes for Pales,
Mistress of the shepherds.’
Please the goddess in
this way: four times, facing east,
Say these words, and
wash your hands with fresh dew.
Then set a wooden
dish, to be your mixing bowl,
And drink the creamy
milk and the purple must:
Then leap, with nimble
feet and straining thighs
Over the crackling
heaps of burning straw.
I’ve set forth the
custom: I must still tell of its origin:
But many explanations
cause me doubt, and hold me back.
Greedy fire devours
all things, and melts away the dross
From metals: the same
method cleans shepherd and sheep?
Or is it because all
things are formed
Of two opposing
powers, fire and water,
And our ancestors
joined these elements, and thought fit
To touch their bodies
with fire and sprinkled water?
Or did they think the
two so powerful, because they contain
The source of life:
denied to the exile, it makes the new bride?
I can scarce believe
it, but some consider it refers
To Phaethon, and to Deucalion’s flood.
Some say, too, that
once when shepherds struck
Stones together, a
spark suddenly leapt out:
The first died, but
the second set fire to straw:
Is that the basis for
the fires of the Parilia?
Or is the custom due
rather to Aeneas’ piety,
To whom the fire gave
safe passage, in defeat?
Or is this nearer the
truth, that when Rome was founded,
They were commanded to
move the Lares to their new homes,
And changing homes the
farmers set fire to the houses,
And to the cottages,
they were about to abandon,
They and their cattle
leaping through the flames,
As happens even now on
Rome’s birthday?
That subject itself is
matter for a poet. We have come
To the City’s
founding. Great Quirinus,
witness your deeds!
Amulius had already been punished, and
all
The shepherd folk were
subject to the twins,
Who agreed to gather
the men together to build walls:
The question was as to
which of them should do it.
Romulus said: ‘There’s
no need to fight about it:
Great faith is placed
in birds, let’s judge by birds.’
That seemed fine. One
tried the rocks of the wooded Palatine,
The other climbed at
dawn to the Aventine’s summit.
Remus saw six birds,
Romulus twelve in a row.
They stuck to the
pact, and Romulus was granted the City.
A day was chosen for
him to mark out the walls with a plough.
The festival of Pales
was near: the work was started then.
They trenched to the
solid rock, threw fruits of the harvest
Into its depths, with
soil from the ground nearby.
The ditch was filled
with earth, and topped by an altar,
And a fire was duly
kindled on the new-made hearth.
Then, bearing down on
the plough handle, he marked the walls:
The yoke was borne by
a white cow and a snowy ox.
So spoke the king: ‘Be
with me, as I found my City,
Jupiter, Father Mavors, and Mother Vesta:
And all you gods, whom
piety summons, take note.
Let my work be done
beneath your auspices.
May it last long, and
rule a conquered world,
All subject, from the
rising to the setting day.’
Jupiter added his omen
to Romulus’ prayer, with thunder
On the left, and his
lightning flashed leftward in the sky.
Delighted by this, the
citizens laid foundations,
And the new walls were
quickly raised.
The work was overseen
by Celer, whom Romulus named,
Saying: ‘Celer, make
it your care to see no one crosses
Walls or trench that
we’ve ploughed: kill whoever dares.’
Remus, unknowingly, began to mock the
low walls,
saying: ‘Will the
people be safe behind these?’
He leapt them, there
and then. Celer struck the rash man
With his shovel: Remus
sank, bloodied, to the stony ground.
When the king heard,
he smothered his rising tears,
And kept the grief
locked in his heart.
He wouldn’t weep in
public, but set an example of fortitude,
Saying: ‘So dies the
enemy who shall cross my walls.’
But he granted him
funeral honours, and couldn’t
Hold back his tears,
and the love he tried to hide was obvious.
When they set down the
bier, he gave it a last kiss,
And said: ‘Farewell,
my brother, taken against my will!’
And he anointed the
body for burning. Faustulus, and
Acca
Her hair loosened in
mourning, did as he did.
Then the as yet
unnamed Quirites wept for the youth:
And finally the pyre,
wet by their tears, was lit.
A City arose, destined
(who’d have believed it then?)
To plant its
victorious foot upon all the lands.
Rule all, and be ever
subject to mighty Caesar,
And may you often own
to many of that name:
And as long as you
stand, sublime, in a conquered world,
May all others fail to
reach your shoulders.
I’ve spoken of Pales’
festival, I’ll speak of the Vinalia:
There’s only a single
day between the two.
You prostitutes,
celebrate the divine power of Venus:
Venus suits those who
earn by your profession.
Offer incense and pray
for beauty and men’s favour,
Pray to be charming,
and blessed with witty words,
Give the Mistress
myrtle, and the mint she loves,
And sheaves of rushes,
wound in clustered roses.
Now’s the time to
crowd her temple near the Colline
Gate,
One that takes its
name from a Sicilian hill:
When Claudius took Arethusian Syracuse by force,
And captured that hill
of Eryx, too, in the war,
Venus moved to Rome, according to the
long-lived Sibyl’s
Prophecy, preferring
to be worshipped in her children’s City.
Why then, you ask, is
the Vinalia Venus’ festival?
And why does this day
belong to Jupiter?
There was a war to
decide whether Turnus or Aeneas
Should be Latin Amata’s son-in-law: Turnus begged help
From Etruscan Mezentius, a famous and proud fighter,
Mighty on horseback
and mightier still on foot:
Turnus and the Rutuli
tried to win him to their side.
The Tuscan leader
replied to their suit:
‘My courage costs me not
a little: witness my wounds,
And my weapons that
have often been dyed with blood.
If you seek my help
you must divide with me
The next wine from
your vats, no great prize.
No delay is needed:
yours is to give, mine to conquer.
How Aeneas will wish
you’d refused me!’
The Rutulians agreed.
Mezentius donned his armour,
And so did Aeneas, and
addressed Jove:
‘The enemy’s pledged
his vine-crop to the Tyrrhenian king:
Jupiter, you shall
have the wine from the Latin vines!’
The nobler prayer
succeeded: huge Mezentius died,
And struck the ground,
heart filled with indignation.
Autumn came, dyed with
the trodden grapes:
The wine, justly owed
to Jupiter, was paid.
So the day is called
the Vinalia: Jupiter claims it,
And loves to be
present at his feast.
When six days of April
remain,
The Spring season will
be half-over,
And you’ll look for Helle’s Ram in vain:
The rains will be your
sign, when the Dog’s mentioned.
On this day, returning
to Rome from Nomentum,
A white-robed throng
blocked my road.
A priest was going to
the grove of old Mildew (Robigo),
To offer the entrails
of a dog and a sheep to the flames.
I went with him, so as
not to be ignorant of the rite:
Your priest, Quirinus,
pronounced these words:
‘Scaly Mildew, spare
the blades of corn,
And let their tender
tips quiver above the soil.
Let the crops grow,
nurtured by favourable stars,
Until they’re ready
for the sickle.
Your power’s not
slight: the corn you blight
The grieving farmer
gives up for lost.
Wind and showers don’t
harm the wheat as much,
Nor gleaming frost
that bleaches the yellow corn,
As when the sun heats
the moist stalks:
Then, dreadful
goddess, is the time of your wrath.
Spare us, I pray, take
your blighted hands from the harvest,
And don’t harm the
crop: it’s enough that you can harm.
Grip harsh iron rather
than the tender wheat,
Destroy whatever can
destroy others first.
Better to gnaw at swords
and harmful spears:
They’re not needed:
the world’s at peace.
Let the rural wealth
gleam now, rakes, sturdy hoes,
And curved
ploughshare: let rust stain weapons:
And whoever tries to
draw his sword from its sheath,
Let him feel it wedded
there by long disuse.
Don’t you hurt the
corn, and may the farmer’s
Prayer to you always
be fulfilled by your absence.’
He spoke: to his right
there was a soft towel,
And a cup of wine and
an incense casket.
He offered the incense
and wine on the hearth,
Sheep’s entrails, and
(I saw him) the foul guts of a vile dog.
Then the priest said:
‘You ask why we offer an odd sacrifice
In these rites’ (I had
asked) ‘then learn the reason.
There’s a Dog they
call Icarian, and when it rises
The dry earth is
parched, and the crops ripen prematurely.
This dog is set on the
altar to signify the starry one,
And the only reason
for it is because of the name.’
When Aurora’s left Tithonus, kin to Phrygian Assaracus,
And raised her light
three times in the vast heavens,
A goddess comes framed
in a thousand varied garlands
Of flowers: and the
stage has freer license for mirth.
The rites of Flora also stretch to the Kalends of
May:
Then I’ll speak again,
now a greater task is needed.
Vesta, bear the day onwards! Vesta’s
been received,
At her kinsman’s
threshold: so the Senators justly decreed.
Phoebus takes part of the space
there: a further part remains
For Vesta, and the
third part that’s left, Caesar
occupies.
Long live the laurels
of the Palatine: long live that house
Decked with branches
of oak: one place holds three eternal gods.