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C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Saturnalia

By Statius (c. 45–c. 96 A.D.)

From the ‘Silvæ’: Translation of Harriet Waters Preston

HENCE, Pallas grave, and Sire Apollo!

And let the attendant Muses follow!

Your fêtes be holden far away,

Nor hither come ere New Year’s day.

But aid me, Saturn, loose of gait,

December with new wine elate,

And saline jest, and laughter free,

To sing our Cæsar’s jubilee,—

A day of sport, a night of revel!

Aurora scarce had cleared the level

Of the horizon, on a morn

Dewless and bright as e’er was born,

When canvas whitened all the plain,

And showers of dainties fell like rain:

Huge Pontic nuts, and noble spoil

Of wild Idumea’s mountain soil;

The sun-baked figs of fiery Caunus

And damson plums descended on us,

With cakes and cheeses of the fairies,

And the sweet curd of Umbrian dairies,

And spicy loaves, bay-flavored, and

Plump dates dispensed with open hand!

Not Hyas’s weeping sisterhood

E’er deluged earth with such a flood;

Nor such, when wintrier stars prevail,

The flurry of sun-smitten hail

To folk who view the Latin play.

But let the tempests have their way

If but this homely Jove of ours

Deny us not his toothsome showers!

Till now each busy booth and tent

Receives a fuller complement

Of stately folk in garments fine,

Who, mid the flow of watered wine,

Their costlier viands bring to light,

Their baskets full, and napery white,—

For gods who feast on Ida, meet.

If thou, whom all the nations greet

As harvest-giver,—nor alone

The toga’d race thy sceptre own,—

Annona, scorn our festival,

When I on hoary Eld will call

To answer if the golden prime

Excelled in aught this happy time;

If crops were ever more abundant

Than now, or vintage more redundant;

Or if, at any time, the classes

Were ever friendlier with the masses,—

Churl, knight, and senator, man and woman

All gorging at a table common!

Nay,—if it be not too audacious

To name the thing,—our sovereign gracious

Himself hath found a sitting here,

Thrice welcome to the boundless cheer;

And many a pauper felt the pride

Of feasting once at Cæsar’s side!

Curious, to stand aloof, and see

How works this novel luxury:

In fiery spurts of virile passion,

Or strifes, in Amazonian fashion,

As if by Tanaïs’s banks engaged,

Or shores of savage Thasis waged.

But now the folk of puny stature,

All bossed and bowed, the sport of nature,

Enter in line, our gifts partake,

And then a mutual onslaught make

With fists of so diminutive size

That Mars and Valor in the skies

Explode with laughter; while the cranes

Who wait our festival’s remains,

Awhile oblivious of their plunder,

Observe the fray in silent wonder.

As day declines, impulsive charges

Are made upon a lavish largess.

Light ladies enter on the scene,

With whoso walks the stage’s queen,

For beauty or for art renowned.

The players’ pompous lines are drowned

By cymbals beaten to the whirls

Of Syrian and Spanish girls,

While one there is outvies the dancer,—

To wit, that humble necromancer

Who changes, by mysterious passes,

Sulphur to gold, in shivered glasses.

Amid these various junketings,

A sudden flight of wingèd things

Obscures the firmament. Captives, they,

The rain-beset Numidian’s prey,

Or snared beside the Euxine sea,

Or sacred Nile. Incontinently

The seats are cleared, the chase begins,

And soon the wealth of him who wins

His bulging sinus clear displays.

Then what a shout in Cæsar’s praise—

Lord of these Saturnalia glorious—

Ascends from countless throats uproarious!

Forbidden the tribute, still they cheer,

Until the darkening atmosphere

Hath taken eve’s cerulean hue;

When blazes on the startled view

A flaming orb the arena over,

And all the shadows fly to cover.

The heavens, from pole to pole, are lit,

The Gnosian stars with pallor smit,

The privacy of night hath vanished,

And quiet flies, and sleep is banished

To drowsy cities, far remote.

Our further pranks, who will may note!

Recount our tireless banqueting,

Our large potations fitly sing!

For now, at last, o’er even me

A soft Lyæan lethargy

Prevails. I prophesy however

The day I’ve sung will live forever;

The memory of its hero last,

While stand the Latian mountains fast,

While Tiber flows, till Rome shall fall

And the regenerate Capitol.