Ovid: Fasti
Book Two
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 II: February
15: The Lupercalia
Book II: February
21: The Feralia
Book II: February
23: The Terminalia
Book II: February
24: The Regifugium
Book II: February
27: The Equirria
January is done, and
the year advances with my song.
As the second month
runs, so let the second book.
For the first time, my
verses, sail with more canvas,
Your theme, I recall,
has been slight till now.
I found you ready
enough servants of love,
When I toyed with
poetry in my first youth,
Now I sing of sacred
rites and calendar days:
Who’d have thought it
would lead to this?
Here’s my soldiering:
I bear the weapons I can,
My right hand isn’t
useless for every service.
If I can’t hurl the
javelin with a mighty throw,
Nor sit astride a
war-horse’s back,
No helmet on my head,
no sharp sword slung,
(Any man can be handy
with those weapons)
Still I promote your
titles with a dutiful heart,
Caesar, and your progress towards
glory.
Come, then, and cast
your eye on my gift awhile,
If pacifying enemies
leaves you a moment free.
The fathers of Rome
called purification februa
Many things still
indicate that meaning for the word.
The high priests ask
the King and the Flamen
For woollen cloths,
called februa in the ancient tongue.
When houses are
cleansed, the roasted grain and salt,
The lictor
receives, are called by the same name.
The same name too is
given to the branch, cut from a pure
Tree, whose leaves
wreathe the priests’ holy brows.
I’ve seen the priest’s
wife (the Flaminica) ask for februa,
And at her request she
was given a branch of pine.
In short anything used
to purify our bodies,
Had that title in the
days of our hairy ancestors.
The month is so
called, because the Luperci
Cleanse the earth with
strips of purifying hide,
Or because the time is
pure, having placated the dead,
When the days devoted
to the departed are over.
Our ancestors believed
every sin and cause of evil
Could be erased by
rites of purification.
Greece set the
example: she considered the guilty
Could rid themselves
of sins by being purified.
Peleus cleansed Patroclus, and Acastus Peleus
From the blood of Phocus, by Haemonian waters.
Medea, drawn through the air by bridled
dragons,
Was undeservedly
welcomed by trusting Aegeus.
Alcmaeon said to Achelous: ‘Absolve my sin’,
And he did absolve
that son of Amphiarus.
Ah! Too facile, to
think the dark guilt of murder
Could be washed away
by river water!
Yet (lest you err,
through ignorance of their old order)
Though January is the
first month, and was before,
February that follows
was once last in the ancient year.
And your worship, Terminus, closed the sacred rites.
The month of Janus came first, being the entrance (janua):
This month was last,
sacred to the last rites of the dead.
Afterwards the Decemvirs are thought to have
brought together
These months that had
been parted by a wide interval of time.
At the start of the
month they say that Juno the Saviour
(Sospita),
Neighbouring the Phrygian Mother, was honoured with new
shrines.
If you ask where those
temples, dedicated to the goddess
On the Kalends, are
now, they are fallen with the lapse of time.
All the rest would
have similarly fallen in ruins,
But for the
far-sighted concern of our sacred Leader,
Under whose rule the
shrines are untouched by age:
Not satisfied with
mere men, he also serves the gods.
Pious one, you who
build and repair the temples,
May there be mutual
care between you and the gods!
May the gods grant you
the length of years you grant them,
And may they stand on
guard before your house!
On this day too the
grove of Alernus is crowded,
Near where Tiber, from afar, meets the ocean
waves.
At Numa’s sanctuary, and the Thunderer’s on the Capitol,
And on the summit of
Jove’s citadel, a sheep is sacrificed.
Often the sky, covered
with cloud, rains heavily,
Or the earth is hidden
under a blanket of snow.
When the next sun
looses the jewelled yoke
From his bright
horses, before he sinks in the western waves,
Looking up at night
towards the stars, someone will say:
‘Where is the Lyre, that shone brightly last night?’
And searching for the
Lyre, he will see that the Lion’s back
Has also plunged
suddenly into the wide waters.
The Dolphin that you saw lately, studded
with stars,
Will escape your gaze
on the following night:
He was a happy
go-between in love’s intrigues,
Or he carried the
Lesbian lyre and its master.
What land or sea does
not know of Arion?
He could hold back the
running waters with his singing.
Often the wolf seeking
a lamb was halted by his voice,
Often the lamb
stopped, in fleeing the ravening wolf.
Often hare and hounds
rested in the same covert,
And the deer on the
rock stood still near the lioness,
And the chattering
crow perched with Pallas’
owl,
Without a quarrel, and
the dove united with the hawk.
They say that Diana has often stood entranced at your
music,
Tuneful Arion, as if
it were played by her brother’s hand.
Arion’s fame had
filled the cities of Sicily,
And charmed the
Italian shores with the sound of his lyre:
Travelling back from
there, he boarded a ship
Carrying with him the
wealth won by his art.
Unhappy one, perhaps
you feared the wind and waves,
But the sea, in truth,
was safer for you than your ship.
Since the steersman
stood there with naked blade,
And the rest of that
crew of conspirators were armed.
Why draw that blade?
Seaman, steer the wandering vessel:
That weapon is not
appropriate in your hands.
Trembling with fear,
Arion said: ‘I don’t plead for life,
But let me take up my
lyre and play a little.’
They granted it,
laughing at the delay. He took the wreath
That might have graced
your tresses, Phoebus:
Put on his robe,
twice-stained with Tyrian purple:
And, plucked by his
thumb, the strings gave out their music,
Such a melody as the
swan’s mournful measures,
When the cruel shaft
has transfixed its brow.
At once, he plunged,
fully clothed into the waves:
The water, leaping,
splashed the sky-blue stern.
Then (beyond belief)
they say a dolphin
Yielded its back to
the unaccustomed weight.
Sitting there, Arion
gripped the lyre, and paid his fare
In song, soothing the
ocean waves with his singing.
The gods see good
deeds: Jupiter took the dolphin
And ordered its
constellation to contain nine stars.
Now I wish for a
thousand tongues, and that spirit
Of yours, Homer, you who celebrated Achilles,
While I sing the
sacred Nones in alternating verse.
This is the greatest
honour granted to the calendar.
My wit deserts me: the
burden’s beyond my strength,
This special day above
all I am to sing.
Why did I wish,
foolishly, to lay so great a task
On elegiac verse? This
was a theme for the heroic stanza.
Sacred Father of the Country, this title
has been conferred
On you, by the senate,
the people, and by us, the knights.
Events had already
granted it. Tardily you received
Your true title, you’d
long been Father of the World.
You have on earth the
name that Jupiter owns to
In high heaven: you
are father of men, he of gods.
Romulus, give way: Caesar by his
care makes your walls
Mighty: you made such
as Remus could leap across.
Tatius, and the little towns of Cures and Caenina,
Knew you: under this
Leader all the sun sees is Roman.
You owned a little patch
of conquered land:
Caesar possesses all
beneath Jupiter’s heavens.
You raped married
women: under Caesar they are
ordered
To be chaste: you
permitted the guilty your grove: he forbids them.
Force was acceptable
to you: under Caesar the laws flourish.
You had the title
Master: he bears the name of Prince.
Remus accused you,
while he pardons his enemies.
Your father deified you: he deified his father.
Already Aquarius shows himself to the waist,
And pours the gods
flowing nectar mixed with water,
And you who shrink
from the north wind, be pleased,
A softer breeze is
blowing from the West.
Five days later, the Morning Star has lifted its brightness
From the ocean waves,
and these are the first days of spring.
But don’t be misled:
cold days are still in wait for you,
Departing winter
leaves sharp traces behind.
On the third night,
you will see straight away
That the Bear Keeper Bootes’ feet have emerged.
Callisto was one of the Hamadryads, among
The sacred band of the
huntress Diana.
She laid her hand on
the goddess’ bow, saying:
‘Bear witness, bow I
touch, to my virginity.’
Cynthia praised the vow: ‘Keep faith with
that
And you will be first
among my companions.’
She’d have kept her
vow, if she’d not been beautiful:
She was wary of men,
but sinned with Jupiter.
Phoebe had hunted many creatures
through the woods,
And was returning home
at noon, or shortly after.
As she reached a grove
(a dense grove dark with holm-oak
With a deep fount of
cool water at its centre),
She said: ‘Arcadian virgin, let’s bathe here in
the woods.’
The girl blushed at
the false title of virgin.
Diana spoke to the
nymphs, and they undressed.
Callisto was ashamed,
and gave bashful signs of delay.
Removing her tunic,
her swollen belly
Gave clear witness to
the burden she carried.
The goddess spoke to
her, saying: ‘Daughter of Lycaon,
Oath-breaker, leave
the virgin band, do not defile pure waters.’
Ten times the moon
completed her full orb,
When she, thought to
be virgin, became a mother.
Juno, wounded, raged, and altered the
girl’s form.
What would you? Jupiter had ravished her against her
will.
And seeing in his
victim a shameful animal face,
Juno said: ‘Let
Jupiter enjoy her embraces now!’
She who had been loved
by highest Jove,
Roamed the wild
mountains as a shaggy she-bear.
The boy she conceived
furtively was adolescent
When the mother met
the child she had born.
She reared, wildly,
and growled, as if she knew him:
Growling was his
mother’s only mode of speech.
The boy, unknowing,
would have pierced her with his sharp spear,
But they were both
caught up into the heavenly mansions.
They shine as
neighbouring constellations: first the Bear,
Then the Bear-keeper takes shape behind her back.
Still, Juno, Saturn’s daughter, rages and begs
grey Tethys
Never to wash the Maenalian Bear with her waters.
The altars of rustic Faunus smoke, on the Ides.
There, where the
island breaks Tiber’s waters.
This was the day when
three hundred and six
Of the Fabii fell to Veientine weapons.
A single family
assumed the burden and defence of the city:
Their strong right
arms volunteered their swords.
Noble soldiers they
marched from the one camp,
And any one of them
was fitted to be the leader.
The nearest way was
the right hand arch of Carmentis Gate
Let no one go that
way: it is unlucky.
Tradition says that
the three hundred Fabii passed through:
The gate is free of
blame, but is still unlucky.
When they had quickly
reached the rushing Cremera,
(It was flowing darkly
with winter rain)
They pitched their
camp there, and with naked swords
Broke the Etruscan
ranks with their valour,
Just like Libyan lions
attacking the herds
Scattered over the
fields, far and wide.
The enemy fled,
receiving the wounds of shame
In their backs: the
earth red with Tuscan blood.
So again, and as
often, they fall. When open victory
Was denied them, they
set armed men in ambush.
There was a plain,
bounded by hills and forests,
Where the mountain
creatures could make a lair.
The enemy left a few
men and a scattering of cattle
In its midst, the rest
of their army hid in the thickets.
Look, as a torrent
swollen by rain and snow
That the warm West
wind has melted, flows
Over the cornfields
and roads, not as normal,
Enclosed by the
margins of its banks,
So the Fabii, widely
deployed, filled the valley,
Felling whatever they
saw, filled with no other fear.
Where are you rushing
to, noble house? Don’t trust the enemy:
Noble simplicity,
beware of treacherous blades!
Valour is destroyed by
fraud: the enemy leap out
Into the open plain,
and take the ground on all side.
What can a few brave
men do against thousands?
What help remains for
them in time of danger?
As a wild boar driven
far from the deep woods
By the hounds,
scatters the swift pack with roaring maw,
But is soon killed, so
they do not die un-avenged,
Dealing and receiving
wounds alternately.
One day sent all the
Fabii to war:
All that were sent to
war, one day destroyed.
Yet we might think
that the gods themselves took council,
To save the seed of
the Herculean house:
For a boy too young to
bear weapons
Was left behind of all
the Fabian house,
No doubt so that you, Maximus, might be born
To save the state, one
day, by your delaying.
Three constellations
lie together, Corvus the
Raven,
Hydra, and Crater, the Cup, between the two.
On the Ides they’re
hidden at twilight, but risen the following night.
I’ll tell why the
three as so closely linked together.
It happened that Phoebus prepared a solemn feast for
Jove,
(This tale of mine
will not take long to tell):
‘Go, my bird,’ he
said, ‘so nothing delays the sacred rites,
And bring a little
water from the running stream.’
The Raven caught up a
gilded Cup in his claws,
And flew high into the
air on his way.
There was a fig tree
thick with unripe fruit:
The Raven tried it
with his beak: but it wasn’t fit to eat.
Forgetting his orders,
it’s said he perched by the tree,
To wait till the fruit
should sweetly ripen.
When at last he’d
taken his fill, he grasped a long Water-Snake
In his black talons,
and returned to his master with a lying tale:
‘This snake caused my
delay, it blocked the running water:
It prevented the
stream’s flow, and my errand.’
‘Will you add to your
fault with lies,’ said Phoebus,
And cheat the god of
prophecy with words?
As for you, you’ll
drink no cool water from the springs,
Until the ripened figs
cling to the trees.’
So he spoke, and as an
eternal reminder of this ancient tale,
Snake, Bird and Cup,
as constellations, gleam side by side.
This third morning
after the Ides sees the naked Luperci,
And the rites of
two-horned Faunus enacted.
Pierian Muses, tell the origin of the rites,
And where they were
brought from to our Latin home.
They say the ancient Arcadians worshipped Pan
The god of cattle, he
of the mountain heights.
Mount Pholoe was witness, and the Stymphalian waters,
And Ladon that runs its swift course to the
sea:
The ridges of the Nonacrine grove circled with pines:
High Tricrene, and the Parrhasian snows.
Pan was the god of
cattle there, and the mares,
He received gifts for
guarding the sheep.
Evander brought his woodland gods
with him:
There where Rome
stands there was merely a site.
So we worship the god,
and the priest performs
The rites the Pelasgians brought in the
ancient way.
Why, you ask, do the Luperci run, and since it’s their
custom,
This running, why do
they strip their bodies naked?
The god himself loves
to run swiftly on the heights,
And he himself
suddenly takes to flight.
The god himself is
naked, and orders his servants naked,
Since anyway clothes
were not suited to that course.
They say the Arcadians had their land before the
birth
Of Jove, and their
race is older than the moon.
They lived like
beasts, lives spent to no purpose:
The common people were
crude as yet, without arts.
They built houses from
leafy branches, grass their crops,
Water, scooped in
their palms, was nectar to them.
No bull panted yoked
to the curved ploughshare,
No soil was under the
command of the farmer.
Horses were not used,
all carried their own burdens,
The sheep went about
still clothed in their wool.
People lived in the
open and went about nude,
Inured to heavy
downpours from rain-filled winds.
To this day the naked
priests recall the memory
Of old customs, and
testify to those ancient ways.
But why Faunus, especially, shunned clothing,
Is handed down in an
old tale full of laughter.
By chance Tirynthian Hercules was walking with Omphale,
His mistress, and
Faunus saw them from a high ridge.
He saw and burned.
‘Mountain spirits,’ he said,
‘No more of your
company: she will be my passion.’
As the Maeonian girl
went by her fragrant hair streamed
Over her shoulders,
her breast was bright with gold:
A gilded parasol
protected her from warm sunlight,
One Herculean hands,
indeed, held over her.
Now she came to Bacchus’ grove, and Tmolus’ vineyard,
While dew-wet Hesperus rode his dusky steed.
She entered a cave
roofed with tufa and natural rock,
And there was a
babbling stream at its entrance.
While her attendants
were preparing food and wine,
She clothed Hercules
in her own garments.
She gave him thin
vests dyed in Gaetulian purple,
Gave him the elegant
zone that had bound her waist.
The zone was too small
for his belly, and he unfastened
The clasps of the
vests to thrust out his great hands.
He fractured her
bracelets, not made for such arms,
And his giant feet
split the little shoes.
She took up his heavy
club, and the lion’s pelt,
And those lesser
weapons lodged in their quiver.
So dressed, they
feasted, and gave themselves to sleep,
Resting on separate
couches set next to one another,
Because they were
preparing to celebrate the rites
Of the discoverer of
the vine, with purity, at dawn.
It was midnight. What
will unruly love not dare?
Faunus came through
the dark to the dewy cave,
And seeing the servants
lost in drunken slumber,
Had hopes of their
master also being fast asleep.
Entering, as a
reckless lover, he roamed around,
Following his cautious
outstretched hands.
He reached the couches
spread as beds, by touch,
And this first omen of
the future was bright.
When he felt the
bristling tawny lion-skin,
However, he drew back
his hand in terror,
And recoiled, frozen
with fear, as a traveller, troubled,
Will draw back his
foot on seeing a snake.
Then he touched the
soft coverings of the next couch,
And its deceptive feel
misled him.
He climbed in, and
reclined on the bed’s near side,
And his swollen cock
was harder than horn.
But pulling up the
lower hem of the tunic,
The legs there were
bristling with thick coarse hair.
The Tirynthian hero
fiercely repelled another attempt,
And down fell Faunus
from the heights of the couch.
At the noise, Omphale
called for her servants, and light:
Torches appeared, and
events became clear.
Faunus groaned from
his heavy fall from the high couch,
And could barely lift
his limbs from the hard ground.
Hercules laughed, as
did all who saw him lying there,
And the Lydian girl
laughed too, at her lover.
Betrayed by his
clothing: so the god hates clothes
That trick the eye,
and calls the naked to his rites.
Add Roman reasons, my
Muse, to foreign ones,
And let my charger
race his own dusty course.
A she-goat was
sacrificed to cloven Faunus, as usual,
And a crowd had been
invited to the scanty feast.
While the priests
prepared the entrails, on willow spits,
The sun being then at
the zenith of it course,
Romulus and his brother, and a shepherd boy,
Exercised their naked
bodies on the sunlit plain:
Trying the strength of
their arms in sport,
With levers, javelins,
or hurling heavy stones.
A shepherd shouted
from the heights: ‘Romulus, Remus,
Thieves are driving
the bullocks off through the wasteland.’
It would have taken
too long to arm: they took opposite
Directions: and meeting
them Remus re-took their prize.
Returning he drew the
hissing entrails from the spits,
Saying: ‘No one but
the victor shall eat of these.’
As he said, so he and
the Fabii did. Romulus returned,
Unsuccessful, finding
the empty table and bare bones.
He laughed and grieved
that Remus and the Fabii,
Should have conquered,
where his own Quintilii could not.
The tale of that deed
endures: they run stark naked,
And the success
achieved enjoyed a lasting fame.
You might also ask why
that cave is called the Lupercal,
And the reason for
giving the day such a name.
Silvia, a Vestal, had given birth to
divine children,
At the time when her
uncle held the throne.
He ordered the infants
taken and drowned in the river:
What was he doing? One
of the two was Romulus.
Reluctantly his
servants obeyed the sad command
(Though they wept) and
took the twins to the appointed place.
It chanced that the Albula, called Tiber from Tiberinus
Drowned in its waves,
was swollen with winter rain:
You could see boats
drifting where the fora are,
And there in the vale
of the Circus Maximus.
When the servants
arrived there (since they were
Unable to go further),
one of them said:
‘How alike they are,
how beautiful each of them is!
Yet of the two this
one is the more vigorous.
If nobility is seen in
the face, unless I’m wrong,
I suspect that there’s
some god within you –
Yet if some god were
the author of your being,
He’d bring you aid at
such a perilous time:
Your mother would
surely bring help if she could,
Who has borne and lost
her children in one day:
Born together, to die
together, pass together beneath
The waves!’ He
finished and set them down.
Both squalled alike:
you’d have thought they knew.
The servants returned
with tears on their cheeks.
The hollow trough,
where the boys were laid, floated
On the water, how
great a fate the little ark carried!
It drifted onwards
towards a shadowy wood,
And gradually settled
where the depth lessened.
There was a tree:
traces remain, which is now called
The Rumina fig, once Romulus’ fig tree.
A she-wolf, newly
delivered, (miraculously!) found the abandoned twins,
Who would have thought
the creature would not harm them?
Far from harming them
she helped them: and a wolf fed those
Whom their kin would
have allowed to perish.
She stayed, caressed
the tender infants with her tail,
And licked their
bodies with her tongue.
You might know they
were sons of Mars: without fear
They sucked her teats,
and the milk not meant for them.
She gave her name to
the place: and the place to the Luperci.
The nurse has a great
reward for the milk she gave.
Why shouldn’t they be
named from the Arcadian peak?
Lycaean Faunus has temples in Arcadia.
Bride, why linger? No
potent herb, or prayer
Or magic spell can
make you a mother:
Be patient under the
blows of a fruitful hand,
And soon your
husband’s father will be a grandfather.
For there was a day
when harsh fate decreed
Wives rarely gave
their mates gifts from their womb.
Romulus (since it was
when he ruled) cried:
‘What was the use of
raping the Sabine women,
If that wrong has
brought war instead of strength?
It would have been
better if our sons were unwed.’
A grove below the Esquiline Hill, untouched
For many years, was
sacred to great Juno.
When they had gathered
there, husbands and wives
Bowed their knees,
alike, in supplication,
And suddenly the tree
tops moved and trembled,
And the goddess spoke
strange words in her grove:
‘Let the sacred
he-goat pierce the Italian wives’.
The crowd stood,
terrified, at the troubling words.
There was an augur
(his name is lost with the years,
But he had lately
arrived, an exile from Tuscany),
He killed a he-goat
and, at his command, the wives
Offered their backs,
to be beaten by thongs from its hide.
When the moon renewed
her horns in her tenth orbit,
The husband became a
father, and the wife a mother.
Thanks be to Lucina! Goddess you took that name
From the grove (lucus),
or as yours is the source of light (lucis).
Gracious Lucina, spare
women heavy with child, I beg you,
And bring the ripe
burden tenderly from the womb.
When this day dawns,
no longer trust the winds:
The breezes are
faithless at this season:
The gales are fickle,
and for six days the door
Of the Aeolian cavern stands open wide.
Now nimble Aquarius of the tilted urn, is hidden:
Pisces, you next receive the
sky-borne horses.
They say that you and
your brother (for you glitter
Together as stars)
mounted two gods on your backs.
Dione, once, fleeing from dreaded Typhon,
When Jupiter took up arms to defend the
heavens,
Came to Euphrates with the little Cupid,
And sat by the brink
of the waters of Palestine.
Reeds and poplars grew
by the banks,
And willows too gave
hope of shelter there.
While she hid, the
grove rustled in the wind:
She turned pale with
fear, and thought enemies nearby.
So, holding the child
in her lap, she cried:
‘Help, you Nymphs, and
aid two divine beings!’
She leapt in, without
delay. Twin fishes bore her:
For which, a worthy
gift, they were made stars.
And so the pious Syrians hold it wrong to serve them
At their table: their
mouths are not defiled with fish.
The next day is not
notable, but the third is Quirinus’,
(He was Romulus before), who is so called
Either because a spear
was curis among the ancient Sabines,
(By his spear that warlike
god won his place among the stars),
Or because the Quirites gave their name to their
king,
Or because he united
the city of Cures to Rome.
For when the father,
lord of weapons, saw the new walls
And the many wars
waged with Romulus’ hands,
He said: ‘Jupiter,
Roman power possesses strength:
It doesn’t need the
services of my people.
Return the son to his
father. Though one is dead,
The one who remains is
enough for himself and Remus.
You said to me:
“There’ll be one you’ll raise
To the azure sky.” Let
Jupiter keep his word.’
Jupiter nodded his
agreement. Both the poles trembled
At his nod, and Atlas
shifted the weight of the sky.
There’s a place the
ancients called the She-goat’s Marsh:
You chanced to be
judging the people there, Romulus.
The sun vanished, and
rising clouds obscured the sky,
And a heavy shower of
torrential rain fell.
Then it thundered.
Then the sky was split by lightning:
All fled, and the king
rose to the stars behind his father’s horses.
There was mourning,
senators were falsely charged with murder,
And perhaps that
belief might have stuck in people’s minds,
But Julius Proculus was travelling from Alba Longa,
With the moon shining,
and having no need of a torch,
When suddenly the
hedge to his left moved and shook:
So that he drew back a
step, his hair bristling.
It seemed to him that
Romulus, handsome, more than human,
And finely dressed,
stood there, in the centre of the road,
Saying: ‘Prevent the
Quirites from mourning me,
And profaning my
divinity by their tears:
Let the pious crowds
bring incense and propitiate
The new god Quirinus,
and cultivate their father’s art of war.’
So he commanded and
vanished into thin air:
Proculus gathered the
people and reported the command.
Temples were built for
the god, the hill named for him,
And on certain days
the ancestral rites are re-enacted.
Learn too why this day
is called the Feast of Fools.
The reason for it is
trivial but fitting.
The earth of old was
farmed by ignorant men:
Fierce wars weakened
their powerful bodies.
There was more glory
in the sword than the plough:
And the neglected farm
brought its owner little return.
Yet the ancients sowed
corn, corn they reaped,
Offering the first
fruits of the corn harvest to Ceres.
Taught by practice
they parched it in the flames,
And incurred many
losses through their own mistakes.
Sometimes they’d sweep
up burnt ash and not corn,
Sometimes the flames
took their huts themselves:
The oven was made a
goddess, Fornax: the farmers
Pleased with her,
prayed she’d regulate the grain’s heat.
Now the Curio Maximus, in a set form of
words, declares
The shifting date of
the Fornacalia, the Feast of Ovens:
And round the Forum
hang many tablets,
On which every ward
displays its particular sign.
Foolish people don’t
know which is their ward,
So they hold the feast
on the last possible day.
And the grave must be
honoured. Appease your fathers’
Spirits, and bring
little gifts to the tombs you built.
Their shades ask
little, piety they prefer to costly
Offerings: no greedy
deities haunt the Stygian depths.
A tile wreathed round
with garlands offered is enough,
A scattering of meal,
and a few grains of salt,
And bread soaked in
wine, and loose violets:
Set them on a brick
left in the middle of the path.
Not that I veto larger
gifts, but these please the shades:
Add prayers and proper
words to the fixed fires.
This custom was
brought to your lands, just Latinus,
By Aeneas, a fitting promoter of piety.
He brought solemn
gifts to his father’s spirit:
From him the people
learned the pious rites.
But once, waging a
long war with fierce weapons,
They neglected the Parentalia, Festival of the
Dead.
It did not go
unpunished: they say from that ominous day
Rome grew hot from
funeral fires near the City.
I scarcely believe it,
but they say that ancestral spirits
Came moaning from
their tombs in the still of night,
And misshapen spirits,
a bodiless throng, howled
Through the City
streets, and through the broad fields.
Afterwards neglected
honour was paid to the tombs,
And there was an end
to the portents, and the funerals.
But while these rites
are enacted, girls, don’t marry:
Let the marriage
torches wait for purer days.
And virgin, who to
your mother seem ripe for love,
Don’t let the curved
spear comb your tresses.
Hymen, hide your torches, and carry
them far
From these dark fires!
The gloomy tomb owns other torches.
And hide the gods,
closing those revealing temple doors,
Let the altars be free
of incense, the hearths without fire.
Now ghostly spirits
and the entombed dead wander,
Now the shadow feeds
on the nourishment that’s offered.
But it only lasts till
there are no more days in the month
Than the feet (eleven)
that my metres possess.
This day they call the
Feralia because they bear (ferunt)
Offerings to the dead:
the last day to propitiate the shades.
See, an old woman
sitting amongst the girls performs the rites
Of Tacita, the Silent (though she
herself is not silent),
With three fingers,
she sets three lumps of incense
Under the sill, where
the little mouse makes its secret path:
Then she fastens
enchanted threads together with dark lead,
And turns seven black
beans over and over in her mouth,
And bakes the head of
a sprat in the fire, mouth sewn up
With pitch, pierced
right through with a bronze needle.
She drops wine on it
too, and she or her friends
Drink the wine that’s
left, though she gets most.
On leaving she says:
‘We have sealed up hostile mouths
And unfriendly
tongues’: and the old woman exits drunk.
You’ll ask at once,
who is the goddess Muta?:
Hear of what I’ve
learned from the old men.
Jupiter, overcome with intense love
for Juturna,
Suffered many things a
god ought not to bear.
Now she would hide in
the woods among the hazels,
Now she would dive
into her sister waters.
The god called the
nymphs who lived in Latium,
And spoke these words
in the midst of their throng:
‘Your sister is an
enemy to herself, and shuns a union
With the supreme god
that would benefit her.
Take counsel for both:
for what would delight me greatly
Would be a great
advantage to your sister.
When she flees, stop
her by the riverbank,
Lest she plunges her
body into the waters.’
He spoke: all the
nymphs of the Tiber agreed,
Those too who haunt
your spaces, divine Ilia.
There was a naiad,
named Lara: but her old name
Was the first syllable
twice-repeated, given her
To mark her failing. Almo, the river-god often said:
‘Daughter, hold your
tongue,’ but she still did not.
As soon as she reached
the pools of her sister Juturna,
She said: ‘Flee these
banks’, and spoke Jupiter’s words.
She even went to Juno, and showing pity for married women
Said: ‘Your husband
loves the naiad Juturna.’
Jupiter was angered,
and tearing that tongue from her mouth
That she had used so
immoderately, called Mercury to him:
‘Lead her to the
shadows: that place is fitting for the silent.
She shall be a nymph,
but of the infernal marshes.’
Jove’s order was
obeyed. On the way they reached a grove:
Then it was they say
that she pleased the god who led her.