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cloak, he urged on his half-frozen steed. No soft bed received his weary limbs. If the darkness forced him to halt in his advance he would either enter some dreadful beast’s den or sleep in some shepherd’s hut, his head pillowed upon his shield. The shepherd stands pale at the sight of his stately guest, and ignorant of his name the rustic mother points out to her squalid infant the glory of his face. It was those hard couches beneath the rough pines, those nights amid the snow, all that care and anxious toil, that won this peace for the world, this tranquillity it had despaired of for the empire. From out those Alpine huts, Rome, came thy salvation.

Now had the peoples broken their treaties and, encouraged by the news of Latium’s trouble, had seized upon the glades of Vindelicia and the fields of Noricum. Like slaves whom news of their master’s death lures into luxury with an idle tale, if mid the debauch and while wild licence riots with wine and dance some unexpected chance bring back their lord, then they stand panic-stricken and, abhorring liberty, servile terror shakes their guilty souls; so all the rebels were struck with terror at the sight of the general and in one man the Emperor, Latium and all Rome blazed before their eyes. Joy sat not upon his countenance nor excess of gloom nor yet dejection by reason of Rome’s reverses but nobility and indignation mixed, such as filled Hercules at Eurystheus’ inhuman orders, or such as dims the face of heaven when at Jove’s frown the troubled sky is gathered into a murky cloud.

“Put ye such faith,” he cried, “in Getic arms? Is it they that swell your hearts with empty pride? Fate has not brought Rome’s name so low that she

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cannot punish your rebellion with but a handful of her forces. Not to delay you with foreign tales, hear this example from your deeds of old. When warlike Hannibal was spreading destruction throughout the cities of Italy, and Cannae had doubled Trebia’s cruel losses, a vain hope drove Philip of Macedon to turn his feeble sword against a people which, as he thought, was in difficulties. The monstrous insult roused the Roman Fathers, although more pressing dangers were crowding upon them, and they took it ill that, while two great cities were disputing the mastery of the world, a lesser race should be insolent. They determine upon instant vengeance and command Laevinus, even while he conducts the war with Carthage, to do battle also with the king of Macedonia. The consul obeyed his orders, and Philip, intruding his feeble arms between mighty nations, was routed by a passing band and learned that it does not do to tempt the anger of powerful peoples even when they are in distress.”

With this warning Stilicho alike checked the threatened war and won new allies for war, enrolling them at their entreaty and setting such number to their forces as should best suit—neither a burden to Italy nor a terror to its lord.

Then, indeed, at the news of his return, the legions, such love they bore their general, hastened together from every side, and at the sight of Stilicho their courage revived and they broke out into sobbings and tears of joy. So when a herd of cattle has been scattered throughout some vast forest by the storm’s violence the beasts eagerly make for the sound of the ox-herd’s well-known song or whistle and

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the pasture of their native vale, guiding their steps in answer to his voice and glad faithfully to reply with lowing, while, wherever his tones fall upon their ear, horns show themselves here and there through the dark foliage. First hasten up the neighbouring troops, their loyalty attested by their defence of Raetia and their mass of spoil from Vindelicia; next the legion that had been left to guard Britain,[54] the legion that kept the fierce Scots in check, whose men had scanned the strange devices tattooed on the faces of the dying Picts. Even the legions that faced the flaxen-haired Sygambri, and those who held the Chatti and wild Cherusci in subjection hither turned their threatening arms, leaving the Rhine, whose garrison they had formed, defended by but one thing—the fear of Rome. Will any posterity credit the tale? Germany, once the home of peoples so proud and fierce that former emperors could scarce keep them in check with the whole weight of their armies, now offers herself so willing a follower of Stilicho’s guiding hand that she neither attempts an invasion of the territory exposed to her attack by the removal of its frontier troops nor crosses the stream, too timid to approach an undefended bank.

Greater art thou, Stilicho, than all; thine only rival is Camillus, whose arms broke the rash power of Brennus as thine have broken that of Alaric. At a time of dire peril ye both gave the aid of gods; but he too late avenged a captured Rome, thou one still safe. What a reversal of fortune did thy return bring about! A new vigour returned to every part of our empire alike, and the glow of health came back to our suffering cities. A

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woman, so the story goes, who died to save the life of a loved husband, was recalled to the upper world by the might of Hercules. Diana with the help of Circe’s magic herbs restored to life Hippolytus whom the scorned passion of a stepmother had caused to be torn in pieces. Crete, if the fable be true, saw Glaucus, son of Minos, issue living from the tomb; his body was discovered by the cries of birds to Polyidus, the aged seer, who restored him to life by means of simples; strange indeed was the ruling of fate which apportioned sweet honey as the cause of his death and a hideous serpent as the restorer of his life.[55] But thy return, Stilicho, recalled not one body from the shades but countless peoples sunk in a common death, and snatched whole towns from the jaws of Hell.

That very day Rome rang with the report (though none ever knew its author) that the hero had arrived, and the citizens, assured of Stilicho’s protection, applauded this augury of certain victory. Who could tell of the Emperor’s joy, who of the courtiers’ eager greetings? From the lofty battlements we sight a distant cloud of dust and know not whether its obscurity conceals friend or foe. Suspense keeps us all in silence. Then suddenly from that dusty cloud emerged the helm of Stilicho, glittering like a star, and we recognized his gleaming white hair. Up rose the happy shout from the walls: “’Tis he.” Safe at last the crowd surges out through the gates to meet and greet the army’s return. Gone for ever are our wretched impressed levies; no longer

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does the reaper, laying aside his sickle, try to hurl the impotent javelin, nor Ceres lay aside her harrow and, to the amusement of Bellona, essay the buckler. Stilled are the noisy wrangles of untried leaders; here is Rome’s true strength, her true leader, Mars in human form.

The more happy hopes grew in our hearts the more they deserted the Getae, who, touching the stars with their heads, after crossing the Alps accounted all their own and deemed nothing left to do. But when they saw all our glorious youth, all the quickly levied infantry, all the squadrons of horse, a countryside protected by so many rivers and fortresses, and themselves caught in a snare, a trouble they dared not voice seized their hearts and a regret that they had invaded Italy with too forward eagerness; and Rome they hoped within their grasp seemed far away. Weariness of their mighty undertaking steals over them. Yet Alaric’s face conceals his fear; he bids to the council of war those whose age or prowess had gained them the dignity of leadership. There sat the senate of long-haired, skin-clad Getic leaders. Many a scar received in battle adorned their faces, spears guide their tottering steps and, instead of a staff, old age, refusing to disarm, supports itself on their tall shafts. Then arose one older than the rest, trusted for his counsel and advice, who, fixing his gaze upon the ground, shaking his hoary locks and leaning on his ivory hilt, thus spake: “If I miscount not the years this is well-nigh the thirtieth winter since we swam across the swift Ister. All that time we have escaped defeat at the hands of Rome. Yet never, Alaric, has Mars brought your fortunes to such

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straits. Take the advice of an old man who has been through countless fights, one who like a father was wont to give thee in thine earliest youth little quivers to sling across thy back and to fit short bows to thy young shoulders. Often did I urge in vain that thou should’st observe the treaty and remain safe at home in Emathia. But if the fire of hot youth hurried thee into war, now at least, I beg thee, make good thine escape from out this net if thou hast any love left for thy people. The enemy’s forces are far away; thou hast the chance; flee headlong from Italy’s lands lest, in thy desire for fresh spoils, thou lose even what thou hast got and like a wolf pay the penalty of former depredations to the shepherd by being killed within the sheepfold. Why dost thou have ever on thy lips the richness of Tuscan vineyards and some Rome or other with its Tiber? If our parents speak sooth, never has any who has assailed that city in mad war returned to boast that he has done her violence. The gods desert not their own home; thunderbolts, they tell, are hurled from afar upon her foes and unearthly fires flash before her walls, whether ’tis heaven or Rome that thunders. If thou fearest not the gods beware the might of Stilicho; fortune is ever on his side against assaulting enemies. Thou thyself knowest how high with bones he piled our funeral pyres in Arcadia, and with what vast outpourings of our blood he made the rivers of Greece run warm; and thou hadst been killed had not treason in the guise of law and the goodwill of the Emperor of the East protected thee.”

While the elder spake thus Alaric, eyeing him

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askance with fiery brow, brooked his words no longer, but his enkindled pride broke forth in furious speech: “Did not witless age that has deprived thee of thy senses grant thee indulgence never, on my life, should Danube listen unavenged to such coward insults. Am I who have routed so many emperors (Hebrus’ river is my witness) to endure flight at thine advice—I whom all nature obeys? Have I not seen the mountains levelled at my feet, the rivers dried up? Never may my country’s gods, the spirits of my forefathers, allow that I retrace my footsteps on a backward path. This land shall be mine whether I hold it in fee as conqueror or in death as conquered. I have overrun so many peoples and cities, I have burst through the Alps and drunk of the waters of Eridanus from out a victor’s helmet. What is left me but Rome? My nation was strong even when it has no allied arms to help it. But now that I hold sway over Illyria, now that its people has made me their leader, I have forced the Thracians to forge me spears, swords, helmets with the sweat of their brows, and Roman towns (whose rightful overlord I now am) to contribute iron for mine own uses. Thus is fate on my side. Rome, whose territories I have laid waste year by year, has become my slave. ’Tis she has supplied me with arms; her own metal has glowed in the furnace, artfully molten and fashioned for her own undoing by reluctant smiths. The gods, too, urge me on. Not for me are dreams or birds but the clear cry uttered openly from the sacred grove: ‘Away with delay, Alaric; boldly cross the Italian Alps this year and thou shalt reach the city.’ Thus far the

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path is mine. Who so cowardly as to dally after this encouragement or to hesitate to obey the call of Heaven?”

So he spake and made ready his army to take the road, exhorting them to combat. Prophecy serves to augment his vain pride. Ah! for the grudging oracles ever dumb with mystic utterance; ’tis the event alone that (too late) discloses the true meaning which the seers themselves could not read. Alaric reached the farthest confines of Liguria where flows a river with the strange name of the City.[57] There he suffered defeat and even then scarcely realized (though that defeat made it clear) that fate had tricked him with an ambiguous word.

Stilicho, too, fails not: at full speed he advanced his army clamorous for battle and spurs their march with these words: “Friends of Rome, the time has now come for you to exact vengeance for outraged Italy. Wipe out the disgrace which the investment of your emperor by his foes has brought upon you, and let your swords end the shame which the defeat on the Timavus[58] and the enemy’s passage of the Alps has caused to Rome. This is the foe whom ye so often put to flight on the plains of Greece, whom not their own valour but a world torn by civil strife has kept safe thus far, as they treacherously mock at treaties and traffic in perjury now with the West, now the East. Reflect that all the fierce peoples of Britain and the tribes who dwell on Danube’s and Rhine’s banks are watching and stand ready. Win a victory now and so be conquerors in many an unfought war. Restore Rome to her former glory; the frame of empire is tottering; let your shoulders support it. A

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single battle and all will be well; but one victory and the world’s peace will be assured. We fight not on the slopes of Thracian Haemus nor await our foe where Maenalus throws his shadow across the banks of Alpheus. We defend not Tegea nor Argos. No: as ye see, the scene of war is the very centre and heart of Italy. Protect Father Tiber with your shields.” Thus spake Stilicho to foot and horse.

Orders were at the same time sent to the auxiliary troops. The Alans, now subject to Roman rule, followed our trumpets’ call, taught by their chief to lay down their lives in the cause of Italy. Small was his stature but great his soul and fierce anger blazed from his eyes. Covered with wounds was he and with a visage rendered the more glorious and the more proud by reason of the scar some spear-thrust had left. At Stilicho’s command he hastened up with his cavalry, fated to bite the soil of Italy in death. Happy warrior, worthy of the Elysian fields and of my meed of song, who wast eager even at the cost of life to cleanse thy loyalty from stain! The sword that spilled thy generous blood, it was thy judge, acquitting thee of that most unjust charge of treachery. Thrown into confusion by the hero’s death his horsemen turned rein and, its flank thus exposed, the whole host would have reeled had not Stilicho quickly gathered a legion and hastening to the spot rallied the cavalry to the fight with infantry support.

What poet, were he inspired by the Muses or even by Apollo himself, could relate the blessings showered that day by Mars upon the city whose founder he himself was? Never was the sword of Rome plunged so deep in the Scythians’ throat;

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never was Tanais’ pride abased by such a crushing defeat nor the horns of Ister so broken. Thirsting to drink the enemy’s hateful blood our soldiers passed by rich and varied raiment, carts laden with gold, heaps of silver, and, eager for the foe’s destruction, spurned his wealth. They held blood of more account than gold; none of them would stoop to pick up the fortune that lay at their feet but drew their swords and sated their wild fury. The crafty foe threw in the path of our advancing troops the robes of scarlet dye, and other spoils reft from Valens[59] who perished in the flames, heavy mixing-bowls looted from unhappy Argos and lifelike statues rescued from burning Corinth—all in vain, for this ill-omened booty, so far from delaying our men, reminded them of past reverses and so the more inflamed their righteous indignation.

The crowd of prisoners is loosed from its fetters and all the peoples of different tongue whom the Getae had led away captive. Freed at last by the slaughter of their captors they plant thankful kisses on the bloody hands of their deliverers and hasten back to their long-lost homes and their dear children. At each his household looks in wonder as they tell the story of their woes and then recount the marvel of welcome victory.

What must then have been thy despair, Alaric, when ruin overwhelmed thy wealth and all that gear that years of robbing had won thee, when there struck thine ear the cries of that wife of thine who, too confident in her long unconquered husband, demanded in her madness the jewelled necklaces of Italian matrons for her proud neck and Roman girls for her tire-women! The fair girls

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of Greece from Corinth and Sparta were, forsooth, not good enough now for so great a lady. But Nemesis, the goddess worshipped at Rhamnus, she whose pleasure it is to check unbridled desire, was wroth and turned her wheel; harsh poverty overwhelms the vanquished, and in one day Rome’s arm requites all that we have lost in thirty years.

Thy glory, Pollentia, shall live for ever; worthy is thy name to be celebrated by my song, a fit theme for rejoicing and for triumph. Fate pre-ordained thee to be the scene of our victory and the burial-place of the barbarians. Full often have thy fields and plains seen ample vengeance exacted for aggression against the descendants of Romulus. ’Twas there, in that same countryside, that the Cimbric hordes, bearing down upon Rome from Ocean’s farthest shore and crossing the Alps by another pass, suffered their final defeat. The coming generation should mingle the bones of these two races and engrave with this one inscription the monument which records our double victory: “Here beneath the soil of Italy lie the bodies of brave Cimbri and Getae: their death they owed to our famous generals Marius and Stilicho. Learn, presumptuous peoples, not to despise Rome.”

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SHORTER POEMS

I. (XIII.)

To Stilicho.

Crown with a wreath of flowers, Stilicho, that head more often graced with the shining helmet. Bid cease the trumpets and let the happy marriage-torch banish fierce war afar. Let the blood derived from a kingly race flow on through royal veins. Do a father’s duty and establish the firm bond of wedlock between thy daughter and adoptive son. Thou wert an emperor’s son-in-law; now an emperor will be thine. What cause is there now for envy, what excuse for jealousy? Stilicho is at once father and father-in-law.

II. (LXXXV.)

Description of the harbour at Smyrna.

The city that meets our gaze veils the mountain peaks, fronting a tranquil sea. The two headlands that enclose the harbour protect the quiet water from the north wind. Here the sea is disarmed by the encircling land and learns to lie in undisturbed tranquillity.

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III. (LXXXI.)

To Aeternalis.[61]

Phoebus’ every breath from the Castalian spring, the tripod’s every moan within the shrine of prophecy—all these are poetry. Of prose the Muses will have none. In poetry only can I express myself, so wholly does my patron, Apollo, possess me.

IV. (LIV.)

Description of a Herd.

Not such were the beauteous herds that the land once ruled over by triple Geryon produced. Not such the bulls thou bathest, Clitumnus, in thy stream for pious vows to offer duly to Tarpeian Jove. Not such the steer that, they say, scattered the sand of Tyre[62] what time he brought home his well-loved burden. Not the fields of Crete, nor Gnossos that knew of passion for a bull, nor Ida could have pastured the like. Even he whose monstrous figure united ill-assorted limbs, the Cretan child[63] who by his strange form revealed his mother’s shame—even he could scarce have shown a shape so fair had all his rough limbs resembled those of his sire.