To Lampridius [a poet and rhetor of Bordeaux, friend of Sidonius].
When I first arrived in Bordeaux, your letter-carrier presented me with a letter full of nectar, flowers, and pearls. In it you scold my silence and demand some of my verses — those verses which, you say, pour from me in musical tones through the resonant vault of my palate, as though from a many-holed flute. But you make this demand with royal generosity, secure after making your gift — perhaps forgetting the satirist's line: "Horace says 'Hurrah!' on a full stomach."
Why mince words? You have every right to tell me to sing at my leisure, since you are already content to dance. Whatever the case, I obey — and not under compulsion but willingly. Only temper that Catonian severity of your furrowed brow. You know the tender disposition of poets: their talents are entangled by grief as fish are caught in nets; and when something harsh or sorrowful strikes, a poet's tenderness does not immediately free itself. I have not yet obtained anything from my mother-in-law's estate, even at a discount.
Meanwhile, you may judge how you like the theme of the poem you demanded. But my worries will not allow me to maintain one thing in my actions and another in my verse. And it would be unjust of you to compare our writings as equals: I lead a laborious life, you a fortunate one; I am still an exile, you already a citizen. And so I sing unequal songs, because I ask for equal treatment and do not receive it.
But if by some chance you receive these trifles — composed amid the torments of my soul — with an indulgent eye, you will persuade me they resemble the songs of dying swans, whose cry is more melodious in suffering — or a lyre string stretched to the breaking point, which becomes more musical the more it is twisted. But if verses devoid of ease and happiness cannot win approval, you too will find nothing pleasing on the page I append below.
[The poem that follows describes the barbarian peoples gathered at the court of Euric in Bordeaux:]
Why do you try to rouse the Muses now,
Lampridius, glory of our poetry,
and force me to compose
as though I'd brought the instruments of Delphi
to your Delian court — a new Apollo
with tripod, lyre, and quiver?
You, Tityrus, wandering your recovered fields
through myrtle groves and plane trees,
strike your lyre while voice and plectrum
echo back your melodies.
Meanwhile, the new moon finds me still
planted here, watched twice already —
For the conquered world brings petitions here,
and the master barely has time for himself.
Here we see the blue-eyed Saxon,
who once feared only the sea —
whose razor trims the scalp's edges
so the face grows as the head shrinks.
Here the old Sicambrian [Frankish warrior],
defeated, combs his hair back
over his newly conquered neck.
Here the grey-eyed Herulian wanders,
a dweller in Ocean's deepest recesses,
nearly the color of its weedy depths.
Here the seven-foot Burgundian
frequently bends his knee to beg for peace.
Here the Ostrogoth thrives under these patrons,
pressing his Hunnic neighbors —
subject to these, but lording it over those.
From here, O Roman, you seek your salvation,
and against the hordes of the Scythian north —
whatever tumults the northern Bear may bring —
your hand is asked for, Euric,
so that through your settled warriors
the mighty Garonne may defend the slender Tiber.
Even the Parthian Arsaces begs here
for the right to hold the throne of Susa
under a tributary treaty...
Among all this we waste our idle hours.
But you, Tityrus, stop provoking me —
I do not envy but marvel at your lot.
For while I earn nothing and pray in vain,
I have become Meliboeus [the dispossessed shepherd of Virgil's First Eclogue].
There is the poem — review it at your leisure, watching my sweat and dust from the judges' box like a spectator already crowned. And do not expect me to attempt anything of the kind again, even if the present effort pleases you — not until I cease composing laments instead of poetry. Farewell.
EPISTULA IX
Sidonius Lampridio suo salutem.
1. Cum primum Burdigalam veni, litteras mihi tabellarius tuus obtulit plenas nectaris florum margaritarum, quibus silentium meum culpas et aliquos versuum meorum versibus poscis, qui tibi solent per musicum palati concavum tinnientes voce variata quasi tibiis multiforatilibus effundi. sed hoc tu munificentia regia satis abutens iam securus post munera facis, quia forsitan satiricum illud de satirico non recordaris: Satur est cum dicit Horatius 'euhoe'.
2. quid multis? merito me cantare ex otio iubes, quia te iam saltare delectat. quicquid illud est, pareo tamen, idque non modo non coactus verum etiam spontaliter facio; tantum tu utcumque moderere Catonianum superciliosae frontis arbitrium. nosti enim probe laetitiam poetarum, quorum sic ingenia maeroribus ut pisciculi retibus amiciuntur; et si quid asperum aut triste, non statim sese poetica teneritudo a vinculo incursi angoris elaqueat. necdum enim quicquam de hereditate socruali vel in usum tertiae sub pretio medietatis obtinui.
3. interim tu videris, quam tibi sit epigrammatis flagitati lemma placiturum; me tamen nequaquam sollicitudo permittit aliud nunc habere in actione, aliud in carmine. illud sane praeter iustitiam feceris, si in praesentiarum vicissim scripta quasi compares. ago laboriosum, agis ipse felicem; ago adhuc exulem, agis ipse iam civem: et ob hoc inaequalia cano, quia similia posco et paria non impetro.
4. quod si quopiam casu ineptias istas, quas inter animi supplicia conscripsimus, nutu indulgentiore susceperis, persuadebis mihi, quia cantuum similes fuerint olorinorum, quorum est modulatior clangor in poenis: similes etiam chordae lyricae violentius tensae, quae quo plus torta, plus musica est. ceterum si probari nequeunt versus otii aut hilaritatis expertes, tu quoque in pagina, quam supter attexui, nil quod placeat invenies.
5. his adhuc adde, quod materiam, cui non auditor potius sed lector obtigerit, nihil absentis auctoris pronuntiatio iuvat. neque enim post opus missum superest quod poeta vel vocalissimus agat, quem distantia loci nec hoc facere permittit, quod solent chori pantomimorum, qui bono cantu male dictata commendant.
Quid Cirrham vel Hyantias Camenas,
quid doctos Heliconidum liquores,
scalptos alitis hinnientis ictu,
nunc in carmina commovere temptas,
(5) nostrae Lampridius decus Thaliae,
et me scribere sic subinde cogis,
ac si Delphica Delio tulissem
instrumenta tuo novusque Apollo
cortinam tripodas, chelyn pharetras,
(10) arcus grypas agam duplaeque frondis
hinc bacas quatiam vel hinc corymbos?
tu iam, Tityre, rura post recepta
myrtos et platanona pervagatus
pulsas barbiton atque concinentes
(15) ora et plectra tibi modos resultant,
chorda voce metro stupende psaltes:
nos istic positos semelque visos
bis iam menstrua luna conspicatur,
nec multum domino vacat vel ipsi,
(20) dum responsa petit subactus orbis.
istic Saxona caerulum videmus
assuetum ante salo solum timere;
cuius verticis extimas per oras
non contenta suos tenere morsus
(25) altat lammina marginem comarum,
et sic crinibus ad cutem recisis
decrescit caput additurque vultus.
hic tonso occipiti, senex Sygamber,
postquam victus es, elicis retrorsum
(30) cervicem ad veterem novos capillos.
hic glaucis Herulus genis vagatur,
imos Oceani colens recessus
algoso prope concolor profundo.
hic Burgundio septipes frequenter
(35) flexo poplite supplicat quietem.
istis Ostrogothus viget patronis
vicinosque premens subinde Chunos,
his quod subditur, hinc superbit illis.
hinc, Romane, tibi petis salutem,
(40) et contra Scythicae plagae catervas,
si quos Parrhasis ursa fert tumultus,
Eorice, tuae manus rogantur,
ut Martem validus per inquilinum
defendat tenuem Garumna Thybrim.
(45) ipse hic Parthicus Arsaces precatur,
aulae Susidis ut tenere culmen
possit foedere sub stipendiali.
nam quod partibus arma Bosphoranis
grandi hinc surgere sentit apparatu,
(50) maestam Persida iam sonum ad duelli
ripa Euphratide vix putat tuendam;
qui cognata licet sibi astra fingens
Phoebaea tumeat propinquitate,
mortalem hic tamen implet obsecrando.
(55) haec inter terimus moras inanes;
sed tu, Tityre, parce provocare;
nam non invideo magisque miror,
qui, dum nil mereor precesque frustra
impendo, Meliboeus esse coepi.
En carmen, quod recenseas otiabundus nostrumque sudorem ac pulverem spectans veluti iam coronatus auriga de podio. de reliquo non est quod suspiceris par me officii genus repetiturum, etiamsi delectere praesenti, nisi prius ipse destiterim vaticinari magis damna quam carmina. vale.
◆
To Lampridius [a poet and rhetor of Bordeaux, friend of Sidonius].
When I first arrived in Bordeaux, your letter-carrier presented me with a letter full of nectar, flowers, and pearls. In it you scold my silence and demand some of my verses — those verses which, you say, pour from me in musical tones through the resonant vault of my palate, as though from a many-holed flute. But you make this demand with royal generosity, secure after making your gift — perhaps forgetting the satirist's line: "Horace says 'Hurrah!' on a full stomach."
Why mince words? You have every right to tell me to sing at my leisure, since you are already content to dance. Whatever the case, I obey — and not under compulsion but willingly. Only temper that Catonian severity of your furrowed brow. You know the tender disposition of poets: their talents are entangled by grief as fish are caught in nets; and when something harsh or sorrowful strikes, a poet's tenderness does not immediately free itself. I have not yet obtained anything from my mother-in-law's estate, even at a discount.
Meanwhile, you may judge how you like the theme of the poem you demanded. But my worries will not allow me to maintain one thing in my actions and another in my verse. And it would be unjust of you to compare our writings as equals: I lead a laborious life, you a fortunate one; I am still an exile, you already a citizen. And so I sing unequal songs, because I ask for equal treatment and do not receive it.
But if by some chance you receive these trifles — composed amid the torments of my soul — with an indulgent eye, you will persuade me they resemble the songs of dying swans, whose cry is more melodious in suffering — or a lyre string stretched to the breaking point, which becomes more musical the more it is twisted. But if verses devoid of ease and happiness cannot win approval, you too will find nothing pleasing on the page I append below.
[The poem that follows describes the barbarian peoples gathered at the court of Euric in Bordeaux:]
Why do you try to rouse the Muses now, Lampridius, glory of our poetry, and force me to compose as though I'd brought the instruments of Delphi to your Delian court — a new Apollo with tripod, lyre, and quiver?
You, Tityrus, wandering your recovered fields through myrtle groves and plane trees, strike your lyre while voice and plectrum echo back your melodies. Meanwhile, the new moon finds me still planted here, watched twice already —
For the conquered world brings petitions here, and the master barely has time for himself. Here we see the blue-eyed Saxon, who once feared only the sea — whose razor trims the scalp's edges so the face grows as the head shrinks.
Here the old Sicambrian [Frankish warrior], defeated, combs his hair back over his newly conquered neck. Here the grey-eyed Herulian wanders, a dweller in Ocean's deepest recesses, nearly the color of its weedy depths.
Here the seven-foot Burgundian frequently bends his knee to beg for peace. Here the Ostrogoth thrives under these patrons, pressing his Hunnic neighbors — subject to these, but lording it over those.
From here, O Roman, you seek your salvation, and against the hordes of the Scythian north — whatever tumults the northern Bear may bring — your hand is asked for, Euric, so that through your settled warriors the mighty Garonne may defend the slender Tiber.
Even the Parthian Arsaces begs here for the right to hold the throne of Susa under a tributary treaty...
Among all this we waste our idle hours. But you, Tityrus, stop provoking me — I do not envy but marvel at your lot. For while I earn nothing and pray in vain, I have become Meliboeus [the dispossessed shepherd of Virgil's First Eclogue].
There is the poem — review it at your leisure, watching my sweat and dust from the judges' box like a spectator already crowned. And do not expect me to attempt anything of the kind again, even if the present effort pleases you — not until I cease composing laments instead of poetry. Farewell.
Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.