It has been my pleasure to work these past several years with citizens and magistrates who in good will bend all their energies to refounding the culture and soul, if not the walls, of ancient Rome, the mother of all. Joining with the voice of the ancient poet I ask the gods to keep evil and misfortune away and to grant us prosperity.
A. S. Kline's translation of Ovid's FASTI, Book IV: April 21: The Parilia:
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.
--- In Nova-Roma@yahoogroups.com, "Steve Moore" <astrobear@...> wrote:
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> Quirites!
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>
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> By all means, let us be silent