And with his father gone, Ascanius—
or Iulus, for he bore two names—became
the king of Alba and the Latin realm.
The next in line was Silvius; and then
his son, Latinus, ruled—one who bore both
Latin [587–611]
the name of his ancestor and his scepter;
and he was followed by the famous Alba;
and Epytus, his son, succeeded him.
The next to rule were Capys and Capetus;
and after them the king was Tiberinus,
who gave his name to that same Tuscan stream
in which he drowned. His sons were Remulus
and the proud Acrotas; the older one
was Remulus, who, trying to mime lightning,
was struck down by a lightning bolt. His brother,
a man who was more prudent, passed the scepter
to sturdy Aventinus, who is buried
on that same hill where he once reigned, the hill
to which he gave his name. After his death,
the people of the Palatine had Proca
as ruler—and the story of Pomona
took place in Proca’s days.
In Latium,
no fair nymph had more skill and passion than
Pomona in her love for gardens and
for trees and plants that yield fine fruit: in truth,
she owed her very name to that pursuit.
She was not drawn to streams, not drawn to woods;
but fields and branches bearing lovely fruit
delighted her. That nymph did not hold fast
a lance in her right hand; instead she gripped
a curving pruning-hook—it was with this
that she trimmed leaves grown too luxurious
and cut back branches that were too entwined;
with this she would incise the bark to graft
sap from one plant onto another’s branch.
And she took care that no plant suffered thirst;
she sprinkled water on the porous roots’
entangled fibers. This was her sole task,
her love: she did not long for carnal touch.
Pomona feared the peasants’ brutish ways,
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fenced off her orchards, and avoided men—
she never let them in.
How hard they tried—
young Satyrs, with their dancing, leaping steps
and Pans, whose horns were garlanded with pines;
and he whose years were more than what he showed,
Silvanus; and Priapus, he whose scythes
and penis are a sight that terrifies
all thieves—they tried, but they did not succeed.
Vertumnus was the one who loved her most;
but like the rest, he, too, met brusque repulse.
How often did that god disguise himself
and, as a sturdy reaper, bring her gifts
of barley ears in baskets—and in fact,
his camouflage was perfect: he would wrap
fresh hay around his brow; one would have said
that he’d just come from turning new-mown grass.
At other times he gripped a cattle-prod
in his rough hand, and you might well have sworn
that he had just unyoked his weary oxen.
With scythe in hand, he seemed to be a man
who rakes the leaves and prunes the vines; and if
he put a ladder on his back, he seemed
about to gather apples. With a sword,
he was a soldier; if he bore a rod,
he was a fisherman. His masquerades
were many; and by way of them, he gained
an entry to her orchards and a chance
to see Pomona’s haunting loveliness.
One day, when he had clapped upon his head
a gray wig and, around his temples, bound
a motley wimple to disguise himself
as an old woman, leaning on a staff,
he entered her fair orchard. When he had
admired the fruit he saw, he told the nymph:
“My, my—how skilled you are!” That said, he kissed
Pomona as no true old woman would;
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and then, his body bent, along the grass,
he sat and gazed at the autumnal boughs
weighed down by fruit. In front of him there stood
an elm whose boughs were artfully arrayed
with gleaming grapes. And after he had praised
the elm and its companion vine, he added:
“But if that trunk stood there alone, unwed
to that grapevine, in every way except
for foliage it would seem worthless—and
the vine that now embraces lovingly
the tree to which it’s mated, would lie flat,
dispirited, upon the ground. That plant
has taught you nothing; you shun marriage—and
desire no one. If you’d welcome men,
the crowd of suitors who would seek you then
would far outnumber those who sought the hand
of Helen! Neither she who stirred the war
between the Lapiths and the centaurs, nor
the wife of timid—or, some say, the bold—
Ulysses ever moved as many men
as you, Pomona, could. For even now,
although you shun and scorn all those who plead,
you are the prize a thousand young men seek—
and half-gods, gods, and all those deities
who haunt the Alban hills. But if you’re wise,
and would agree to a fine marriage, heed
what this old woman (one who loves you more
than all those others love you—and indeed
more than you would believe) now says: reject
those banal offers, and instead accept
Vertumnus as the one to share your bed!
I’ll give you all the guarantees you want
on his account: though he may know himself,
I know him just as well. No nomad stray,
he will not wander off on vagrant ways;
he never fawns upon the highly placed;
nor is he like those many suitors who,
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as soon as they catch sight of someone new,
run off to her. I’m sure that you will be
the first and final love he will pursue,
the one to whom, life long, he will be true.
And add to this his other gifts: he’s young,
and nature blessed him with a gracious form;
and he is versatile—he can take on
all shapes and miens; ask him to become
whatever form you want—and it is done.
And, too, your tastes show similarities;
you tend your fruit with love, but is not he
the first to welcome what you offer—glad
to hold in his right hand your gifts of fruit?
But now he is not bent on what your trees
may bear; nor does he care for garden herbs,
however sweet their juice: what he pursues
is you alone—and nothing else will do.
Have mercy, he is burning; act as if
the plea that you are hearing from my lips
had come from his own self. And do take care:
remember—there are gods who punish all
hard hearts: you know that Venus loathes such souls;
and so does she whose shrine is in Ramnuntes—
yes, Nemesis is one who won’t forget
her anger. And that you may duly fear
the fruits of arrogance (my many years
have taught me many lessons), I shall share
an episode that all of Cyprus knows:
a tale that may persuade your heart to feel
more sympathetically, to bend, to yield: