The Moselle

PHILIP MURRAY

THE MOSELLE

after Ausonius

Hail, sweet river, praised by farm and field

Whose swelling hills are bubbled with fragrant vines,

Verdant river, banked with herbaceous turf,

Broad, ship-bearing river, deeper than lakes,

Faster than wayward brooks, cooler than springs,

With no hidden rocks, no murmuring winds,

Nor foaming shallows to impede your course,

Ebbing and flowing like the sea itself.

Hail, rich river, enhanced by air and sky

And sun, whose very depths are clear as glass

Where scattered shapes wallow in azure light

And graceful water-grasses bow to the current

And glossy pebbles wink amid ruddy moss.

How many legions of scaly herds swim here

In slippery shoals, against the stream, aslant;

How many shall I name? I'll name them all.

Hail, scaly Chub, gleamer in weeds,

The tender-fleshed if you are eaten promptly;

The pointed Roach, the purple-spotted Trout,

The swift-stroked Grayling, darting out of sight;

Hail, O rosy-red-fleshed Salmon, prize

Who can endure some days without decay;

And you, full-fleshed Eelpout, floating foam,

Sleek, blue-backed, black-spotted, circled with saffron.

And you, O Perch, the banquet table's delight,

Your flavor is as good as rosy mullet;

And you, O Pike, who haunt the shadowy pools

Of sedge and ooze hunting for bloated frogs,

Not banqueted bite fried in greasy shops;

Green Tench, some people eat you; I would not;

And Bleak, that bit on any boyish hook;

Common Shad, hissing on vulgar hearths.

Barbel, large-headed, stout-bodied vicious catfish;

Gudgeon, two palms in length not counting thumbs,

Bulky when your belly is full of spawn,

And often bearded like the tufted Barbel.

O mighty Sheatfish, shining like olive oil,

Dolphin of rivers, gentle Moselle whale,

Displacing water like a little island,

Stirring up waves to the verge of either bank.

But now to shore, and to another pageant.

The river-sides are thickly planted with vines,

Far stretching, sunny slopes to the top-most ridges.

People are busy and happy on hill and slope;

Vine-dressers and bargemen exchange jokes

With travellers tramping the banks, and with each other.

The quivering river and the trembling woods

Ring with their rustic cries and rowdy feuds.

Here grey-eyed Nymphs and mischievous Satyrs meet

When rutting Pans splash in the candid shallows,

And scare their sisters with unskillful strokes.

At noon in Summer they dance in errant rings

Upon the water, the Nymphs ducking the Satyrs

To escape, letting them catch capsizing waves

Instead of the soft embrace of slippery bodies;

Only by moonlight, breeds the double-backed beast.

Where the tangled hillside grazes the glazed river

The grafted flood ferments with twisted vines.

Even the swarthy boatman is uncertain

What is the double-dyed river and what the shore.

His own shadow glides crookedly before him,

And lads afloat, like girls before a mirror,

Greet themselves fondly in the concurring glass,

Admire and wonder at shapes half-false, half-true.

A man in midstream dips up dazzling shoals

Of fish snared in the folds of his knotty net;

And over on the rocks, a skinny boy leans out

To cast his gawky rod baited with worms.

The fish rush on agape; his wooden float bobs;

At once, when the barb has bitten deep, the boy

Jerks his brawling prize from the shuffled waters,

Swinging it sideways in a whistling arc.

The catch flops and flickers on the derelict rocks;

His tail throbs weakly; his torn mouth gapes askew;

His panting gills gasp feebly in the dry air.

I myself have seen a desperate fish

In the throes of death summon up one last leap,

And heaving high, dive back into the river;

Also I have seen an astonished boy

Dive after it, as if to catch it swimming.

Country houses tumble like blocks on summits;

This house commands the edge of a sandy bank;

That villa straddles a sloping step of rock,

And this one flanks an entire hill, high over the stream;

Here's one whose arches spring from a wild bird meadow,

And another near, with a weir for catching fish.

Where the channel is narrow, cries of greeting,

Almost handshakes, pass from shore to shore.

Moselle, it were impossible to tell

Your hundred virtues in a single song;

Although my daring is great, my lute is small.

I ask only for pardon, not for praise.

There are too many who could sing as well,

But while there are men with leisure for verse,

O horned Moselle, whom bull-browed Jupiter envies,

My praises run a river through the world.