The Ballad of Old Falernus

He’s changing his course! He’s leaving the land of Daunus behind them,

And coming back, with his menacing face, to the coasts of Campania.

Here, though, after he’s entered the plowlands of fertile Falernum

(It’s a rich land, and one that has never lied to its farmers),

They’re setting fire, as enemies do, to its crop-bearing branches.

Already an elder, Falernus was plowing Mount Massicus’ ridges

Once, long ago, in that better age before weapons were on us.

Not yet did the grape-green tendril weave its shadows on bare fields,

Nor was it known how to sweeten a cup with the juice of Lyaeus.

People normally slaked their thirst with pure, flowing water.

Coincidence brought Lyaeus, while heading to the shores of Gibraltar

And, seeking respite, to Falernus’ home. Nor did He refuse to —

God upon high though He was — go on into that poor, lowly dwelling.

Gladly He entered through soot-stained doors and sat down at the kitchen

Table (a typical custom of that impoverished era).

Happy, His host had no idea that a god had come calling.

Like his fathers before him, he bustled, enthusiastically playing

Waiter, despite his old age, fetching dainties, such as apples in baskets

And then, from his garden, a vegetable feast, still shimmering with dewdrops.

Next came dessert, made of milk and of honeycombs, after the savory

Courses. Chastely (as he’d slaughtered no animals) he next brought to the table

Cereal grains, and from each dish he first picked out a portion

Honoring Vesta, and tossed them as offerings into the fire.

Pleased at the sight of this elderly diligence, you forbid, Iacchus,

Your liquors not to show up; and then suddenly (the sight was amazing!) —

Wooden wine cups began frothing and foaming with tendril-leaf juices!

He thanks the pauper for his hospitality, while in his cheap milk pail

Pure red wine began sloshing, while inside his oaken faux-krater,

Sweet-smelling clustering grapes began sweating their perfumy moisture.

“Here,” says Bacchus, “take these things. You’ve never seen them, but someday,

They’re destined to make the name of Falernus famed for winegrowing.

They’re my gift,” said the god — for it’s obvious: clustering berries

Suddenly shadow His face, which is gleaming, and dappled with purply

Flush. His hair’s spilling over his neck, and his fingers are dangling

A kantharos, and now a vine, creeping down the stalk of his thyrsus

Entangles the dishes, festooning them all with vine-shoots of Nysa.

And you, Falernus! You couldn’t compete with the gladdening liquid.

Now that you’ve had a few drinks, we’re laughing, first at your stumbling,

Then at your speech, since it’s slurring around — do you have a concussion?

You’re trying to thank, as best you can, our Father Lyaeus;

But no one can understand your words; they’re gibberish, nonsense.

At long last your struggling eyelids are closed, given respite

By Sleep (Your constant companion, Lord Bacchus); but when, the next morning,

Phaethon’s horses’ hoofbeats scattered the dewdrops with sunlight,

Massicus mountain was totally covered with grape-bearing plowlands,

Preening in leaves and in many grape clusters, all gleaming in sunlight.

The mountain’s now covered in glory! And so, from that one day onward,

Fertile Tmolus, and the wine juice of Chios, though it tastes like ambrosia,

And killer Methymna — they’ve all stepped back, they all bow to Falernum.