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diff --git a/9610-h/9610-h.htm b/9610-h/9610-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..73a5b46 --- /dev/null +++ b/9610-h/9610-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3571 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content= + "text/html; charset=us-ascii"> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Elegies of Tibullus, By + Theodore C. Williams. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + <!-- + * { font-family: Times;} + P { text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: .75em; + font-size: 14pt; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; } + HR { width: 45%; } + PRE { font-size: 14pt;} + // --> + </style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Elegies of Tibullus, by Tibullus + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Elegies of Tibullus + +Author: Tibullus + +Posting Date: November 5, 2011 [EBook #9610] +Release Date: January, 2006 +First Posted: October 9, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ELEGIES OF TIBULLUS *** + + + + +Produced by Ted Garvin, David Garcia and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + +</pre> + + + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <h1> + THE ELEGIES OF TIBULLUS + </h1> + <center> + BEING<br> + THE CONSOLATIONS OF A ROMAN LOVER<br> + DONE IN ENGLISH VERSE + </center> <br> + <center> + <b>BY THEODORE C. WILLIAMS</b> + </center> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <center> + BOSTON AND NEW YORK<br> + HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY<br> + (The Riverside Press Cambridge)<br> + 1908 + </center> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <center> + <b>TO WILLIAM COE COLLAR</b> + </center> + <center> + HEAD MASTER OF THE<br> + ROXBURY LATIN SCHOOL + <p> + + </p>Our old master ever young to his old boys: + </center> <br> + <center> + <i>Did Mentor with his mantle thee invest,<br> + Or Chiron lend thee his persuasive lyre,<br> + Or Socrates, of pedagogues the best,<br> + Teach thee the harp-strings of a youth's desire?</i> + </center> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="PRF"><!-- PRF --></a> + <h2> + PREFACE + </h2> + <p> + Albius Tibullus was a Roman gentleman, whose father fought on + Pompey's side. The precise dates of his birth and death are + in doubt, and what we know of his life is all in his own + poems; except that Horace condoles with him about Glycera, + and Apuleius says Delia's real name was Plautia. + </p> + <p> + Horace paid him this immortal compliment: (<i>Epist. 4 bk. + I</i>). + </p> + <pre> + "<i>Albi nostrorum sermonum candide judex, + Non tu corpus eras sine pectore; Di tibi formam, + Di tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi</i>." +</pre> + <p> + After his death, Ovid wrote him a fine elegy (p. 115); and + Domitius Marsus a neat epigram. The former promised him an + immortality equal to Homer's; the latter sent him to Elysium + at Virgil's side. These excessive eulogies are the more + remarkable in that Tibullus stood, proudly or indolently, + aloof from the court. He never flatters Augustus nor mentions + his name. He scoffs at riches, glory and war, wanting nothing + but to triumph as a lover. Ovid dares to group him with the + laurelled shades of Catullus and Gallus, of whom the former + had lampooned the divine Julius and the latter had been + exiled by Augustus. + </p> + <p> + But in spite of this contemporary <i>succès + d'estime</i>, Tibullus is clearly a minor poet. He expresses + only one aspect of his time. His few themes are oft-repeated + and in monotonous rhythms. He sings of nothing greater than + his own lost loves. Yet of Delia, Nemesis and Neaera, we + learn only that all were fair, faithless and venal. For a man + whose ideal of love was life-long fidelity, he was tragically + unsuccessful. + </p> + <p> + If this were all, his verse would have perished with that of + Macer and Gallus. But it is not all. These love-poems of a + private gentleman of the Augustan time, show a delicacy of + sentiment almost modern. Of the ribald curses which Catullus + hurls after his departing Lesbia, there is nothing. He throws + the blame on others: and if, just to frighten, he describes + the wretched old age of the girls who never were faithful, it + is with a playful tone and hoping such bad luck will never + befall any sweet-heart of his. This delicacy and tenderness, + with the playful accent, are, perhaps, Tibullus' distinctive + charm. + </p> + <p> + His popularity in 18th century France was very great. The + current English version, Grainger's (1755) with its cheap + verse and common-place gallantries, is a stupid echo of the + French feeling for Tibullus as an erotic poet. Much better is + the witty prose version by the elder Mirabeau, done during + the Terror, in the prison at Vincennes, and published after + his release, with a ravishing portrait of "Sophie," + surrounded by Cupids and billing doves. One of the old + Parisian editors dared to say: + </p> + <p> + "<i>Tons ceux qui aiment, ou qui ont jamais aimé, + savent par coeur ce délicieux Tibulle</i>." + </p> + <p> + But it was unjust to classify Tibullus merely as an erotic + poet. The gallants of the <i>ancien régime</i> were + quite capable of writing their own valentines. Tibullus was + popular as a sort of Latin Rousseau. He satirized rank, + riches and glory as corrupting man's primitive simplicity. He + pled for a return to nature, to country-side, thatched + cottages, ploughed fields, flocks, harvests, vintages and + rustic holidays. He made this plea, not with an armoury of + Greek learning, such as cumber Virgil and Horace, but with an + original passion. He cannot speak of the jewelled Roman + coquettes without a sigh for those happy times when Phoebus + himself tended cattle and lived on curds and whey, all for + the love of a king's daughter. + </p> + <p> + For our own generation Tibullus has another claim to notice. + All Augustan writers express their dread and weariness of + war. But Tibullus protests as a survivor of the lost cause. + He has been, himself, a soldier-lover maddened by separation. + As an heir of the old order, he saw how vulgar and mercenary + was this <i>parvenu</i> imperial glory, won at the expense of + lost liberties and broken hearts. War, he says, is only the + strife of robbers. Its motive is the spoils. It happens + because beautiful women want emeralds, Indian slaves and + glimmering silk from Cos. Therefore, of course, we fight. But + if Neaera and her kind would eat acorns, as of old, we could + burn the navies and build cities without walls. + </p> + <p> + He was indeed a minor poet. He does not carry forward, like + Virgil, the whole heritage from the Greeks, or rise like him + to idealizing the master-passion of his own age, that vision + of a cosmopolitan world-state, centred at Rome and based upon + eternal decrees of Fate and Jove. But neither was he duped, + as Virgil was, into mistaking the blood-bought empire of the + Caesars for the return of Saturn's reign. Sometimes a minor + poet, just by reason of his aloofness from the social trend + of his time, may also escape its limitations, and sound some + notes which remain forever true to what is unchanging in the + human heart. I believe Tibullus has done so. + </p> + <p> + This translation has been done in the play-time of many busy + years. I have used what few helps I could find, especially + the Mirabeau, above alluded to. The text is often doubtful. + But in so rambling a writer it has not seemed to me that the + laborious transpositions of later German editors were + important. I have rejected as probably spurious all of the + fourth book but two short pieces. While I agree with those + who find the third book doubtful, I have included it. + </p> + <p> + But from scholars I must ask indulgence. I have translated + with latitude, considering whole phrases rather than single + words. But I have always been faithful to the thought and + spirit of the original, except in the few passages where + euphemism was required. If the reader who has no Latin, gets + a pleasing impression of Tibullus, that is what I have + chiefly hoped to do. In my forth-coming translations of the + <i>Aeneid</i> I have kept stricter watch upon verbal + accuracy, as is due to an author better-known and more to be + revered. + </p> + <pre> + THEODORE C. WILLIAMS. + New York, 1905. +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="TOC"><!-- TOC --></a> + <h2> + CONTENTS + </h2> + <pre> +<a href="#PRF">Preface</a> + +<a href="#RULE4_2">BOOK I</a> + +I. <a href="#RULE4_3">The Simple Life</a> +II. <a href="#RULE4_4">Love and Witchcraft</a> +III. <a href="#RULE4_5">Sickness and Absence</a> +IV. <a href="#RULE4_6">The Art of Conquest</a> +V. <a href="#RULE4_7">Country-Life with Delia</a> +VI. <a href="#RULE4_8">A Lover's Curses</a> +VII. <a href="#RULE4_9">A Desperate Expedient</a> +VIII. <a href="#RULE4_10">Messala</a> +IX. <a href="#RULE4_11">To Pholoë and Marathus</a> +X. <a href="#RULE4_12">To Venal Beauty</a> +XI. <a href="#RULE4_13">War is a Crime</a> + +<a href="#RULE4_14">BOOK II</a> + +I. <a href="#RULE4_15">A Rustic Holiday</a> +II. <a href="#RULE4_16">A Birthday Wish</a> +III. <a href="#RULE4_17">My Lady Rusticates</a> +IV. <a href="#RULE4_18">On His Lady's Avarice</a> +V. <a href="#RULE4_19">The Priesthood of Apollo</a> +VI. <a href="#RULE4_20">Let Lovers All Enlist</a> +VII. A Voice from the Tomb +[Transcriber's Note: Elegy VII listed in Contents, but not in text.] + +<a href="#RULE4_21">BOOK III</a> + +I. <a href="#RULE4_22">The New-Year's Gift</a> +II. <a href="#RULE4_23">He Died for Love</a> +III. <a href="#RULE4_24">Riches are Useless</a> +IV. <a href="#RULE4_25">A Dream from Phoebus</a> +V. <a href="#RULE4_26">To Friends at the Baths</a> +VI. <a href="#RULE4_27">A Fare-Well Toast</a> + +<a href="#RULE4_28">BOOK IV</a> + +XIII. <a href="#RULE4_29">A Lover's Oath</a> + +<a href="#RULE4_30"><i>Ovid's Lament for Tibullus' Death</i></a> +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_2"><!-- RULE4 2 --></a> + <h2> + BOOK I + </h2> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_3"><!-- RULE4 3 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE FIRST + </h2> + <center> + THE SIMPLE LIFE + </center> + <pre> + Give, if thou wilt, for gold a life of toil! + Let endless acres claim thy care! + While sounds of war thy fearful slumbers spoil, + And far-off trumpets scare! + + To me my poverty brings tranquil hours; + My lowly hearth-stone cheerly shines; + My modest garden bears me fruit and flowers, + And plenteous native wines. + + I set my tender vines with timely skill, + Or pluck large apples from the bough; + Or goad my lazy steers to work my will, + Or guide my own rude plough. + + Full tenderly upon my breast I bear + A lamb or small kid gone astray; + And yearly worship with my swains prepare, + The shepherd's ancient way. + + I love those rude shrines in a lonely field + Where rustic faith the god reveres, + Or flower-crowned cross-road mile-stones, half concealed + By gifts of travellers. + + Whatever fruit the kindly seasons show, + Due tribute to our gods I pour; + O'er Ceres' brows the tasseled wheat I throw, + Or wreathe her temple door. + + My plenteous orchards fear no pelf or harm, + By red Priapus sentinelled; + By his huge sickle's formidable charm + The bird thieves are dispelled. + + With offerings at my hearth, and faithful fires, + My Lares I revere: not now + As when with greater gifts my wealthier sires + Performed the hallowing vow. + + No herds have I like theirs: I only bring + One white lamb from my little fold, + While my few bondmen at the altar sing + Our harvest anthems old. + + Gods of my hearth! ye never learned to slight + A poor man's gift. My bowls of clay + To ye are hallowed by the cleansing rite, + The best, most ancient way. + + If from my sheep the thief, the wolf, be driven, + If fatter flocks allure them more, + To me the riches to my fathers given + Kind Heaven need not restore. + + My small, sure crop contents me; and the storm + That pelts my thatch breaks not my rest, + While to my heart I clasp the beauteous form + Of her it loves the best. + + My simple cot brings such secure repose, + When so companioned I can lie, + That winds of winter and the whirling snows + Sing me soft lullaby. + + This lot be mine! I envy not their gold + Who rove the furious ocean foam: + A frugal life will all my pleasures hold, + If love be mine, and home. + + Enough I travel, if I steal away + To sleep at noon-tide by the flow + Of some cool stream. Could India's jewels pay + For longer absence? No! + + Let great Messala vanquish land and sea, + And deck with spoils his golden hall! + I am myself a conquest, and must be + My Delia's captive thrall. + + Be Delia mine, and Fame may flout and scorn, + Or brand me with the sluggard's name! + With cheerful hands I'll plant my upland corn, + And live to laugh at Fame. + + If I might hold my Delia to my side, + The bare ground were a happier bed + Than theirs who, on a couch of silken pride, + Must mourn for love long dead. + + Gilt couch, soft down, slow fountains murmuring song— + These bring no peace. Befooled by words + Was he who, when in love a victor strong, + Left it for spoils and swords. + + For such let sad Cilicia's captives bleed, + Her citadels his legions hold! + And let him stride his swift, triumphal steed, + In silvered robes or gold! + + These eyes of mine would look on only thee + In that last hour when light shall fail. + Embrace me, dear, in death! Let thy hand be + In my cold fingers pale! + + With thine own arms my lifeless body lay + On that cold couch so soon on fire! + Give thy last kisses to my grateful clay, + And weep beside my pyre! + + And weep! Ah, me! Thy heart will wear no steel + Nor be stone-cold that rueful day: + Thy faithful grief may all true lovers feel + Nor tearless turn away! + + Yet ask I not that thou shouldst vex my shade + With cheek all wan and blighted brow: + But, O, to-day be love's full tribute paid, + While the swift Fates allow. + + Soon Death, with shadow-mantled head, will come, + Soon palsied age will creep our way, + Bidding love's flatteries at last be dumb, + Unfit for old and gray. + + But light-winged Venus still is smiling fair: + By night or noon we heed her call; + To pound on midnight doors I still may dare, + Or brave for love a brawl. + + I am a soldier and a captain good + In love's campaign, and calmly yield + To all who hunger after wounds and blood, + War's trumpet-echoing field. + + Ye toils and triumphs unto glory dear! + Ye riches home from conquest borne! + If my small fields their wonted harvest bear, + Both wealth and want I scorn! +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_4"><!-- RULE4 4 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE SECOND + </h2> + <center> + LOVE AND WITCHCRAFT + </center> + <pre> + Bring larger bowls and give my sorrows wine, + By heaviest slumbers be my brain possessed! + Soothe my sad brows with Bacchus' gift divine, + Nor wake me while my hapless passions rest! + + For Delia's jealous master at her door + Has set a watch, and bolts it with stern steel. + May wintry tempests strike it o'er and o'er, + And amorous Jove crash through with thunder-peal! + + My sighs alone, O Door, should pierce thee through, + Or backward upon soundless hinges turn. + The curses my mad rhymes upon thee threw,— + Forgive them!—Ah! in my own breast they burn! + + May I not move thee to remember now + How oft, dear Door, thou wert love's place of prayer? + While with fond kiss and supplicating vow, + I hung thee o'er with many a garland fair? + + In vain the prayer! Thine own resolve must break + Thy prison, Delia, and its guards evade. + Bid them defiance for thy lover's sake! + Be bold! The brave bring Venus to their aid. + + 'Tis Venus guides a youth through doors unknown; + 'Tis taught of her, a maid with firm-set lips + Steals from her soft couch, silent and alone, + And noiseless to her tryst securely trips. + + Her art it is, if with a husband near, + A lady darts a love-lorn look and smile + To one more blest; but languid sloth and fear + Receive not Venus' perfect gift of guile. + + Trust Venus, too, t' avert the wretched wrath + Of footpad, hungry for thy robe and ring! + So safe and sacred is a lover's path, + That common caution to the winds we fling. + + Oft-times I fail the wintry frost to feel, + And drenching rains unheeded round me pour, + If Delia comes at last with mute appeal, + And, finger on her lip, throws wide the door. + + Away those lamps! Thou, man or maid, away! + Great Venus wills not that her gifts be scanned. + Ask me no names! Walk lightly there, I pray! + Hold back thy tell-tale torch and curious hand! + + Yet fear not! Should some slave our loves behold, + Let him look on, and at his liking stare! + Hereafter not a whisper shall be told; + By all the gods our innocence he'll swear. + + Or should one such from prudent silence swerve + The chatterer who prates of me and thee + Shall learn, too late, why Venus, whom I serve, + Was born of blood upon a storm-swept sea. + + Nay, even thy husband will believe no ill. + All this a wondrous witch did tell me true: + One who can guide the stars to work her will, + Or turn a torrent's course her task to do. + + Her spells call forth pale spectres from their graves, + And charm bare bones from smoking pyres away: + 'Mid trooping ghosts with fearful shriek she raves, + Then sprinkles with new milk, and holds at bay. + + She has the power to scatter tempests rude, + And snows in summer at her whisper fall; + The horrid simples by Medea brewed + Are hers; she holds the hounds of Hell in thrall. + + For me a charm this potent witch did weave; + Thrice if thou sing, then speak with spittings three, + Thy husband not one witness will believe, + Nor his own eyes, if our embrace they see! + + But tempt not others! He will surely spy + All else—to me, me only, magic-blind! + And, hark! the hag with drugs, she said, would try + To heal love's madness and my heart unbind. + + One cloudless night, with smoky torch, she burned + Black victims to her gods of sorcery; + Yet asked I not love's loss, but love returned, + And would not wish for life, if robbed of thee. +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_5"><!-- RULE4 5 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE THIRD + </h2> + <center> + SICKNESS AND ABSENCE + </center> + <pre> + Am I abandoned? Does Messala sweep + Yon wide Aegean wave, not any more + He, nor my mates, remembering where I weep, + Struck down by fever on this alien shore? + + Spare me, dark death! I have no mother here, + To clasp my relics to her widowed breast; + No sister, to pour forth with hallowing tear + Assyrian incense where my ashes rest. + + Nor Delia, who, before she said adieu, + Asked omens fair at every potent shrine. + Thrice did the ministrants give blessings true, + The thrice-cast lot returned the lucky sign. + + All promised safe return; but she had fears + And doubting sorrows, which implored my stay; + While I, though all was ready, dried her tears, + And found fresh pretext for one more delay. + + An evil bird, I cried, did near me flit, + Or luckless portent thrust my plans aside; + Or Saturn's day, unhallowed and unfit, + Forbade a journey from my Delia's side. + + Full oft, when starting on the fatal track, + My stumbling feet foretold unhappy hours: + Ah! he who journeys when love calls him back, + Should know he disobeys celestial powers! + + Help me, great Goddess! For thy healing power + The votive tablets on thy shrine display. + See Delia there outwatch the midnight hour, + Sitting, white-stoled, until the dawn of day! + + Each day her tresses twice she doth unbind, + And sings, the loveliest of the Pharian band. + O that my fathers' gods this prayer could find! + Gods of my hearth and of my native land! + + How happily men lived when Saturn reigned! + Ere weary highways crossed the fair young world, + Ere lofty ships the purple seas disdained, + Their swelling canvas to the winds unfurled! + + No roving seaman, from a distant course, + Filled full of far-fetched wares his frail ship's hold: + At home, the strong bull stood unyoked; the horse + Endured no bridle in the age of gold. + + Men's houses had no doors? No firm-set rock + Marked field from field by niggard masters held. + The very oaks ran honey; the mild flock + Brought home its swelling udders, uncompelled. + + Nor wrath nor war did that blest kingdom know; + No craft was taught in old Saturnian time, + By which the frowning smith, with blow on blow, + Could forge the furious sword and so much crime. + + Now Jove is king! Now have we carnage foul, + And wreckful seas, and countless ways to die. + Nay! spare me, Father Jove, for on my soul + Nor perjury, nor words blaspheming lie. + + If longer life I ask of Fate in vain, + O'er my frail dust this superscription be:— +<i>"Here Death's dark hand</i> TIBULLUS <i>doth detain,</i> +<i>Messala's follower over land and sea!"</i> + + Then, since my soul to love did always yield, + Let Venus guide it the immortal way, + Where dance and song fill all th' Elysian field, + And music that will never die away. + + There many a song-bird with his fellow sails, + And cheerly carols on the cloudless air; + Each grove breathes incense; all the happy vales + O'er-run with roses, numberless and fair. + + Bright bands of youth with tender maidens stray, + Led by the love-god all delights to share; + And each fond lover death once snatched away + Winds an immortal myrtle in his hair. + + Far, far from such, the dreadful realms of gloom + By those black streams of Hades circled round, + Where viper-tressed, fierce ministers of doom,— + The Furies drive lost souls from bound to bound. + + The doors of brass, and dragon-gate of Hell, + Grim Cerberus guards, and frights the phantoms back: + Ixion, who by Juno's beauty fell, + Gives his frail body to the whirling rack. + + Stretched o'er nine roods, lies Tityos accursed, + The vulture at his vitals feeding slow; + There Tantalus, whose bitter, burning thirst + The fleeting waters madden as they flow. + + There Danaus' daughters Venus' anger feel, + Filling their urns at Lethe all in vain;— +<i>And there's the wretch who would my Delia steal,</i> +<i>And wish me absent on a long campaign!</i> + + O chaste and true! In thy still house shall sit + The careful crone who guards thy virtuous bed; + She tells thee tales, and when the lamps are lit, + Reels from her distaff the unending thread. + + Some evening, after tasks too closely plied, + My Delia, drowsing near the harmless dame, + All sweet surprise, will find me at her side, + Unheralded, as if from heaven I came. + + Then to my arms, in lovely disarray, + With welcome kiss, thy darling feet will fly! + O happy dream and prayer! O blissful day! + What golden dawn, at last, shall bring thee nigh? +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_6"><!-- RULE4 6 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE FOURTH + </h2> + <center> + THE ARTS OF CONQUEST + </center> + <pre> + "Safe in the shelter of thy garden-bower, + "Priapus, from the harm of suns or snows, + "With beard all shag, and hair that wildly flows,— + "O say! o'er beauteous youth whence comes thy power? + "Naked thou frontest wintry nights and days, + "Naked, no less, to Sirius' burning rays." + + So did my song implore the rustic son + Of Bacchus, by his moon-shaped sickle known. + + "Comply with beauty's lightest wish," said he, + "Complying love leads best to victory. + "Nor let a furious 'No' thy bosom pain; + "Beauty but slowly can endure a chain. + "Slow Time the rage of lions will o'er-sway, + "And bid them fawn on man. Rough rocks and rude + "In gentle streams Time smoothly wears away; + "And on the vine-clad hills by sunshine wooed, + "The purpling grapes feel Time's secure control; + "In Time, the skies themselves new stars unroll. + "Fear not great oaths! Love's broken oaths are borne + "Unharmed of heaven o'er every wind and wave. + "Jove is most mild; and he himself hath sworn + "There is no force in vows which lovers rave. + "Falsely by Dian's arrows boldly swear! + "And perjure thee by chaste Minerva's hair! + + "Be a prompt wooer, if thou wouldst be wise: + "Time is in flight, and never backward flies. + "How swiftly fades the bloom, the vernal green! + "How swift yon poplar dims its silver sheen! + "Spurning the goal th' Olympian courser flies, + "Then yields to Time his strength, his victories; + "And oft I see sad, fading youth deplore + "Each hour it lost, each pleasure it forbore. + "Serpents each spring look young once more; harsh Heaven + "To beauteous youth has one brief season given. + "With never-fading youth stern Fate endows + "Phoebus and Bacchus only, and allows + "Full-clustering ringlets on their lovely brows. + + "Keep at thy loved one's side, though hour by hour + "The path runs on; though Summer's parching star + "Burn all the fields, or blackest tempests lower, + "Or monitory rainbows threaten far. + "If he would hasten o'er the purple sea, + "Thyself the helmsman or the oarsman be. + "Endure, unmurmuring, each unwelcome toil, + "Nor fear thy unaccustomed hands to spoil. + "If to the hills he goes with huntsman's snare, + "Let thine own back the nets and burden bear. + "Swords would he have? Fence lightly when you meet; + "Expose thy body and compel defeat. + "He will be gracious then, and will not spurn + "Caresses to receive, resist, return. + "He will protest, relent, and half-conspire, + "And later, all unasked, thy love desire. + + "But nay! In these vile times thy skill is vain. + "Beauty and youth are sold for golden gain. + "May he who first taught love to sell and buy, + "In grave accurst, with all his riches lie! + + "O beauteous youth, how will ye dare to slight + "The Muse, to whom Pierian streams belong? + "Will ye not smile on poets, and delight, + "More than all golden gifts, in gift of song? + "Did not some song empurple Nisus' hair, + "And bid young Pelops' ivory shoulder glow? + "That youth the Muses praise, is he not fair, + "Long as the stars shall shine or waters flow ? + + "But he who scorns the Muse, and will for gain + "Surrender his base heart,—let his foul cries + "Pursue the Corybants' infuriate train, + "Through all the cities of the Phrygian plain,— + "Unmanned forever, in foul Phrygian guise! + "But Venus blesses lovers who endear + "Love's quest alone by flattery, by fear, + "By supplication, plaint, and piteous tear." + + Such song the god of gardens bade me sing + For Titius; but his fond wife would fling + Such counsel to the winds: "Beware," she cried, + "Trust not fair youth too far. For each one's pride + "Offers alluring charms: one loves to ride + "A gallant horse, and rein him firmly in; + "One cleaves the calm wave with white shoulder bare; + "One is all courage, and for this looks fair; + "And one's pure, blushing cheeks thy praises win." + + Let him obey her! But my precepts wise + Are meant for all whom youthful beauty's eyes + Turn from in scorn. Let each his glory boast! + Mine is, that lovers, when despairing most, + My clients should be called. For them my door + Stands hospitably open evermore. + Philosopher to Venus I shall be, + And throngs of studious youth will learn of me. + + Alas! alas! How love has been my bane! + My cunning fails, and all my arts are vain. + Have mercy, fair one, lest my pupils all + Mock me, who point a path in which I fall! +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_7"><!-- RULE4 7 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE FIFTH + </h2> + <center> + COUNTRY-LIFE WITH DELIA + </center> + <pre> + With haughty frown I swore I could employ + Thine absence well. But all my pride is o'er! + Now am I lashed, as when a madcap boy + Whirls a swift top along the level floor. + + Aye! Twist me! Plague me! Never shall I say + Such boast again. Thy scorn and anger spare! + Spare me!—by all our stolen loves I pray, + By Venus,—by thy wealth of plaited hair! + + Was it not I, when fever laid thee low, + Whose holy rites and offerings set thee free? + Thrice round thy bed with brimstone did I go, + While the wise witch sang healing charms for thee. + + Lest evil dreams should vex thee, I did bring + That worshipped wafer by the Vestal given; + Then, with loose robes and linen stole, did sing + Nine prayers to Hecate 'neath the midnight heaven. + + All rites were done! Yet doth a rival hold + My darling, and my futile prayers deride: + For I dreamed madly of a life all gold, + If she were healed,—but Heaven the dream denied. + + A pleasant country-seat, whose orchards yield + Sweet fruit to be my Delia's willing care, + While our full corn-crop in the sultry field + Stands ripe and dry! O, but my dreams were fair! + + She in the vine-vat will our clusters press, + And tread the rich must with her dancing feet; + She oft my sheep will number, oft caress + Some pretty, prattling slave with kisses sweet. + + She offers Pan due tributes of our wealth, + Grapes for the vine, and for a field of corn + Wheat in the ear, or for the sheep-fold's health + Some frugal feast is to his altar borne. + + Of all my house let her the mistress be! + I am displaced and give not one command! + Then let Messala come! From each choice tree + Let Delia pluck him fruit with her soft hand! + + To serve and please so worshipful a guest, + She spends her utmost art and anxious care; + Asks his least wish, and spreads her dainty best, + Herself the hostess and hand-maiden fair. + + Mad hope! The storm-winds bore away that dream + Far as Armenia's perfume-breathing bids. + Great Venus! Did I at thy shrine blaspheme? + Am I accursed for rash and impious words? + + Had I, polluted, touched some altar pure, + Or stolen garlands from a temple door— + What prayers and vigils would I not endure, + And weeping kiss the consecrated floor? + + Had I deserved this stroke,—with pious pain + From shrine to shrine my suppliant knees should crawl; + I would to all absolving gods complain, + And smite my forehead on the marble wall. + + Thou who thy gibes at love canst scarce repress, + Beware! The angry god may strike again! + I knew a youth who laughed at love's distress, + And bore, when old, the worst that lovers ken. + + His poor, thin voice he did compel to woo, + And curled, for mockery, his scanty hair; + Spied on her door, as slighted lovers do, + And stopped her maid in any public square. + + The forum-loungers thrust him roughly by, + And spat upon their breasts, such luck to turn: + Have mercy, Venus! Thy true follower I! + Why wouldst thou, goddess, thine own harvest burn! +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_8"><!-- RULE4 8 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE SIXTH + </h2> + <center> + A LOVER'S CURSES + </center> + <pre> + I strove with wine my sorrows to efface. + But wine turned tears was all the drink I knew; + I tried a new, strange lass. Each cold embrace + Brought my true love to mind, and colder grew. + + "I was bewitched" she cried "by shameful charms;" + And things most vile she vowed she could declare. + Bewitched! 'tis true! but by thy soft white arms, + Thy lovely brows and lavish golden hair! + + Such charms had Thetis, born in Nereid cave, + Who drives her dolphin-chariot fast and free + To Peleus o'er the smooth Hæmonian wave, + Love-guided o'er long leagues of azure sea. + + Ah me! the magic that dissolves my health + Is a rich suitor in my mistress' eye, + Whom that vile bawd led to her door by stealth + And opened it, and bade me pine and die. + + That hag should feed on blood. Her festive bowls + Should be rank gall: and round her haunted room + Wild, wailing ghosts and monitory owls + Should flit forever shrieking death and doom. + + Made hunger-mad, may she devour the grass + That grows on graves, and gnaw the bare bones down + Which wolves have left! Stark-naked may she pass, + Chased by the street-dogs through the taunting town! + + My curse comes fast. Unerring signs are seen + In stars above us. There are gods who still + Protect unhappy lovers: and our Queen + Venus rains fire on all who slight her will. + + O cruel girl! unlearn the wicked art + Of that rapacious hag! For everywhere + Wealth murders love. But thy poor lover's heart + Is ever thine, and thou his dearest care. + + A poor man clings close to thy lovely side, + And keeps the crowd off, and thy pathway free; + He hides thee with kind friends, and as his bride + From thy dull, golden thraldom ransoms thee. + + Vain is my song. Her door will not unclose + For words, but for a hand that knocks with gold. + O fear me, my proud rival, fear thy foes! + Oft have the wheels of fortune backward rolled! +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_9"><!-- RULE4 9 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE SEVENTH + </h2> + <center> + A DESPERATE EXPEDIENT + </center> + <pre> + Thou beckonest ever with a face all smiles, + Then, God of Love, thou lookest fierce and pale. + Unfeeling boy! why waste on me such wiles? + What glory if a god o'er man prevails? + + Once more thy snares are set. My Delia flies + To steal a night—with whom I cannot tell. + Can I believe when she denies, denies— + I, for whose sake she tricked her lord so well? + + By me, alas! those cunning ways were shown + To fool her slaves. My skill I now deplore! + For me she made excuse to sleep alone, + Or silenced the shrill hinges of her door. + + "Twas I prescribed what remedies to use + If mutual passion somewhat fiercely play; + If there were tell-tale bite or rosy bruise, + I showed what simples take the scars away. + + Hear me! fond husband of the false and fair, + Make me thy guest, and she shall chastely go! + When she makes talk with men I shall take care, + Nor shall she at the wine her bosom show. + + I shall take care she does not nod or smile + To any other, nor her hand imbue + With his fast-flowing wine, that her swift guile + May scribble on the board their rendez-vous. + + When she goes out, beware! And if she hie + To Bona Dea, where no males may be, + Straight to the sacred altars follow I, + Who only trust her if my eyes can see. + + Oh! oft I pressed that soft hand I adore, + Feigning with some rare ring or seal to play, + And plied thee with strong wine till thou didst snore, + While I, with wine and water, won the day. + + I wronged thee, aye! But 'twas not what I meant. + Forgive, for I confess. 'Twas Cupid's spell + O'er-swayed me. Who can foil a god's intent? + Now have I courage all my deeds to tell. + + Yes, it was I, unblushing I declare. + At whom thy watch-dog all night long did bay:— + But some-one else now stands insistent there, + Or peers about him and then walks away. + + He seems to pass. But soon will backward fare + Alone, and, coughing, at the threshold hide. + What skill hath stolen love! Beware, beware! + Thy boat is drifting on a treacherous tide. + + What worth a lovely wife, if others buy + Thy treasure, if thy stoutest bolt betrays, + If in thy very arms she breathes a sigh + For absent joy, and feigns a slight <i>malaise?</i> + + Give her in charge to me! I will not spare + A master's whip. Her chain shall constant be. + While thou mayst go abroad and have no care + Who trims his curls, or flaunts his toga free. + + Whatever beaux accost her, all is well! + Not the least hint of scandal shall be made. + For I will send them far away, to tell + In some quite distant street their amorous trade. + + All this a god decrees; a sibyl wise + In prophet-song did this to me proclaim; + Who when Bellona kindles in her eyes, + Fears neither twisted scourge nor scorching flame. + + Then with a battle-axe herself will scar + Her own wild arms, and sprinkle on the ground + Blood, for Bellona's emblems of wild war, + Swift-flowing from the bosom's gaping wound. + + A barb of iron rankles in her breast, + As thus she chants the god's command to all: + "Oh, spare a beauty by true love possessed, + Lest some vast after-woe upon thee fall! + + "For shouldst thou win her, all thy power will fail, + As from this wound flows forth the fatal gore, + Or as these ashes cast upon the gale, + Are scattered far and kindled never more." + + And, O my Delia, the fierce prophetess + Told dreadful things that on thy head should fall:— + I know not what they were—but none the less + I pray my darling may escape them all. + + Not for thyself do I forgive thee, no! + 'Tis thy sweet mother all my wrath disarms,— + That precious creature, who would come and go, + And lead thee through the darkness to my arms. + + Though great the peril, oft the silent dame + Would join our hands together, and all night + Wait watching on the threshold till I came, + Nor ever failed to know my steps aright. + + Long be thy life! dear, kind and faithful heart! + Would it were possible my life's whole year + Were at the friendly hearth-stone where thou art! + 'Tis for thy sake I hold thy daughter dear. + + Be what she will, she is not less thy child. + Oh, teach her to be chaste! Though well she knows + No free-born fillet binds her tresses wild + Nor Roman stole around her ankles flows! + + My lot is servile too. Whate'er I see + Of beauty brings her to my fevered eye. + If I should be accused of crime, or be + Dragged up the steep street, by the hair, to die:— + + Even then there were no fear that I should lay + Rude hands on thee my sweet! for if o'erswayed + By such blind frenzy in an evil day, + I should bewail the hour my hands were made. + + Yet would I have thee chaste and constant be, + Not with a fearful but a faithful heart; + And that in thy fond breast the love of me + Burn but more fondly when we live apart. + + She who was never faithful to a friend + Will come to age and misery, and wind + With tremulous ringer from her distaff's end + The ever-twisting wool; and she will bind + + Upon her moving looms the finished thread, + Or clean and pick the long skeins white as snow. + And all her fickle gallants when they wed, + Will say, "That old one well deserves her woe." + + Venus from heaven will note her flowing tear: + "I smile not on the faithless," she will say. + Her curse on others fall! O, Delia dear! + Let us teach true love to grow old and gray! +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_10"><!-- RULE4 10 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE EIGHTH + </h2> + <center> + MESSALA + </center> + <pre> + The Fatal Sisters did this day ordain, + Reeling threads no god can rend, + Foretelling to this man should bend + The tribes of Acquitaine; + And 'neath his legions' yoke + Th' impetuous torrent Atur glide subdued. + All was accomplished as the Fates bespoke; + His triumph then ensued: + The Roman youth, exulting from afar, + Acclaimed his mighty deeds, + And watched the fettered chieftains filing by, + While, drawn by snow-white steeds, + Messala followed on his ivory car, + Laurelled and lifted high! + + Not without me this glory and renown! + Let Pyrenees my boast attest! + Tarbella, little mountain-town, + Cold Ocean rolling in the utmost West, + Arar, Garonne, and rushing Rhone, + Will bear me witness due; + And valleys broad the blond Carnutes own, + By Liger darkly blue. + I saw the Cydnus flow, + Winding on in ever-tranquil mood, + And from his awful peak, in cloud and snow, + Cold Taurus o'er his wild Cilicians' brood. + I saw through thronged streets unmolested flying + Th' inviolate white dove of Palestine; + I looked on Tyrian towers, by soundless waters lying, + Whence Tyrians first were masters of the brine. + The flooding Nile I knew; + What time hot Sirius glows, + And Egypt's thirsty field the covering deluge knows; + But whence the wonder flows, + O Father Nile! no mortal e'er did view. + Along thy bank not any prayer is made + To Jove for fruitful showers. + On thee they call! Or in sepulchral shade, + The life-reviving, sky-descended powers + Of bright <i>Osiris</i> hail,— + While, wildly chanting, the barbaric choir, + With timbrels and strange fire, + Their Memphian bull bewail. + + Osiris did the plough bestow, + And first with iron urged the yielding ground. + He taught mankind good seed to throw + In furrows all untried; + He plucked fair fruits the nameless trees did hide: + He first the young vine to its trellis bound, + And with his sounding sickle keen + Shore off the tendrils green. + + For him the bursting clusters sweet + Were in the wine-press trod; + Song followed soon, a prompting of the god, + And rhythmic dance of lightly leaping feet. + Of Bacchus the o'er-wearied swain receives + Deliverance from all his pains; + Bacchus gives comfort when a mortal grieves, + And mirth to men in chains. + Not to Osiris toils and tears belong, + But revels and delightful song; + Lightly beckoning loves are thine! + Garlands deck thee, god of wine! + We hear thee coming, with the flute's refrain, + With fruit of ivy on thy forehead bound, + Thy saffron vesture streaming to the ground. + And thou hast garments, too, of Tyrian stain, + When thine ecstatic train + Bear forth thy magic ark to mysteries divine. + + Immortal guest, our games and pageant share! + Smile on the flowing cup, and hail + With us the <i>Genius</i> of this natal day! + From whose anointed, rose-entwisted hair, + Arabian odors waft away. + If thou the festal bless, I will not fail + To burn sweet incense unto him and thee, + And offerings of Arcadian honey bear. + + So grant Messala fortunes ever fair! + Of such a sire the children worthy be! + Till generations two and three + Surround his venerated chair! + See, winding upward through the Latin land, + Yon highway past, the Alban citadel, + At great Messala's mandate made, + In fitted stones and firm-set gravel laid, + Thy monument forever more to stand! + The mountain-villager thy fame will tell, + When through the darkness wending late from Rome, + He foots it smoothly home. + + O Genius of this natal day, + May many a year thy gift declare! + Now bright and fair thy pinions soar away,— + Return, thou bright and fair! +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_11"><!-- RULE4 11 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE NINTH + </h2> + <center> + TO PHOLOE AND MARATHUS + </center> + <pre> + The language of a lover's eyes I cannot choose but see; + The oracles in tender sighs were never dark to me. + + No art of augury I need, nor heart of victims slain, + Nor birds of omen singing forth the future's bliss or bane. + + Venus herself did round my arm th' enchanted wimple throw, + And taught me—Ah! not unchastised!—what wizardry I know. + + Deceive me then no more! The god more furiously burns + Whatever wight rebelliously his first commandment spurns. +</pre> + <center> + <i>To Pholoë</i> + </center> + <pre> + Fair Pholoë! what profits it to plait thy flowing hair? + Why rearrange each lustrous tress with fond, superfluous care? + + Why tint that blooming cheek anew? Or give thy fingers, Girl! + To slaves who keep the dainty tips a perfect pink and pearl? + + Why strain thy sandal-string so hard? or why the daily change + Of mantles, robes, and broideries, of fashions new and strange? + + Howe'er thou hurry from thy glass in careless disarray, + Thou canst not miss the touch that steals thy lover's heart away! + + Thou needst not ask some wicked witch her potion to provide, + Brewed of the livid, midnight herbs, to draw him to thy side. + + Her magic from a neighbor's field the coming crop can charm, + Or stop the viper's lifted sting before it work thee harm. + + Such magic would the riding moon from her white chariot spill, + Did not the brazen cymbals' sound undo the impious ill! + + But fear not thou thy smitten swain of lures and sorcery tell, + Thy beauty his enchantment was, without inferior spell. + + To touch thy flesh, to taste thy kiss, his freedom did destroy; + Thy beauteous body in his arms enslaved the hapless boy. + + Proud Pholoë! why so unkind, when thy young lover pleads? + Remember Venus can avenge a fair one's heartless deeds! + + Nay, nay! no gifts! Go gather them of bald-heads rich and old! + Ay! let them buy thy mocking smiles and languid kisses cold! + + Better than gold that youthful bloom of his round, ruddy face, + And beardless lips that mar not thine, however close th' embrace. + + If thou above his shoulders broad thy lily arms entwine, + The luxury of monarchs proud is mean compared with thine. + + May Venus teach thee how to yield to all thy lover's will, + When blushing passion bursts its bounds and bids thy bosom thrill. + + Go, meet his dewy, lingering lips in many a breathless kiss! + And let his white neck bear away rose-tokens of his bliss! + + What comfort, girl, can jewels bring, or gems in priceless store, + To her who sleeps and weeps alone, of young love wooed no more? + + Too late, alas! for love's return, or fleeting youth's recall, + When on thy head relentless age has cast the silvery pall. + + Then beauty will be anxious art,—to tinge the changing hair, + And hide the record of the years with colors falsely fair. + + To pluck the silver forth, and with strange surgery and pain, + Half-flay the fading cheek and brow, and bid them bloom again. + + O listen, Pholoë! with thee are youth and jocund May: + Enjoy to-day! The golden hours are gliding fast away! + + Why plague our comely Marathus? Thy chaste severity + Let wrinkled wooers feel,—but not, not such a youth as he! + + Spare the poor lad! 'tis not some crime his soul is brooding on; + 'Tis love of thee that makes his eyes so wild and woe-begone! + + He suffers! hark! he moans thy loss in many a doleful sigh, + And from his eyes the glittering tears flow down and will not dry. + + "Why say me nay?" he cries, "Why talk of chaperones severe? + I am in love and know the art to trick a listening ear." + + "At stolen tryst and <i>rendez-vous</i> my breath is light and low, + And I can give a kiss so soft not even the winds may know. + + "I creep unheard at dead of night along a marble floor, + "Nor foot-fall make, nor tell-tale creak, when I unbar the door. + + "What use are all my arts, if still my lady answers nay! + "If even to her couch I came, she'd frown and fly away! + + "Or when she says she will, 'tis then she doth most treacherous prove, + "And keeps me tortured all night long with unrewarded love. + + "And while I say 'She comes, she comes!' whatever breathes or stirs, + "I think I hear a footstep light of tripping feet like hers! + + "Away vain arts of love! false aids to win the fair! + "Henceforth a cloak of filthy shag shall be my only wear! + + "Her door is shut! She doth deny one moment's interview! + "I'll wear my toga loose no more, as happier lovers do." +</pre> + <center> + <i>To Marathus</i> + </center> + <pre> + Have done, dear lad! In vain thy tears! She will not heed thy plea! + Redden no more thy bright young eyes to please her cruelty! +</pre> + <center> + <i>To Pholoë</i> + </center> + <pre> + I warn thee, Pholoë, when the gods chastise thy naughty pride, + No incense burned at holy shrines will turn their wrath aside. + + This Marathus himself, erewhile, made mock of lovers' moan, + Nor knew how soon the vengeful god would mark him for his own. + + He also laughed at sighs and tears, and oft would make delay, + And oft a lover's fondest wish would baffle and betray. + + But now on beauty's haughty ways he looks in fierce disdain; + He scarce may pass a bolted door without a secret pain. + + Beware, proud girl, some plague will fall, unless thy pride give way; + Thou wilt in vain the gods implore to send thee back this day! +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_12"><!-- RULE4 12 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE TENTH + </h2> + <center> + TO VENAL BEAUTY + </center> + <pre> + Why, if my sighs thou wert so soon to scorn, + Didst dare on Heaven with perjured promise call? + Ah! not unpunished can men be forsworn; + Silent and slow the perjurer's doom shall fall. + + Ye gods, be merciful! Oh! let it be + That beauteous creatures who for once offend + Your powers divine, for once may go scot-free, + Escape your scourge, and make some happy end! + + 'Tis love of gold binds oxen to the plough, + And bids their goading driver sweat and chide; + The quest of gold allures the ship's frail prow + O'er wind-swept seas, where stars the wanderers guide. + + By golden gifts my love was made a slave. + Oh, that some god a lover's prayer might hear, + And sink such gifts in ashes of a grave, + Or bid them in swift waters disappear! + + But I shall be avenged. Thy lovely grace + The dust of weary exile will impair; + Fierce, parching suns will mar thy tender face, + And rude winds rough thy curls and clustering hair. + + Did I not warn thee never to defile + Beauty with gold? For every wise man knows + That riches only mantle with a smile + A thousand sorrows and a host of woes. + + If snared by wealth, thou dost at love blaspheme, + Venus will frown so on thy guilty deed, + 'Twere better to be burned or stabbed, I deem, + Or lashed with twisted scourge till one should bleed. + + Hope not to cover it! That god will come + Who lets not mortal secrets safely hide; + That god who bids our slaves be deaf and dumb, + Then, in their cups, the scandal publish wide. + + This god from men asleep compels the cry + That shouts aloud the thing they last would tell. + How oft with tears I told thee this, when I + At thy white feet a shameful suppliant fell! + + Then wouldst thou vow that never glittering gold + Nor jewels rare could turn thine eyes from me, + Nor all the wealth Campania's acres hold, + Nor full Falernian vintage flowing free. + + For oaths like thine I would have sworn the skies + Hold not a star, nor crystal streams look clear: + While thou wouldst weep, and I, unskilled in lies, + Wiped from thy lovely blush the trickling tear. + + Why didst thou so? save that thy fancy strayed + To beauty fickle as thine own and light? + I let thee go. Myself the torches made, + And kept thy secret for a live-long night. + + Sometimes I led to sudden rendezvous + The flattered object of thy roving joys. + Mad that I was! Till now I never knew + How love like thine ensnares and then destroyes. + + With wondering mind I versified thy praise; + But now that Muse with blushes I requite. + May some swift fire consume my moon-struck lays, + Or flooding rivers drown them out of sight! + + And thou, O thou whose beauty is a trade, + Begone, begone! Thy gains bring cursed ill. + And thou, whose gifts my frail and fair betrayed, + May thy wife rival thine adulterous skill! + + Languid with stolen kisses, may she frown, + And chastely to thy lips drop down her veil! + May thy proud house be common to the town, + And many a gallant at thy bed prevail! + + Nor let thy gamesome sister e'er be said + To drain more wine-cups than her lovers be, + Though oft with wine and rose her feast is red + Till the bright wheels of morn her revels see! + + No one like her to pass a furious night + In varied vices and voluptuous art! + Well did she train thy wife, who fools thee quite, + And clasps, with practised passion, to her heart! + + Is it for thee she binds her beauteous hair, + Or in long toilets combs each dainty tress? + For thee, that golden armlet rich and rare, + Or Tyrian robes that her soft bosom press? + + Nay, not for thee! some lover young and trim + Compels her passion to allure his flame + By all the arts of beauty. 'Tis for him + She wastes thy wealth and brings thy house to shame. + + I praise her for it. What nice girl could bear + Thy gouty body and old dotard smile? + Yet unto thee did my lost love repair— + O Venus! a wild beast were not so vile! + + Didst thou make traffic of my fond caress, + And with another mock my kiss for gain? + Go, weep! Another shall my heart possess, + And sway the kingdom where thou once didst reign. + + Go, weep! But I shall laugh. At Venus' door + I hang a wreath of palm enwrought with gold; + And graven on that garland evermore, + Her votaries shall read this story told: + +<i>"Tibullus, from a lying love set free,</i> +<i>O Goddess, brings his gift, and asks new grace of thee."</i> +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_13"><!-- RULE4 13 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE ELEVENTH + </h2> + <center> + WAR IS A CRIME + </center> + <pre> + Whoe'er first forged the terror-striking sword, + His own fierce heart had tempered like its blade. + What slaughter followed! Ah! what conflict wild! + What swifter journeys unto darksome death! + But blame not him! Ourselves have madly turned + On one another's breasts that cunning edge + Wherewith he meant mere blood of beast to spill. + + Gold makes our crime. No need for plundering war, + When bowls of beech-wood held the frugal feast. + No citadel was seen nor moated wall; + The shepherd chief led home his motley flock, + And slumbered free from care. Would I had lived + In that good, golden time; nor e'er had known + A mob in arms arrayed; nor felt my heart + Throb to the trumpet's call! Now to the wars + I must away, where haply some chance foe + Bears now the blade my naked side shall feel. + Save me, dear Lares of my hearth and home! + Ye oft my childish steps did guard and bless, + As timidly beneath your seat they strayed. + + Deem it no shame that hewn of ancient oak + Your simple emblems in my dwelling stand! + For so the pious generations gone + Revered your powers, and with offerings rude + To rough-hewn gods in narrow-built abodes, + Lived beautiful and honorable lives. + Did they not bring to crown your hallowed brows + Garlands of ripest corn, or pour new wine + In pure libation on the thirsty ground? + Oft on some votive day the father brought + The consecrated loaf, and close behind + His little daughter in her virgin palm + Bore honey bright as gold. O powers benign! + To ye once more a faithful servant prays + For safety! Let the deadly brazen spear + Pass harmless o'er my head! and I will slay + For sacrifice, with many a thankful song, + A swine and all her brood, while I, the priest, + Bearing the votive basket myrtle-bound, + Walk clothed in white, with myrtle in my hair. + + Grant me but this! and he who can may prove + Mighty in arms and by the grace of Mars + Lay chieftains low; and let him tell the tale + To me who drink his health, while on the board + His wine-dipped finger draws, line after line, + Just how his trenches ranged! What madness dire + Bids men go foraging for death in war? + Our death is always near, and hour by hour, + With soundless step a little nearer draws. + + What harvest down below, or vineyard green? + There Cerberus howls, and o'er the Stygian flood + The dark ship goes; while on the clouded shore + With hollow cheek and tresses lustreless, + Wanders the ghostly throng. O happier far + Some white-haired sire, among his children dear, + Beneath a lowly thatch! His sturdy son + Shepherds the young rams; he, his gentle ewes; + And oft at eve, his willing labor done, + His careful wife his weary limbs will bathe + From a full, steaming bowl. Such lot be mine! + So let this head grow gray, while I shall tell, + Repeating oft, the deeds of long ago! + Then may long Peace my country's harvests bless! + Till then, let Peace on all our fields abide! + Bright-vestured Peace, who first beneath their yoke + Led oxen in the plough, who first the vine + Did nourish tenderly, and chose good grapes, + That rare old wine may pass from sire to son! + Peace! who doth keep the plow and harrow bright, + While rust on some forgotten shelf devours + The cruel soldier's useless sword and shield. + From peaceful holiday with mirth and wine + The rustic, not half sober, driveth home + With wife and weans upon the lumbering wain. + + But wars by Venus kindled ne'er have done; + The vanquished lass, with tresses rudely torn, + Of doors broke down, and smitten cheek complains; + And he, her victor-lover, weeps to see + How strong were his wild hands. But mocking Love + Teaches more angry words, and while they rave, + Sits with a smile between! O heart of stone! + O iron heart! that could thy sweetheart strike! + Ye gods avenge her! Is it not enough + To tear her soft robe from her limbs away, + And loose her knotted hair?—Enough, indeed, + To move her tears! Thrice happy is the wight + Whose frown some lovely mistress weeps to see! + But he who gives her blows!—Go, let him bear + A sword and spear! In exile let him be + From Venus' mild domain! Come blessed Peace! + Come, holding forth thy blade of ripened corn! + Fill thy large lap with mellow fruits and fair! +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_14"><!-- RULE4 14 --></a> + <h2> + BOOK II + </h2> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_15"><!-- RULE4 15 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE FIRST + </h2> + <center> + A RUSTIC HOLIDAY + </center> + <pre> + Give us good omen, friends! To-day we bless + With hallowed rites this dear, ancestral seat. + Let Bacchus his twin horns with clusters dress, + And Ceres clasp her brows with bursting wheat! + + To-day no furrows! Both for field and man + Be sacred rest from delving toil and care! + With necks yoke-free, at mangers full of bran, + The tranquil steers shall nought but garlands bear. + + Our tasks to-day are heaven's. No maid shall dare + Upon a distaff her deft hands employ. + Let none, too rash, our simple worship share, + Who wrought last eve at Venus' fleeting joy! + + The gods claim chastity. Come clad in white, + And lave your palms at some clear fountain's brim! + Then watch the mild lamb at the altar bright, + Yon olive-cinctured choir close-following him! + + "Ye Guardian Powers, who bless our native soil, + Far from these acres keep ill luck away! + No withered ears the reaper's task to spoil! + Nor swift wolf on our laggard lambs to prey!" + + So shall the master of this happy house + Pile the huge logs upon his blazing floor; + While with kind mirth and neighborly carouse, + His bondsmen build their huts beside his door. + + The bliss I pray for has been granted me! + With reverent art observing things divine, + I have explored the omens,—and I see + The Guardian Powers are good to me and mine. + + Bring old Falernian from the shadows gray, + And burst my Chian seal! He is disgraced, + Who gets home sober from this festive day, + Or finds his door without a step retraced. + + Health to Messala now from all our band! + Drink to each letter of his noble name! + Messala! laurelled from the Gallic land, + Of his grim-bearded sires the last, best fame! + + Be with me, thou! inspire a song for me + To sing those gods of woodland, hill and glade, + Without whose arts man's hunger still would be + Only on mast and gathered acorns stayed. + + They taught us rough-hewn rafters to prepare, + And clothe low cabins with a roof of green; + They bade fierce bulls the servile yoke to bear; + And wheels to move a wain were theirs, I ween. + + Our wild fruit was forgot, when apple-boughs + Bore grafts, and thirsty orchards (art divine!) + Were freshed by ditching; while with sweet carouse + The wine-press flowed, and water wed with wine. + + Our fields bore harvests, when the dog-star flame + Bade Summer of her tawny tress be shorn; + From fields of Spring the bees, with busy game, + Stored well their frugal combs the live-long morn. + + 'Twas some field-tiller from his plough at rest, + First hummed his homely words to numbers true, + Or trilled his pipe of straw in songs addressed + To his blithe woodland gods, with worship due. + + Some rustic ruddied with vermilion clay + First led, O Bacchus, thy swift choric throng, + And won for record of thy festal day + Some fold's chief goat, fit meed of frolic song! + + It was our rustic boys whose virgin band + New coronals of Spring's sweet flowrets made + For offering to the gods who bless our land, + Which on the Lares' hallowed heads were laid. + + Our country-lasses find a pleasing care + In soft, warm wool their snowy flocks have bred; + The distaff, skein and spindle they prepare, + And reel, with firm-set thumb, the faultless thread. + + Then following Minerva's heavenly art, + They weave with patient toil some fabric proud; + While at her loom the lass with cheerful heart + Sings songs the sounding shuttle answers loud. + + Cupid himself with flocks and herds did pass + His boyhood, and on sheep and horses drew + His erring infant bow; but now, alas! + He is an archer far too swift and true. + + Not now dull beasts, but luckless maids engage + His enmity; brave men are brave no more; + Youth's strength he wastes, and drives fond, foolish age + To blush and sigh at scornful beauty's door. + + Love-lured, the virgin, guarded and discreet, + Slips by the night-watch at her lover's call, + Feels the dark path-way with her trembling feet, + And gropes with out-spread hands along the wall. + + Oh! wretched are the wights this god would harm! + But blest as gods whom Love with smiles will sway! + Come, boy divine! and these dear revels charm— + But fling thy burning brands, far, far away! + + Sing to this god, sweet shepherds! Ask aloud + Your flocks' good health; then each, discreetly mute, + His love's!—Nay, scream her name! Yon madcap crowd + Screams louder, to its wry-necked Phrygian flute. + + On with the sport! Night's chariot appears: + The stars, her children, follow through the sky: + Dark Sleep comes soon, on wings no mortal hears, + With strange, dim dreams that know not where they fly. +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_16"><!-- RULE4 16 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE SECOND + </h2> + <center> + A BIRTHDAY WISH + </center> + <pre> + Burn incense now! and round our altars fair + With cheerful vows or sacred silence stand! + To-day Cerinthus' birth our rites declare, + With perfumes from the blest Arabian land. + + Let his own Genius to our festal haste, + While fresh-blown flowers his heavenly tresses twine + And balm-anointed brows; so let him taste + Our offered loaf and sweet, unstinted wine! + + To thee Cerinthus may his favoring care + Grant every wish! O claim some priceless meed! + Ask a fond wife thy life-long bliss to share— + Nay! This the great gods have long since decreed! + + Less than this gift were lordship of wide fields, + Where slow-paced yoke and swain compel the corn; + Less, all rich gems the womb of India yields, + Where the flushed Ocean rims the shores of Morn. + + Thy vow is granted! Lo! on pinions bright, + The Love-god comes, a yellow cincture bearing, + To bind thee ever to thy dear delight, + In nuptial knot, all other knots outwearing. + + When wrinkles delve, and o'er the reverend brow + Fall silver locks and few, the bond shall be + But more endeared; and thou shall bless this vow + O'er children's children smiling at thy knee. +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_17"><!-- RULE4 17 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE THIRD + </h2> + <center> + MY LADY RUSTICATES + </center> + <pre> + To pleasures of the country-side + My lady-love is lightly flown; + And now in cities to abide + Betrays a heart of stone. + + Venus herself henceforth will choose + Only in field and farm to walk, + And Cupid but the language use + Which plough-boy lovers talk. + + O what a ploughman I could be! + How deep the furrows I would trace, + If while I toiled, I might but see + My mistress' smiling face! + + A farmer true, I'd guide my team + Of barren steers o'er fruitful lands, + Nor murmur at the noon-day beam, + Or my soft, blistered hands. + + Once fair Apollo fed the flocks + Of King Admetus, like a swain; + Little availed his flowing locks, + His lyre was little gain. + + No virtuous herb to reach that ill + His heavenly arts of healing knew; + For love made vain his famous skill, + And all his art o'er-threw. + + Himself his herds afield he drove, + Or where the cooling waters stray; + Himself the willow baskets wove, + And strained out curds and whey. + + Oft would his heavenly shoulders bear + A calf adown some pathless place; + And oft Diana met him there, + And blushed at his disgrace. + + O often, if his voice divine + Echoed the mountain glens along, + Out-burst the loud, audacious kine, + And bellowing drowned his song. + + His tripods prince and people found + All silent to their troubled cry, + His locks dishevelled and unbound + Woke fond Latona's sigh. + + To see his pale, neglected brow, + And unkempt tresses, once so fair,— + They cried, "O where is Phoebus now? + "His glorious tresses, where?" + + "In place of Delos' golden fane, + "Love gives thee but a lowly shed! + "O, where are Delphi and its train? + "The Sibyl, whither fled?" + + Happy the days, forever flown, + When even immortal gods could dare + Proudly to serve at Venus' throne, + Nor blushed her chain to wear! + + "Irreverent fables!" I am told. + But lovers true these tales receive: + Rather a thousand such they hold, + Than loveless gods believe. + + O Ceres, who didst charm away + My Nemesis from life in Rome, + May barren glebe thy pains repay + And scanty harvest come! + + A curse upon thy merry trade! + Young Bacchus, giver of the vine! + Thy vine-yards have ensnared a maid + Far sweeter than thy wine. + + Let herbs and acorns be our meat! + Drink good old water! Better so + Than that my fickle beauty's feet + To those far hills should go! + + Did not our sires on acorns feed, + And love-sick rove o'er hill and dale? + Our furrowed fields they did not need, + Nor did love's harvest fail. + + When passion did their hearts employ, + And o'er them breathed the blissful hour, + Mild Venus freely found them joy + In every leafy bower. + + No chaperone was there, no door + Against a lover's sighs to stand. + Delicious age! May Heaven restore + Its customs to our land! + + Nay, take me! In my lady's train + Some stubborn field I fain would plough + Lay on the lash and clamp the chain! + I bear them meekly now. +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_18"><!-- RULE4 18 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE FOURTH + </h2> + <center> + ON HIS LADY'S AVARICE + </center> + <pre> + A woman's slave am I, and know it well. + Farewell, my birthright! farewell, liberty! + In wretched slavery and chains I dwell, + For love's sad captives never are set free. + + Whether I smile or curse, love just the same + Brands me and burns. O, cruel woman, spare! + O would I were a rock, to 'scape this flame + Far off upon the frosty mountains there! + + Would I were flint, to front the tempest's power, + Wave-buffeted on some wild, wreckful shore! + My sad days bring worse nights, and every hour + Fills me some cup of gall and brims it o'er. + + What use are songs? Her greedy hands disdain + Apollo's gift. She says some gold is due. + Farewell, ye Muses, I have sung in vain! + Only in quest of <i>her</i> I followed <i>you</i>. + + I sing no wars; nor how the moon and sun + In heavenly paths their circling chariots steer. + To win my lady's smiles my numbers run; + Farewell, ye Muses, if ye fail me here! + + Let deeds of bloody crime now make me bold! + No longer at her bolted door I whine; + But I will find that necessary gold, + Though I steal treasure from some holy shrine. + + Venus I first will violate; for she + Compelled my crime, and did my heart enthrall + To beauty that requires a golden fee. + Yes, Venus' shrine shall suffer worst of all. + + Curse on that man who finds the emerald green, + And Tyrian purples for our flattered girls! + He makes them greedy. Now they must be seen + In Coan robe and gleaming Red Sea pearls. + + It spoils them all. Now bolts and barriers hold + Their doors, and watch-dogs threaten through the dark; + But let the lover overflow with gold,— + All bolts fly back and not a dog will bark. + + What God did beauty unto gold degrade, + And mix one bliss with many a woe and shame? + Tears, quarrels, curses were the gifts he made; + And Love bears now a very evil name. + + False girl, who dost for riches thrust aside + Love's honest vow, may winds and flames conspire + To wreck thy wealth, while all thy beaux deride + The loss, nor throw one bowl-full on the fire! + + O when dark Death shall be thy final guest, + No lover true will shed the faithful tear, + Nor bring an offering where thy ashes rest, + Nor lay one garland on thy lonely bier I + + But some warm-hearted lass who loved not gain + Shall live a hundred years, yet be much mourned; + Her tomb shall be some lover's holiest fane, + With annual gift of all sad flowers adorned. + + "Farewell, true heart!" his trembling lips will say, + "Let peace untroubled bless thy relics dear!" + Oft will he visit, and departing pray, + "Light lie this earth on her whose rest is here!" + + Nay, it is vain such serious songs to breathe: + I must be modern, if I would prevail. + How much? Just all my ancestors bequeath? + Come, Lares! You are advertised for sale. + + Let Circe and Medea bring the lees + Of some foul cup! Let Thessaly prepare + Its direst poison! Bring hippomanes, + Fierce philtre from the frantic, brooding mare! + For if my mistress mix it with a smile, + I drain a draught a thousand times as vile. +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_19"><!-- RULE4 19 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE FIFTH + </h2> + <center> + THE PRIESTHOOD OF APOLLO + </center> + <pre> + Smile, Phoebus, on the youthful priest + Who seeks thy shrine to-day! + With lyre and song attend our feast, + And with imperious finger play + Thy loudly thrilling chords to anthems high! + Come, with temples laurel-bound, + O'er thine own thrice-hallowed ground, + Where incense from our altars meets the sky! + Come radiant and fair, + In golden garb and glorious, clustering hair, + The famous guise in which thou sang'st so well + Of victor Jove, when Saturn's kingdom fell! + The far-off future all is thine! + Thy hallowed augurs can divine + Whate'er dark song the birds of omen sing; + Of augury thou art the king, + And thy wise haruspex finds meaning fit + For what the gods have in the victims writ. + The hoary Sibyl taught of thee + Never sings of Rome untrue, + Chanting forth in measures due + Her mysterious prophecy. + + Once she bade Aeneas look + In her all-revealing book, + What time from Trojan shore + His father and his fallen gods he bore. + Doubtful and dark to him was Rome's bright name, + While yet his mournful eyes + Saw Ilium dying and her gods in flame. + Not yet beneath the skies + Had Romulus upreared the weight + Of our Eternal City's wall, + Denied to Remus by unequal fate. + Then lowly cabins small + Possessed the seat of Capitolian Jove; + And, over Palatine, the rustics drove + Their herds afield, where Pan's similitude + Dripped down with milk beneath an ilex tall, + And Pales' image rude + Hewn out by pruning-hook, for worship stood. + The shepherd hung upon the bough + His babbling pipes in payment of a vow,— + The pipe of reeds in lessening order placed, + Knit well with wax from longest unto last. + Where proud Velabrum lies, + A little skiff across the shallows plies; + And oft, to meet her shepherd lover, + The village lass is ferried over + For a woodland holiday: + At night returning o'er the watery way, + She brings a tribute from the fruitful farms— + A cheese, or white lamb, carried in her arms. +</pre> + <center> + <i>The Sibyl</i> + </center> + <pre> + "High-souled Aeneas, brother of light-winged Love, + "Thy pilgrim ships Troy's fallen worship bear. + "To thee the Latin lands are given of Jove, + "And thy far-wandering gods are welcome there. + "Thou thyself shalt have a shrine + "By Numicus' holy wave; + "Be thou its genius strong to bless and save, + "By power divine! + + "O'er thy ship's storm-beaten prow + "Victory her wings will spread, + "And, glorious, rest at last above a Trojan head. + "I see Rutulia flaming round me now. + "O barbarous Turnus, I behold thee dead! + "Laurentum rushes on my sight, + "And proud Lavinium's castled height, + "And Alba Longa for thy royal heir. + "Now I see a priestess fair + "Close in Mars' divine embrace. + "Daughter of Ilium, she fled away + "From Vesta's fires, and from her virgin face + "The fillet dropped, and quite unheeded lay; + "Nor shield nor corslet then her hero wore, + "Keeping their stolen tryst by Tiber's sacred shore! + "Browse, ye bulls, along the seven green hills! + "For yet a little while ye may, + "E'er the vast city shall confront the day! + "O Rome! thy destined glory fills + "A wide world subject to thy sway,— + "Wide as all the regions given + "To fruitful Ceres, as she looks from heaven + "O'er her fields of golden corn, + "From the opening gates of morn + "To where the Sun in Ocean's billowy stream + "Cools at eve his spent and panting team. + "Troy herself at last shall praise + "Thee and thy far-wandering ways. + "My song is truth. Thus only I endure + "The bitter laurel-leaf divine, + "And keep me at Apollo's shrine + "A virgin ever pure." + + So, Phoebus, in thy name the Sibyl sung, + As o'er her frenzied brow her loosened locks she flung. + + In equal song Herophile + Chanted forth the times to be, + From her cold Marpesian glade. + Amalthea, dauntless maid, + In the blessed days gone by, + Bore thy book through Anio's river + And did thy prophecies deliver, + From her mantle, safe and dry. + + All prophesied of omens dire, + The comet's monitory fire, + Stones raining down, and tumult in the sky + Of trumpets, swords, and routed chivalry; + The very forests whispered fear, + And through the stormful year + Tears, burning tears, from marble altars ran; + Dumb beast took voice to tell the fate of man; + The Sun himself in light did fail + As if he yoked his car to horses mortal-pale. + + Such was the olden time. O Phoebus, now + Of mild, benignant brow, + Let those portents buried be + In the wild, unfathomed sea! + Now let thy laurel loudly flame + On altars to thy gracious name, + And give good omen of a fruitful year + Crackling laurel if the rustic hear, + He knows his granary shall bursting be, + And sweet new wine flow free, + And purple grapes by jolly feet be trod, + Vat and cellar will be too small, + While at the vintage-festival, + With choral song, + The tipsy swains carouse the shepherd's god: + "Away, ye wolves, and do our folds no wrong!" + + Then shall the master touch the straw-built fire, + And as it blazes high and higher, + Lightly leap its lucky crest. + A welcome heir with frolic face + Shall his jovial sire embrace, + And kiss him hard and pull him by the ears; + While o'er the cradle the good grand-sire bent + Will babble with the babe in equal merriment, + And feel no more his weight of years. + + There in soft shadow of some ancient tree, + Maidens, boys, and wine-cups be, + Scattered on the pleasant grass; + From lip to lip the cups they pass; + Their own mantles garland-bound + Hang o'er-head for canopy, + And every cup with rose is crowned; + Each at banquet buildeth high + Of turf the table, and of turf the bed,— + Such was ancient revelry! + Here too some lover at his darling's head + Flings words of scorn, which by and by + He wildly prays be left unsaid, + And swears that wine-cups lie. + + O under Phoebus' ever-peaceful sway, + Away, ye bows, ye arrows fierce, away! + Let Love without a shaft among earth's peoples stray! + A noble weapon! but when Cupid takes + His arrow,—ah! what mortal wound he makes! + Mine is the chief. This whole year have I lain + Wounded to death, yet cherishing the pain, + And counting my delicious anguish gain. + Of Nemesis my song must tell! + Without her name I make no verses well, + My metres limp and all fine words are vain! + + Therefore, my darling, since the powers on high + Protect the poets,—O! a little while + On Apollo's servant smile! + So let me sing in words divine + An ode of triumph for young Messaline. + Before his chariot he shall bear + Towns and towers for trophies proud, + And on his brow the laurel-garland wear; + While, with woodland laurel crowned. + His legions follow him acclaiming loud, + "Io triumphe," with far-echoing sound. + + Let my Messala of the festive crowd + Receive applause, and joyfully behold + His son's victorious chariot passing by! + + Smile, Phoebus there! Thy flowing locks all gold! + Thy virgin sister, too, stoop with thee from the sky! +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_20"><!-- RULE4 20 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE SIXTH + </h2> + <center> + LET LOVERS ALL ENLIST + </center> + <pre> + Now for a soldier Macer goes. Will Cupid take the field? + Will Love himself enlist, and bear on his soft breast a shield? + + Through weary marches over land, through wandering waves at sea, + Armed <i>cap-a-pie</i>, will that small god the hero's comrade be? + + O burn him, boy, I pray, that could thy blessed favors slight! + Back to the ranks the straggler bring beneath thy standard bright! + + Yet, if to soldiers thou art kind, I too will volunteer, + I too will from a helmet drink, nor thirst in desert's fear. + + Venus, good-bye! Now, off I go! Good-bye, sweet ladies all! + I am all valor, and delight to hear the trumpets call. + + Large is my brag! But while with pride my project I recite, + I see her bolted door,—and then my boasting fails me quite. + + Never to visit her again, with many an oath I swore; + But while I vowed, my feet had run unguided to her door. + + Come now, ye lovers all! who serve in Cupid's hard campaign, + Let us together to the wars, and thus our peace regain! + + This age of iron frowns on love and smiles on golden gain,— + On spoils of war which must be won by agony and pain. + + For spoils alone our swords are keen, and deadly spears are hurled + While carnage, wrath, and swifter death fly broadcast through the world. + + For spoils, with double risk of death the threatening seas we sail, + And climb the steel-beaked ship-of-war, so mighty and so frail! + + The spoilers proud to boundless lands their bloody titles read, + And see innumerable flocks o'er endless acres feed + + Fine foreign marbles they will bring; and all the city stare, + While one tall column for a house a thousand oxen bear. + + They bind with bars the tameless sea; behind a rampart proud + Their little fishes swim in calm, when wintry storms are loud. + + Ah! Love! Will not a Samian bowl hold all our mirth and wine? + And pottery of poor Cuman clay, with love, seem fair and fine? + + Nay! Woe is me! Naught now but gold can please our ladies gay; + And so, since Venus asks for wealth, the spoils of war must pay. + + My Nemesis shall roll in wealth; and promenade the town, + All glittering, with my golden gifts upon her gorgeous gown. + + Her filmy web of Coan weave with golden broidery gleams; + Her swarthy slaves the Indian sun touched with its burning beams. + + In rival hues to make her fair all conquered regions vie, + Afric its azure must bestow, and Tyre its purple dye. + + O look—I tell what all men know—on that most favored lover! + Once in the market-place he sat, with both his soles chalked over. +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_21"><!-- RULE4 21 --></a> + <h2> + BOOK III + </h2> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_22"><!-- RULE4 22 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE FIRST + </h2> + <center> + THE NEW-YEAR'S GIFT + </center> + <pre> + Now the month of Mars beginning brings the merry season near, + By our fathers named and numbered as the threshold of the year. + Faithfully their custom keeping, through the wide streets to and fro, + Offered at each friendly dwelling, seasonable gifts must go. + O what gifts, Pierian Muses, may acceptably be poured + On my own adored Neaera?—or, if not my own, adored! + + Song is love's best gift to beauty; gold but tempts the venal soul; + Therefore, 'tis a song I send her on this amateurish scroll. + Wind a page of saffron parchment round the white papyrus there, + Polish well with careful pumice every silvery margin fair: + + On the dainty little cover, for a title to the same + Let her bright eyes read the blazon of a love-sick poet's name. + Let the pair of horn-tipped handles be embossed with colors gay, + For my book must make a toilet, must put on its best array. + + By Castalia's whispering shadow, by Pieria's vocal spring, + By yourselves, O listening Muses, who did prompt the song I sing,— + Fly, I pray you, to her chamber, and my pretty booklet bear, + All unmarred and perfect give it, every color fresh and fair: + Let her send you back, confessing, if our hearts together burn; + Or, if she but loves me little, or will nevermore return. + Utter first, for she deserves it, many a golden wish and vow; + Then deliver this true message, humbly, as I speak it now. + + 'Tis a gift, O chaste Neaera, from thy husband yet to be. + Take the trifle, though a "brother" now is all he seems to thee. + + He will swear he loves thee dearer than the blood in all his veins; + Whether husband, or if only that cold "sister" name remains. + Ah! but "wife" he calls it: nothing takes this sweet hope from his soul! + Till a hapless ghost he wanders where the Stygian waters roll. +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_23"><!-- RULE4 23 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE SECOND + </h2> + <center> + HE DIED FOR LOVE + </center> + <pre> + Whoe'er from darling bride her husband dear + First forced to part, had but a heart of stone; + And not less hard the man who could appear + To bear such loss and live unloved, alone. + + I am but weak in this; such fortitude + My soul has not; grief breaks my spirit quite. + I shame not to declare it is my mood + To sicken of a life such sorrows smite. + + When I shall journey to the shadowy land, + And over my white bones black ashes be, + Beside my pyre let fair Neaera stand, + With long, loose locks unbound, lamenting me. + + Let her dear mother's grief with hers have share, + One mourn a husband, one a son bewail! + Then call upon my ghost with holy prayer, + And pour ablution o'er their fingers pale. + + The white bones, which my body's wreck outlast, + Girdled in flowing black they will upbear, + Sprinkle with rare, old wine, and gently cast + In bath of snowy milk, with pious care. + + These will they swathe with linen mantles o'er, + And lay unmouldering in their marble bed; + Then gift of Arab or Panchaian shore, + Assyrian balm and Orient incense shed. + + And may they o'er my tomb the gift disburse + Of faithful tears, remembering him below; + For those cold ashes I have made this verse, + That all my doleful way of death may know. + + My oft-frequented grave the words shall bear, + And all who pass will read with pitying eyes:— + "<i>Here Lygdamus, consumed with grief and care</i> +<i>"For his lost bride Neaera, hapless lies</i>." +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_24"><!-- RULE4 24 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE THIRD + </h2> + <center> + RICHES ARE USELESS + </center> + <pre> + 'Tis vain to plague the skies with eager prayer, + And offer incense with thy votive song, + If only thou dost ask for marbles fair, + To deck thy palace for the gazing throng. + + Not wider fields my oxen to employ, + Nor flowing harvests and abundant land, + I ask of heaven; but for a long life's joy + With thee, and in old age to clasp thy hand. + + If when my season of sweet light is o'er, + I, carrying nothing, unto Charon yield, + What profits me a ponderous golden store, + Or that a thousand yoke must plough my field? + + What if proud Phrygian columns fill my halls, + Taenarian, Carystian, and the rest, + Or branching groves adorn my spacious walls, + Or golden roof, or floor with marbles dressed? + + What pleasure in rare Erythraean dyes, + Or purple pride of Sidon and of Tyre, + Or all that can solicit envious eyes, + And which the mob of fools so well admire? + + Wealth has no power to lift life's load of care, + Or free man's lot from Fortune's fatal chain; + With thee, Neaera, poverty looks fair, + And lacking thee, a kingdom were in vain. + + O golden day that shall at last restore + My lost love to my arms! O blest indeed, + And worthy to be hallowed evermore! + May some kind god my long petition heed! + + No! not dominion, nor Pactolian stream, + Nor all the riches the wide world can give! + These other men may ask. My fondest dream + Is, poor but free, with my true wife to live. + + Saturnian Juno, to all nuptials kind, + Receive with grace my ever-anxious vow! + Come, Venus, wafted by the Cyprian wind, + And from thy car of shell smile on me now! + + But if the mournful sisters, by whose hands + Our threads of life are spun, refuse me all— + May Pluto bid me to his dreary lands, + Where those wide rivers through the darkness fall! +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_25"><!-- RULE4 25 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE FOURTH + </h2> + <center> + A DREAM FROM PHOEBUS + </center> + <pre> + Be kinder, gods! Let not the dreams come true + Which last night's cruel slumber bade believe! + Begone! your vain, delusive spells undo, + Nor ask me to receive! + + The gods tell truth. With truth the Tuscan seer + In entrails dark a book of fate may find; + But dreams are folly and with fruitless fear + Address the trembling mind. + + Although mankind, against night's dark surprise + With sprinkled meal or salt ward off the ill, + And often turn deaf ear to prophets wise, + While dreams deceive them still;— + + May bright Lucina my foreboding mind + From such vain terrors of the night redeem, + For in my soul no deed of guilt I find, + Nor do my lips blaspheme. + + Now had the Night upon her ebon wain + Passed o'er the upper sky, and dipped a wheel + In the blue sea: but Sleep, the friend of pain, + Refused my sense to seal. + + Sleep stands defeated at the house of care: + And only when from purpled orient skies + Peered Phoebus forth, did tardy slumber bear + Down on my weary eyes. + + Then seemed a youth with holy laurel crowned + To fill my door: a wight so wondrous rare + Was not in all the vanished ages found. + No marble half so fair! + + Adown his neck, with myrtle-buds inwove + And Syrian dews, his unshorn tresses flow: + White is he as the moon in heaven above, + But rose is blent with snow. + + Like that soft blush on face of virgin fair + Led to her husband; or as maidens twine + Lilies in amaranth; or Autumn's air + Tinges the apples fine. + + A long, loose mantle to his ankles played,— + Such vesture did his lucent shape enfold: + His left hand bore the vocal lyre, all made + Of gleaming shell and gold. + + He smote its strings with ivory instrument, + And words auspicious tuned his heavenly tongue; + Then, while his hands and voice concording blent, + These sad, sweet words he sung: + + "Hail, blest of Heaven! For a poet divine + Phoebus and Bacchus and the Muses bless. + But Bacchus and the skilful Sisters nine + No prophecies possess. + + "But of what Fate ordains for times to be + Jove gave me vision. Therefore, minstrel dear! + Receive what my unerring lips decree! + The Cynthian wisdom hear! + + "She whom thy love holds dearer than sweet child + Is to a mother's breast, or virgin soft + To longing lover, she for whom thy wild + Prayers vex high Heaven so oft, + + "Who worries thee each day, and vainly fills + Dark-mantled sleep with visions that beguile, + Lovely Neaera, theme of all thy quills, + Now elsewhere gives her smile. + + "For sighs not thine her fickle passions flame: + For thy chaste house Neaera has no care. + O cruel tribe! O woman, faithless name! + Curse on the false and fair! + + "But woo her still! For mutability + Is woman's soul. Fond vows may yet prevail, + Fierce love bears well a woman's cruelty, + Nor at the lash will quail. + + "That I did feed Admetus' heifers white + Is no light tale. Upon the lyric string + Nor more could I my joyful notes indite, + Nor with sweet concord sing. + + "On oaten pipe I sued the woodland Muse— + I, of Latona and the Thunderer son! + Thou knowst not what love is, if thou refuse + T'endure a cruel one. + + "Go, then, and ply her with persuasive woe! + Soft supplications the hard heart subdue. + Then, if my oracles the future know, + Give her this message true: + + "'The God whose seat is Delos' marble isle, + Declares this marriage happy and secure. + It has Apollo's own auspicious smile. +<i>Cast off that rival wooer!</i>'" + + He spoke: dull slumber from my body fell. + Can I believe such perils round me fold? + That such discordant vows thy tongue can tell? + Thy heart in guilt so bold? + + Thou wert not gendered by the Pontic Sea, + Nor where Chimaera's lips fierce flame out-pour, + Nor of that dog with tongues and foreheads three, + His back all snakes and gore; + + Nor out of Scylla's whelp-engirdled womb; + Nor wert thou of fell lioness the child; + Nor was thy cradle Scythia's forest-gloom, + Nor Syrtis' sandy wild. + + No, but thy home was human! round its fire + Sate creatures lovable: of all her kind + Thy mother was the mildest, and thy sire + Showed a most friendly mind. + + May Heaven in these bad dreams good omen show, + And bid warm south-winds to oblivion blow! +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_26"><!-- RULE4 26 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE FIFTH + </h2> + <center> + TO FRIENDS AT THE BATHS + </center> + <pre> + You take your pleasure by Etrurian streams, + Save when the dog-star burns: + Or bathe you where mysterious Baiae steams, + When purple Spring returns. + + But dread Persephone assigns to me + The hour of gloom and fears. + O Queen of death! be innocence my plea! + Pity my youthful tears! + + I never have profaned that sacred shrine + Where none but women go, + Nor in my cup cast hemlock, or poured wine + Death-drugged for friend or foe. + + I have not burned a temple: nor to crime + My fevered passions given: + Nor with wild blasphemy at worship-time + Insulted frowning Heaven. + + Not yet is my dark hair defaced with gray, + Nor stoop nor staff have I; + For I was born upon that fatal day + That saw two consuls die. + + What profits it from tender vine to tear + The growing grape? Or who + Would pluck with naughty hand an apple fair, + Before its season due? + + Have mercy! gods who keep the murky stream + Of that third kingdom dark! + On my far future let Elysium beam! + Postpone me Charon's bark!— + + Till wrinkled age shall make my features pale, + And to the listening boys + The old man babbles his repeated tale + Of vanished days and joys! + + I trust I fear too much this fever-heat + Which two long weeks I have, + While with Etrurian nymphs ye sweetly meet, + And cleave the yielding wave. + + Live lucky, friends! live loyal unto me, + Though life, though death be mine! + Let herds all black dread Pluto's offering be + With white milk and red wine! +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_27"><!-- RULE4 27 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE SIXTH + </h2> + <center> + A FARE-WELL TOAST + </center> + <pre> + Come radiant Bacchus! With the hallowed leaf + Of grape and ivy be thy forehead crowned! + For thou canst chase away or cure my grief— + Let love in wine be drowned! + + Dear bearer of my cup, come, brim it o'er! + Pour forth unstinted our Falernian wine! + Care's cruel brood is gone; I toil no more, + If Phoebus o'er me shine. + + Dear, jovial friends, let not a lip be dry! + Drink as I drink, and every toast obey! + And him who will not with my wine-cup vie, + May some false lass betray! + + This god makes all men rich. He tames proud souls, + And bids them by a woman's hand be chained; + Armenian tigresses his power controls, + And lions tawny-maned. + + That love-god is as strong; but I delight + In Bacchus rather. Fill our cups once more! + Just and benign is he, if mortal wight + Him and his vines adore! + + But, O! he rages, if his gift ye spurn. + Drink, if ye dare not a god's anger brave! + How fierce his stroke, let temperate fellows learn + Of Pentheus' gory grave. + + Away such fear! Rather may some fierce stroke + On that false beauty fall!—O frightful prayer! + O, I am mad! O may my curse be broke, + And melt in misty air! + + For, O Neaera, though I am forgot, + I ask all gods to bless thee, every one. + Back to my cups I go. This wine has brought + After long storms, the sun. + + Alas! How hard to masque dull grief in joy! + A sad heart's jest—what bitter mockery! + With vain deceit my laughing lips employ + Loud mirth that is a lie. + + But why complain and moan? O wretched me! + When will my lagging sorrows haste and go? + Delightful Bacchus at his mystery + Forbids these words of woe. + + Once, by the wave, lone Ariadne pale, + Abandoned of false Theseus, weeping stood:— + Our wise Catullus tells the doleful tale + Of love's ingratitude. + + Take warning friends! How fortunate is he, + Who learns of others' loss his own to shun! + Trust not caressing arms and sighs, nor be + By flatteries undone! + + Though by her own sweet eyes her oath she swear, + By solemn Juno, or by Venus gay, + At oaths of love Jove laughs, and bids the air + Waft the light things away. + + It is but folly, then, to fume and fret, + If one light lass that old deception wrought; + O that I too might evermore forget + To speak my heart's true thought! + + O that my long, long nights brought peace and thee! + That nought but thee my waking eyes did fill! + Thou wert most false and cruel, woe is me! + False! But I love thee still. +</pre> + <center> + <i>L'Envoi</i> + </center> + <pre> + How well fresh water mixes with old wine! + Bacchus loves water-nymphs. Bring water, boy! + What care I where she sleeps? This night of mine + Shall I in sighs employ? + + Make the cup strong, I tell you! Stronger there! + Wine only! While the Syrian balm o'er-flows! + Long would I revel with anointed hair, + And wear this wreath of rose. +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_28"><!-- RULE4 28 --></a> + <h2> + BOOK IV + </h2> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_29"><!-- RULE4 29 --></a> + <h2> + ELEGY THE THIRTEENTH + </h2> + <center> + A LOVER'S OATH + </center> + <pre> + No! ne'er shall rival lure me from thine arms! + (In such sweet bond did our first sighs agree!) + Save for thine own I see no woman's charms; + No maid in all the world is fair but thee. + + Would that no eyes but mine could find thee fair! + Displease those others! Save me this annoy! + I ask not envy nor the people's stare:— + Wisest is he who loves with silent joy. + + With thee in gloomy woods my life were gay, + Where pathway ne'er was found for human feet, + Thou art my balm of care, in dark my day, + In wildest waste, society complete. + + If Heaven should send a goddess to my bed, + All were in vain. My pulse would never rise. + I swear thee this by Juno's holy head— + Greatest to us of all who hold the skies. + + What madness this? I give away my case! + Swear a fool's oath! Thy tears my safety won. + Now wilt thou flirt, and tease me to my face— + Such mischief has my babbling fully done. + + Now am I but thy slave: yet thine remain, + My mistress' yoke I never shall undo. + To Venus' altar let me drag my chain! + She brands the proud, and smiles on lovers true. +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_30"><!-- RULE4 30 --></a> + <h2> + OVID'S LAMENT FOR TIBULLUS' DEATH + </h2> + <pre> + If tears for their dead sons, in deep despair, + Mothers of Memnon and Achilles shed, + If gods in mortal grief have any share, + O Muse of tears! bow down thy mournful head! + + Tibullus, thy true minstrel and best fame, + Mere lifeless clay, on tall-built pyre doth blaze; + While Eros, with rent bow, extinguished flame, + And quiver empty, his wild grief displays. + + Behold, he comes with trailing wing forlorn, + And smites with desperate hands his bosom bare! + Tears rain unheeded o'er his tresses turn, + And many a trembling sob his soft lips bear. + + Thus for a brother Eros mourned of yore, + Aeneas, in Iulus' regal hall; + Not less do Venus' eyes this death deplore + Than when she saw her slain Adonis fall. + + Yet poets are sacred! Simple souls have deemed + That ranked with gods we sons of song may stand, + See one and all by sullen Death blasphemed, + And violated by his shadowy hand! + + Little avails it Orpheus that his sire + Was more than man; for though his songs restrain + The wolves of Ismara, his love-lorn lyre + Wails in the wildwood gloom with anguish vain. + + Maeonides, from whose exhaustless well + All bards since then some tribute stream derive,— + Him, even him, th' Avernian shades camped; + Only his songs his scattered dust survive + + Yet songs endure. Endures the Trojan fame, + And how Penelope's wise nights were passed. + So Nemesis and Delia have a name,— + A poet's earliest passion and his last. + + Live piously! Build shrines! Revere the skies! + Death, from the temple, thrusts thee to the tomb + Or sing divinely! Lo, Tibullus dies! + One scanty urn gives all his ashes room. + + Could not that laurelled head the flames restrain? + How dared they that inspired breast explore? + Rather they should have burned some golden fane + Of gods,—of gods who this last insult bore! + + Yet 'tis my faith the Queen of Love the while, + Whose altars crown the bright, voluptuous steep + Of Eryx, at that sight did lose her smile; + Oh! I believe sweet Venus deigned to weep! + + But he had feared worse deaths: for now he lies + Not on Phaeacia's strand in grave unknown; + His own dear mother closed his fading eyes, + And brought her prayers to bless his votive stone. + + Thither drew near in mournful disarray + His sister pale, her mother's grief to share: + Thither no less, their rival tears to pay, + His Nemesis and Delia, fond and fair. + + There Delia murmured, "In such love as thine + I was too happy; thou, supremely blest," + Rut Nemesis: "Nay, nay! The loss is mine; + By mine alone his dying hand was pressed." + + If after death, we haply may retain + More of true being than a name and shade, + Tibullus now the bright Elysian plain + Doth enter, and hears stir of welcome made. + + With ivy garlands on his fadeless brow, + Catullus hails his peer in perfect rhyme; + Comes Calvus, too; and slandered Gallus! thou,— + Not guilty, save if wasted love be crime! + + Such comrades now attend thy happy shade,— + If shade in truth to our frail flesh belong: + Th' Elysian company is larger made + By thee, Tibullus, skilled in noble song! + + May thy bones rest in peace! is my fond prayer: + Safe and inviolate thine urn shall be. + Be changeless peace on thy loved relies there! + And light the hallowed earth that shelters thee! +</pre> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Elegies of Tibullus, by Tibullus + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ELEGIES OF TIBULLUS *** + +***** This file should be named 9610-h.htm or 9610-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/9/6/1/9610/ + +Produced by Ted Garvin, David Garcia and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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