by Tibullus
113 But do thou, damsel (for guardian gods watch over poets), be warned in time, and spare thy sacred bard, that I may tell of Messalinus when before his chariot he shall bear the conquered towns, the prize of war, wearing the bay wreath, while his soldiery, with wild bay round their brows, loudly chaunt the cry of triumph. Then let my dear Messalla afford the throng the sight of a father’s love, and clap his hands as his son’s car passes by. Phoebus, grant this; and so be thy locks for aye unshorn, and thy sister ever a maiden pure.
VI
To Macer
1 FOR the camp is Macer bound. What shall become of gentle Love? Must he go with him and stoutly bear his arms about his neck? And, weapons in hand, will he be at the gallant’s side whether his path lie over the distant mainland or the tossing seas? Young sir, I prithee, brand the rebel that has left thy haunts of peace: call back the truant to thy banners.
7 But if thou art merciful to soldiers, here is one will be a soldier too, and bring himself refreshing water in his helm. I am off to the camp. Farewell to Love, farewell to lasses. I too am stout of limb; in my ears too the trumpet’s note is sweet.
11 Brave is my speech; but when I have uttered the brave bravado, the shutting of a door strikes the bold words from my lips. How often have I sworn that to its threshold I would return no more! For all’ my valiant swearing, my foot comes back itself. Fierce Love, oh, if this could be, I would see thine arms destroyed, the arrows broken and the torches quenched. Thou rackest me with anguish: thou forcest me to’curse myself and in impious speech to vent the frenzy of my soul. Ere now I would have ended my miseries in death; but fond Hope keeps the spark alive, whispering ever that to-morrow things will mend.
21 ’Tis Hope sustains the farmer; to ploughed furrows Hope entrusts the seed for fields to render back with heavy usury. She takes the fowl in noose, the fish with rod, the slender hook first hidden by the bait. Hope comforts, too, the slave whom stout fetters bind. The iron clanks upon his legs, but still he sings at his task. Hope promises me that Nemesis shall be kind; but she says Nay. Ah me! worst not the goddess, cruel girl.
29 Mercy, I pray thee, by the bones of thy sister, dead before her time; so may the child sleep well beneath the gentle earth. For me she is divine; to her tomb I will bring offerings and garlands wetted with my tears. To her grave will I fly and, sitting suppliant there, bewail my fate to her silent dust. Not forever will she bear with thee for making her votary weep. In her name I bid thee, be not cold to me, lest the slighted spirit send thee evil dreams and in thy slumbers thy mournful sister stand before thy bed, such as she was, when from the high casement she fell headlong down and passed blood-spattered to the lakes below. I cease, lest I stir again my lady’s bitter woe. I am not worth one cry of grief from her.
43 Nor is it well that tears should mar those speaking eyes. ’Tis the bawd that is my bane; the girl herself is good. Phryne, the bawd, is killing me, alas, as stealthily she passes to and fro with tablets hidden in her bosom. Many times, when from the hard threshold I recognise my mistress’s sweet voice, Phryne denies she is at home. Often, when the night has been pledged to me, she brings message that the girl is sick or has been affrighted by some warning. Then I die with distress, and desperate fancy figures to itself in what and whose embraces my love is held. Then I call curses on thee, bawd. Thy life should be full enough of fears, if any part of what I pray is heard in heaven.
BOOK III
ELEGIES OF LYGDAMUS
I
Dedication to Neaera
1 THE festal Calends of Mars of Rome are come. This for our ancestors was the year’s dawning. And on all sides, travelling in order due, presents are speeding this way and that along the city’s streets and houses. Tell me, Pierian maids, with what tribute shall I present Neaera, whether mine or, if she plays me false, dear to me still.
7 “Poetry is the lure for the beautiful, gold for the greedy: so let there be new verses to gladden her as she deserves. But first let yellow parchment wrap the snow-white roll and pumice shear its hoary locks, and letters traced to show thy name border the high top of the fine papyrus, and let the horned knobs ‘mid both its fronts be painted. For in such trim guise must thy work be sent.”
15 Inspirers of this my song, I entreat ye by the shade of Castaly and the Pierian springs go to the house, and give her the dainty book just as it is; let none of its bloom be lost. She will send me answer if her love is still as mine, or if it is less, or if I have fallen wholly out of her heart. And first (she has deserved it) bestow on her an ample greeting and in subdued accents speak these words:
23 “Thy husband once, thy brother now, sends these lines to thee, chaste Neaera, and prays thee to accept the humble gift. He swears that thou art dearer to him than his very marrow, whether thou wilt be his sister or his wife. Better his wife: hope of this title shall only Dis’s wan waters take from him when his life is quenched.”
II
Lygdamus Deprived of Neaera
1 HE who first robbed a swain of his dear and a girl of the youth she loved was a man of iron. And he was hard too who could bear a grief so great and live when his mate was taken. I am not stout in this? in my strain is no such endurance. Pain makes the brave heart break. I think it no shame to speak the truth or to own that within me there is risen loathing of a life that has suffered so much sorrow.
9 So then when I am changed to a phantom shade and above my white bones lies the black ashes’ covering, let Neaera come to my pyre with her long hair disordered and sadly weep beside it. Let her come with her dear mother to share her grief, to mourn, one for a husband, the other for a son.
15 First of all let them address my shade and fresh departed spirit and in lustral water bathe their hands. Then with black robes ungirdled shall they gather the white bones, sole part remaining of my body, and when they are gathered together sprinkle them with old wine first and next proceed to drench them with snowy milk likewise, and after this to remove the moisture with linen cloths and place them dry in a chamber of marble. There let the merchandise which rich Panchaia, Eastern Araby, and rich Assyria send, and tears to my memory withal, be shed on the same spot. Thus, when naught is left of me but bones, would I be laid to rest.
27 But the sad cause of my death let a legend show, and on the stone’s face which all may see let it set out these lines:
HERE LYGDAMUS IS LAID, BY GRIEVOUS PAIN AND LONGING FOR HIS LOST NEAERA SLAIN.
III
What is Wealth to Lygdamus without Love?
1 WHAT gain is it to have filled the heavens with vows, Neaera, and offered bland incense with constant prayer, not that I might step out from the threshold of a marble dwelling, observed and noted for a glorious house, or that bulls of mine might turn the clods o’er many a rood and earth in her bounty give me great harvests, but that through long years of life I might share my joys with thee, and that in thine arms might drop my aged frame in the hour when my course of light was fully run and stripped of all I was forced to voyage on the barque of Lethe?
11 What good to me were heavy weight of precious gold or a thousand oxen cleaving my rich fields? what good a house that rests on pillars from Phrygian quarries, or, Taenaros, from thine, or thine, Carystos, woods within mansions mimicking the sacred groves, or gilded cross-beams and a floor of marble? Or what the pearl shell gathered on Erythraean shores, or wool dipped in the purple dye of Sidon, and all besides that the world admires? Here envy lodges: the crowd is misguided in most that it adores. Wealth lightens not the hearts and cares of men. For Fortune rules their circumstances by ordinances of her own.
23 With thee, Neaera, would I welcome poverty without thee I want nothing that the kings can give. O snow-bright morn that shall give thee back to me O day that will bring me three-and four-fold bliss!
27 But if the unfriendly god should turn his ears away from all that I vow for that dear return, then no kingdoms please me, nor river of Lydia charged with gold, nor all the wealth that the earth’s round bears. Let others
long for these; but let me live in humble style, if without misgivings I may have my dear wife for my own.
33 Be with me, daughter of Saturn, and listen to my timid prayers, and thou too listen, goddess of Cyprus whose chariot is thy shell. But if Fate and the dour sisters who draw the yarn and spin the future deny returning, then let the voice of sallow Orcus, the lord of treasures amidst sluggish waters, call me to his desolate rivers and his black morass.
IV
Lygdamus’ Dream
1 MAY the gods send better fortune, nor may the dream prove true which an evil sleep brought me yesternight. Depart from me, vain visions, take your false show away; cease to seek credit at my cost. The warnings gods send are true, and true the warnings of the inward parts, approved by seers of Tuscany, announcing the fate to come. But dreams — do they sport at random in a deceiving night, filling affrighted souls with false alarms, and, vainly fearing, do mankind seek to propitiate the menaces of the night with offering of spelt and sputtering salt? And yet, howsoever it be, whether they are wont to receive true warnings or to give ear to lies of sleep, may Lucina frustrate the terrors of this night and ordain that the innocent shall have been alarmed in vain, if neither my soul be chargeable with ugly sin nor my tongue have wickedly profaned the holy gods.
17 Night’s car of four black steeds had already traversed the firmament of ether and bathed its wheels in the dark blue stream. Yet on me the god who aids the sick spirit had laid no spell: Sleep vanishes before the house of care. At last, when Phoebus looked out above the dawn, late slumber closed the tired sufferer’s eyes. Thereon a youth with holy bay encircling his brow, methought, set foot within my dwelling. Nothing more lovely than him did any age of our forerunners see, or any house of mortal folk. Down his long neck his unshorn hair was streaming. From his myrrh-laden tresses trickled dews of Syria. His radiance was such as the moon, daughter of Latona, spreads before her, and over his body’s snow was a crimson flush, such as dyes the fair cheeks and blushing face of a maid when she is first escorted to her young husband’s home, or like white lilies which flower-girls interweave with amaranths, or argent apples touched with autumn red. The hem of his palla seemed to play about his ankles. For this was the garment that covered his gleaming limbs. On his left side hung his babbling lyre, wrought with rare skill, shining with tortoise-shell and gold. On this, when first he came, he played with ivory quill, and cheering music sounded from his lips. But when fingers and voice had spoken together, then to the tune of a sweet measure he uttered these bitter words:
43 “Hail to thee, favourite of the gods — for to a holy poet Phoebus, Bacchus, and the Pierid maids are fitly friends. But Bacchus, offspring of Semele, and the lettered sisters have no skill to say what future hours shall bring. But to me my Sire has granted the power to see the laws of Fate and what shall issue in the time to come. Wherefore hearken to what I say, no seer untrustworthy, and learn how true are accounted the utterances of Cynthus’ god. She who is as precious to thee as is no daughter to her mother nor maiden fair to her yearning husband, for whom thy prayers give the powers of heaven no rest, who never lets thy day pass without misgiving, and when Sleep has wrapped thee in his dusky robe baffles and mocks thee with her semblances in the night, the beautiful Neaera whom thy songs have made renowned, prefers to be the girl of another man. Her unnatural heart pursues an alien fancy of its own, and Neaera delights not to be a wife in a virtuous home. O cruel sex! Woman a treacherous race! Away with her who has learned to play her husband false!
63 “But she maybe turned: their minds are changeable: but thou must stretch thy hands to her with much beseeching. Tyrant Love has schooled us to engage in stubborn labours, tyrant Love to endure the lash. It is no story made for idle merriment that once I fed the snow-white kine of Admetus. Then could I take no pleasure in the lyre’s loud tones nor my voice sing back in accord to its strings, but on the unstopped reeds I practised, I, Latona’s son and Jove’s. Young sir, thou knowest not what is love if thou dost shrink to bear with a cruel mistress and ungentle wife. So doubt not to use the gentle arts of complaining: soft pleadings make the hard heart melt. If oracles in holy temples utter truth, then give her this message in my name: This is the mate that the Delian himself awards to thee. Happy in him, cease to desire another man.”
81 He said, and from my limbs slipped off the lethargy of sleep. Ah, may I never live to see such woe! I could not think that thou hast hopes thus crossing hopes, or that sin so great is harboured in thy breast. For thou wast not sprung from the waste sea’s fields, or from Chimaera rolling flames from savage jaws, or from the dog with three tongues and a triple head and back by a snaky troop encircled, or Scylla with a girdle of hounds about her woman’s body. No cruel lioness conceived and bore thee, nor the barbarous land of Scythia or the fearful Syrtis, but a humane home where the ungentle might not dwell and a mother far kinder than all her sex, and a sire than whom is none more lovable.
95 May a god turn this cruel dream to good, or bid the hot South Wind carry it away without fulfilment!
V
Lygdamus Sick to his Friends
1 YE, my friends, stay by the stream that flows from Etruscan source, stream not to be approached in the Dog-star’s heat, but now second only to the holy waters of Baiae when the ground loosens in bright-hued spring. But I have warning from Persephone that the black hour is nigh.
6 Harm me not, goddess; I am young and have done no wrong. I have not sought in recklessness to make known the rites of the goddess whom folk call Good, which no male must profane. My hand has infused no deadly juices in men’s cups or pounded poison for the lips of any one. Nor have I sacrilegiously set fire to temples, nor is my conscience vexed by horrid crime, nor from the pent-up bitterness of a frantic soul have I let my blaspheming tongue wag in the very face of heaven.
15 Neither as yet has my black hair been harmed by grey, nor bowed age come to me on halting feet. My parents first beheld my birthday when both the consuls fell by the self-same fate. What gain is it to rob a vine of growing grapes or to pluck the fruit just formed with brutal hand? Spare me, ye gods in whose sway are the wan waters and the stern realms, allotted to you third. Let the hour be far off when my eyes shall see the Elysian plains, the barque of Lethe, and the Cimmerian pools, when my cheeks are sallow with wrinkled age and the old man tells the boys of the days gone by.
27 And would it were no real fever, but some vain alarm! But for thrice five days their strength has left my limbs.
29 But ye, my friends, resort to the haunts of Tuscan water sprites, and the stream parts lightly to the strokes of your leisurely arms. May ye live happy and with thoughts of me, whether I am here or destiny choose that I be no more. Meantime do ye promise black sheep to Dis and cups of snow-white milk mingled with wine
VI
Lygdamus at the Feast
1 FAIR Liber, come to me; so mayst thou ever have thy mystic vine, so bear the ivy bound about thy brows. And do thou take away my pain with healing chalice. Oft has Love fallen, vanquished by thy bounty. Dear lad, let the cups be flooded with noble wine; slant the hand that pours out our Falernian.
7 Go, far away go, toils and troubles, heartless tribe. Here let the Delian shine with his birds of snow. Only, dear friends, ye must approve my project, and none refuse his company if I lead the way. Or if any shrinks from wine’s gentle bouts, let his dear lass play him false with covert treachery. Our god softens the heart, he crushes the proud spirits and sends them under the strict yoke of a mistress. He vanquishes the Armenian tiger and the tawny lioness and puts a tame heart in the tameless. These things, and greater, can Love do. But do ye call for the gifts of Bacchus. For which of you have chill draughts charms?
19 A mate and equal, with no front of menace, doth Liber show himself to such as pay their court to him and joyous wine at once; while without bound or measure runs his wrath against the austere. Whoso fears a mighty god in anger, let him drink. For such what chastisement he threatens, what and how great the threate
ner the bloody quarry of the Theban mother shows us well. But far from us be this terror; let her feel all the anger of an outraged god. Ah, what is this mad prayer? May the winds and clouds of heaven bear off and scatter all ways the reckless wish! And, Neaera, though no thought of me survives in thy breast, mayst thou be happy and thy lot be bright. But let us devote these moments to the cheering board. After many days a cloudless one has come.
33 Ah me! mock joys are hard to make; ’tis hard to feign merriment when the heart is sad. Ill is it to force a false smile to the face; ill is it when tipsy accents are heard from the distressed. Unhappy, what is this complaining? Away, ye ugly cares! Father Lenaeus loathes the language of sorrow. In old times, maid of Cnossos, thou wast left alone to mourn the perjuries of Theseus’ tongue to an alien sea. So for thee, daughter of Minos, did accomplished Catullus sing, recounting the wicked doings of thy ingrate husband. And so I now warn you, friends. Fortunate wilt thou be who art taught by another’s suffering to avoid thy own. Be not ye deceived by arms flung round your necks, or cheated by a knavish tongue with wheedling prayers. Though the beguiler swear by her eyes, by her Juno, by her Venus, there will be no truth in her words. Jupiter laughs at the false oaths of lovers, and bids the winds carry them off without fulfilment. Then why do I complain so oft of the words of a faithless girl? Away from me, I pray, all serious talk! How I could wish to pass with thee long nights of rest and spend with thee long waking days, maid faithless, and for no fault of mine — faithless, but, though faithless, beloved still.
