by Tibullus
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!
ELEGY THE SEVENTH
A DESPERATE EXPEDIENT
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 malaise?
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!
ELEGY THE EIGHTH
MESSALA
The Fatal Sisters did this day ordain,
Reeling threads no god can rend,
Foretelling to this man should bend
&
nbsp; 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 Osiris 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 Genius 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!
ELEGY THE NINTH
TO PHOLOE AND MARATHUS
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.
To Pholoë
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 rendez-vous 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.”
To Marathus
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!
To Pholoë
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!
ELEGY THE TENTH
TO VENAL BEAUTY
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
