by Tibullus
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:
“Tibullus, from a lying love set free,
O Goddess, brings his gift, and asks new grace of thee.”
ELEGY THE ELEVENTH
WAR IS A CRIME
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 cloude
d 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!
BOOK II
ELEGY THE FIRST
A RUSTIC HOLIDAY
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.
ELEGY THE SECOND
A BIRTHDAY WIS
H
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.
ELEGY THE THIRD
MY LADY RUSTICATES
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;
