by Tibullus
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.
ELEGY THE SECOND
HE DIED FOR LOVE
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: —
“Here Lygdamus, consumed with grief and care
“For his lost bride Neaera, hapless lies.”
ELEGY THE THIRD
RICHES ARE USELESS
’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!
ELEGY THE FOURTH
A DREAM FROM PHOEBUS
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.
Cast off that rival wooer!’”
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!
ELEGY THE FIFTH
TO FRIENDS AT THE BATHS
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!
ELEGY THE SIXTH
A FARE-WELL TOAST
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!
<
br /> Thou wert most false and cruel, woe is me!
False! But I love thee still.
L’Envoi
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.
BOOK IV
ELEGY THE THIRTEENTH
A LOVER’S OATH
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.
OVID’S LAMENT FOR TIBULLUS’ DEATH
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,
