THE SIMPLE LIFE

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!

ELEGY THE SECOND

LOVE AND WITCHCRAFT

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.

ELEGY THE THIRD

SICKNESS AND ABSENCE

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:—

"Here Death's dark hand TIBULLUS doth detain,

Messala's follower over land and sea!"

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;—

And there's the wretch who would my Delia steal,

And wish me absent on a long campaign!

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?

ELEGY THE FOURTH

THE ARTS OF CONQUEST

"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!

ELEGY THE FIFTH

COUNTRY-LIFE WITH DELIA

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!

LEGY THE SIXTH

A LOVER'S CURSES

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!

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

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

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 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!