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" Catullus, what a charming hap is Our meeting in this sort of way !
I would be carried to Serapis
To-morrow ! " — " Stay, fair lady, stay I
" You overvalue my intention;
Yes, there are eight . . . there may be nine;
I merely had forgot to mention
That they are China's, and not mine. "
To Lesbia's Sparrow.
(Translation of Sir Charles Elton. )
Sparrow ! my nymph's delicious pleasure ! Who with thee, her pretty treasure, Fanciful in frolic, plays
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF CATULLUS.
Thousand, thousand wanton ways; And, fluttering, lays to panting rest On the soft orbings of her breast ; Thy beak with finger-tip incites,
And dallies with thy becks and bites; When my beauty, my desire,
Feels her darling whim inspire,
With nameless triflings, such as these,
To snatch, I trow, a tiny ease
For some keen fever of the breast,
While passion toys itself to rest ;
I would that happy lady be,
And so in pastime sport with thee,
And lighten love's soft agony.
The sweet resource were bliss untold,
Dear as that apple of ripe gold,
Which, by the nimble virgin found,
Unloos'd the zone that had so fast been bound.
To Himself; on Lesbia's Inconstancy.
(Translation of Thomas Moore. )
Cease the sighing fool to play;
Cease to trifle life away;
Nor vainly think those joys thine own, Which all, alas, have falsely flown.
What hours, Catullus, once were thine, How fairly seem'd thy day to shine,
When lightly thou didst to meet — The girl whose smile was then so sweet The girl thou lov'dst with fonder pain Than e'er thy heart can feel again.
Ye met — your souls seem'd all in one, Like tapers that commingling shone; Thy heart was warm enough for both, And hers in truth was nothing loath.
Such were the hours that once were thine But, ah those hours no longer shine.
For now the nymph delights no more
In what she loved so much before;
And all Catullus now can do,
Is to be proud and frigid too;
Nor follow where the wanton flies, Nor sue the bliss that she denies.
!
;
fly
300 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF CATULLUS.
False maid ! he bids farewell to thee, To love, and all love's misery;
The heyday of his heart is o'er,
Nor will he court one favor more.
Fly, perjured girl I — but whither fly ? Who now will praise thy cheek and eye ? Who now will drink the siren tone, Which tells him thou art all his own ? Oh, none: — and he who loved before
Can never, never love thee more.
A Woman's Promises.
(Translation of Sir Theodore Martin. )
Never a soul but myself, though Jove himself were to woo her, Lesbia says she would choose, might she have me for her mate. Says — but what woman will say to a lover on fire to possess her Write on the bodiless wind, write on the stream as it runs.
To Lesbia, on her Falsehood.
(Translation of Thomas Moore. )
Thou told'st me, in our days of love, That I had all that heart of thine ; That ev'n to share the couch of Jove,
Thou wouldst not, Lesbia, part from mine.
How purely wert thou worship'd then ! Not with the vague and vulgar fires—
Which Beauty wakes in soulless men, But loved, as children by their sires.
That flattering dream, alas, is o'er ; —
I know thee now — and though these eyes
Dote on thee wildly as before, Yet, ev'n in doting, I despise.
Yes, sorceress — mad as it may seem — With all thy craft, such spells adorn thee,
That passion ev'n outlives esteem,
And I at once adore — and scorn thee.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF CATULLUS.
The Parting Message to Lesbia.
Addressed to Furius and Aurelius.
(Translation of Lamb. )
Companions, who would gladly go With me through every toil below To man's remotest seats :
Whether Catullus should explore Far India, on whose echoing shore
The eastern billow beats :
Whether he seek Hyrcania wild, The Tartar hordes, or Arabs mild,
Or Parthia's archer train :
Or tread that intersected isle,
Whence pouring forth the sev'nfold Nile
Discolors all the main.
Whether across the Alps he toil, To view the war-ennobled soil
Where Caesar's trophies stand ; The Rhine that saw its Gaul's disgrace, Or dare the painted Briton race
In their extremest land.
Companions dear, prepared to wend Where'er the gods may place your friend,
And every lot to share ;
A few unwelcome words receive, And to that once-loved fair I leave
My latest message bear.
Still let her live and still be blest, By profligates in hundreds prest,
Still sport in ease and wealth; Still of those hundreds love not one, Still cast off each by turns undone
In fortune and in health.
But let her deem my passion o'er :
Her guilt has crush'd, to bloom no more,
The love her beauty raised ;
As droops the flower, the meadow's pride, Which springing by the furrow's side
The passing share has grazed.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF CATULLUS.
INVITATION TO CJBCILIUS. (Translation of Lamb. )
Go, paper, to Caecilius say,
To him I love, the bard whose lay
The sweetest thoughts attend ; Say, he must quit his loved retreat, Comum and Larius' lake, to greet
Verona and his friend.
Here let him some advice receive, A friend of his and mine will give.
If wise, he'll speed his way ; Although the fair his haste may check A thousand times, and on his neck
May hang, and beg his stay.
For, when of old she read his strains To her on Dindymus who reigns,
Did raging passion seize
On all her heart ; and since that day She idly wears his youth away
In love and slothful ease.
Yet thee, fair girl, I not abuse,
More learned than the Sapphic Muse,
And warm with all her fire ; For, ah ! so soft, so sweetly flow'd His melting strains, his tender ode,
They well might love inspire.
The Original of "Dr. Fell. " (Translation of Thomas Moore. )
I love thee and hate thee, but if I can tell
The cause of my love and my hate, may I die !
I can feel alas can feel too well,
That love thee and hate thee, but cannot tell why.
To the Peninsula of Sirmio, on his Return Home. (Translation of Leigh Hunt. )
best of all the scatter' spots that lie
In sea or lake, — apple of landscape's eye, —
0
! I d
I
it,
it
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF CATULLUS.
How gladly do I drop within thy nest,
With what a sigh of full, contented rest,
Scarce able to believe my journey's o'er,
And that these eyes behold thee safe once more ! Oh where's the luxury like the smile at heart, When the mind breathing, lays its load apart, — When we come home again, tired out, and spread The loosen'd limbs o'er all the wish'd-for bed ! This, this alone is worth an age of toil.
Hail, lovely Sirmio ! Hail, paternal soil I
Joy, my bright waters, joy: your master's comel Laugh every dimple on the cheek of home I
To Cobnificius.
(Translation of Leigh Hunt. )
Sick, Cornificius, is thy friend,
Sick to the heart ; and sees no end
Of wretched thoughts, that gathering fast Threaten to wear him out at last.
And yet you never come and bring — — Though 'twere the least and easiest thing
A comfort in that talk of thine : —
You vex me : — this, to love like mine ? Prithee, a little talk for ease, for ease,
Full as the tears of poor Simonides.
To His Dead Brother.
(Translation of James Cranstoun. )
Brother ! o'er many lands and oceans borne,
I reach thy grave, death's last sad rites to pay;
To call thy silent dust in vain, and mourn, Since ruthless fate has hurried thee away : Woe's me ! yet now upon thy tomb I lay —
All soaked with tears for thee, thee loved so well — What gifts our fathers gave the honored clay
Of valued friends ; take them — my grief they tell : And now, forever hail ! forever fare thee well !
304 POEMS OF TIBULLUa
POEMS OF TIBULLUS.
[Albius Tibullus, a leading Roman elegiac poet, — the great quartet being, in order of seniority, Gallus, Tibullua, Fropertius, and Ovid, — was probably bom b. o. 64, and died b. c. 10. He was a Roman knight of wealthy family, but early orphaned and his property confiscated in the civil wars; and was attached to die circle of Valerius Messala as Horace to that of Maecenas. He distin guished himself in a campaign for Augustus, and accompanied Messala on a mission to Asia as far as Corcyra, where he fell sick ; but hated war, had no ambition, and chose to live quietly in the country rather even than at Rome. He was of a gentle and affectionate nature, of fine person and winning manners, greatly beloved and his death deeply regretted. His poems, though not of great number or variety, rank high for style and artistic finish ; he has been compared
to Collins. ]
A Husbandman's Life the Ideal One.
(Translation by Sir Charles Elton. )
Let others pile their yellow ingots high,
And see their cultured acres round them spread ;
While hostile borderers draw their anxious eye, And at the trumpet's blast their sleep is fled.
Me let my poverty to ease resign ;
While my bright hearth reflects its blazing cheer ;
In season let me plant the pliant vine,
And, with light hand, my swelling apples rear.
Hope, fail not thou ! let earth her fruitage yield ; Let the brimmed vat flow red with virgin wine :
For still some lone, bare stump that marks the field, Or antique crossway stone, with flowers I twine,
In pious rite ; and, when the year anew Matures the blossom on the budding spray,
I bear the peasant's god his grateful due, And firstling fruits upon his altar lay.
Still let thy temple's porch, O Ceres ! wear The spiky garland from my harvest field ;
And 'midst my orchard, 'gainst the birds of air, His threatening hook let red Priapus wield.
Ye too, once guardians of a rich domain,
Now of poor fields, domestic gods ! be kind. Then, for unnumbered herds, a calf was slain ;
Now to your altars is a lamb consigned.
POEMS OF TIBULLUS.
The mighty victim of a scanty soil,
A lamb alone shall bleed before your shrine ;
While round it shout the youthful sons of toil,
" Hail ! grant the harvest ! grant the generous wine I
Content with little, I no more would tread
The lengthening road, but shun the summer day,
Where some o'er-branching tree might shade my head, And watch the murmuring rivulet glide away.
Nor could I blush to wield the rustic prong,
The lingering oxen goad ; or some stray lamb,
Embosomed in my garment, bear along, Or kid forgotten by its heedless dam.
Spare my small flock ! ye thieves and wolves, assail The wealthier cotes, that ampler booty hold;
Ne'er for my shepherd due lustrations fail ; I soothe with milk the goddess of the fold.
Be present, deities ! nor gifts disdain
From homely board ; nor cups with scorn survey,
Earthen, yet pure ; for such the ancient swain Formed for himself, and shaped of ductile clay.
I envy not my sires their golden heap ;
Their garners' floors with sheafy corn bespread;
Few sheaves suffice : enough, in easy sleep To lay my limbs upon th' accustomed bed.
How sweet to hear, without, the howling blast, And strain a yielding mistress to my breast !
Or, when the gusty torrent's rush has past,
Sink, lulled by beating rains, to sheltered rest!
Be this my lot ; be his th' unenvied store,
Who the drear storm endures, and raging sea ;
Ah I perish emeralds and the golden ore,
If the fond, anxious nymph must weep for me !
Messala ! range the earth and main, that Rome May shine with trophies of the foes that fell ;
But me a beauteous nymph enchains at home, At her hard door a sleepless sentinel.
I heed not praise, my Delia ! while with thee ; Sloth brand my name, so I thy sight behold*
voi. v. — 20
POEMS OF TIBULLUS.
Let me the oxen yoke ; oh come with me ! On desert mountains I will feed my fold.
And, while I pressed thee in my tender arms, Sweet were my slumber on the rugged ground :
What boots the purple couch, if cruel charms
In wakeful tears the midnight hours have drowned?
Not the soft plume can yield the limbs repose, Nor yet the broidered covering soothe to sleep;
Not the calm streamlet that in murmurs flows, With sound oblivious o'er the eyelids creep.
Iron is he who might thy form possess,
Yet flies to arms, and thirsts for plunder's gains ;
What though his spear Cilician squadrons press,
What though his tent be pitched on conquered plains ?
In gold and silver mail conspicuous he
May stride the steed, that, pawing, spurs the sand ;
May I my last looks fondly bend on thee,
And grasp thee with my dying, faltering hand !
And thou wilt weep when, cold, I press the bier, That soon shall on the flaming pyre be thrown ;
And print the kiss, and mingle many a tear ; Not thine a breast of steel, a heart of stone.
Yes — thou wilt weep. No youth shall thence return With tearless eye, no virgin homeward wend :
But thou forbear to violate my urn,
Spare thy soft cheeks, nor those loose tresses rend.
Now fate permits, now blend the sweet embrace :
Death, cowled in darkness, creeps with stealing tread,
111 suits with sluggish age love's sprightly grace, And murmured fondness with a hoary head.
The light amour be mine ; the shivered door ;
The midnight fray ; ye trumps and standards, hence !
Here is my camp ; bleed they who thirst for ore : Wealth I despise in easy competence.
An Unwilling Welcome to Love.
I (Translation of Sir Charles Elton. )
see my slavery and a mistress near ;
Oh, freedom of my fathers ! fare thee well !
POEMS OF TIBULLUS.
A slavery wretched, and a chain severe,
Nor Love remits the bonds that o'er me fell.
How have I then deserved consuming pain ? Or for what sin am I of flames the prey ?
I burn, ah me !
Take, cruel girl, oh take thy torch away !
I burn in every vein !
Oh ! but to 'scape this agonizing heat, Might I a stone on icy mountains lie !
Stand a bleak rock by wreaking billows beat,
And swept by madding whirlwinds of the sky !
Bitter the day, and ah ! the nightly shade ;
And all my hours in venomed stream have rolled ;
No elegies, no lays of Phoebus, aid ;
With hollow palm she craves the tinkling gold.
Away, ye Muses ! if ye serve not Love :
I, not to sing of battles, woo your strain;
How walks the bright-haired sun the heavens above, Or turns the full-orbed moon her steeds again.
By verse I seek soft access to my fair ; Away, ye Muses ! with the useless lore ;
Through blood and pillage I must gifts prepare; Or weep, thrown prostrate at her bolted door.
Suspended spoils I'll snatch from pompous fanes ; But Venus first shall violated be ;
She prompts the sacrilege, who forged the chains And gave that nymph insatiable to me.
Perish the wretch ! who culls the emerald green, Or paints the snowy fleece with Tyrian red !
Through filmy Coan robes her limbs are seen, And India's pearls gleam lucid from her head.
'Tis pampered avarice thus corrupts the fair ;
The key is turned ; the mastiff guards the door : The guard's disarmed, if large the bribe you bear ;
The dog is hushed ; the key withstands no more.
Alas ! that e'er a heavenly form should grace The nymph that pants with covetous desires !
Hence tears and clamorous brawls, and sore disgrace E'en to the name of love, that bliss inspires.
POEMS OF TIBULLUS.
For thee, that shutt'st the lover from thy door, Foiled by a price, the gilded hire of shame,
May tempests scatter this thy ill-got ore, Strewn on the winds, or melted in the flame.
May climbing fires thy mansion's roof devour,
And youths gaze glad, nor throw the quenching wave;
May none bemoan thee at thy dying hour,
None pay the mournful tribute to thy grave.
But she, unbribed, unbought, yet melting kind, May she a hundred years, unfading, bloom ;
Be wept, while on the flaming pile reclined,
And yearly garlands twine her pillared tomb.
Some ancient lover, with his locks of gray, Honoring the raptures that his youth had blest,
Shall hang the wreath, and slow-departing say, * " Sleep ! — and may earth lie light upon thy breast I
Truth prompts my tongue ; but what can truth avail ? The love her laws prescribe must now be mine ;
My ancestors' loved groves I
— My household gods, your title I resign !
Nay — Circe's juice, Medea's drugs, each plant Of Thessaly, whence dews of poison fall ; —
Let but my Nemesis' soft smile enchant,
Then let her mix the cup — I'll drink them all !
To Messala.
(Translation of James Cranstoun. )
Thou'lt cross the . ffigean waves, but not with me, Messala ; yet by thee and all thy band
Ipray that Imay still remembered be, Lingering on lone Phaeacia's foreign strand.
Spare me, fell Death ! no mother have I here My charred bones in Sorrow's lap to lay ;
Oh, spare ! for here I have no sister dear To shower Assyrian odors o'er my clay,
Or to my tomb with locks disheveled come, And pour the tear of tender piety :
Nor Delia, who, ere yet I quitted Rome, 'Tis said consulted all the gods on high-,
set to sale
POEMS OF TIBULLUS.
Thrice from the boy the sacred tale she drew,
Thrice from the streets he brought her omens sure ;
All smiled, but tears would still her cheeks bedew: Naught could her thoughts from that sad journey lure.
I blent sweet comfort with my parting words, Yet anxiously I yearned for more delay.
Dire omens now, now inauspicious birds Detained me, now old Saturn's baleful day.
How oft I said, ere yet I left the town,
My awkward feet had stumbled at the door 1
Enough : if lover heed not Cupid's frown,
His headstrong ways he'll bitterly deplore.
Where is thine Isis ? What avail thee now Her brazen sistra clashed so oft by thee ?
What, while thou didst before her altars bow, Thy pure lavations and thy chastity ?
Great Isis, help I for in thy fanes displayed, Full many a tablet proves thy power to heal ;
So Delia shall, in linen robes arrayed,
Her vows before thy holy threshold seal.
And morn and eve, loose-tressed, thy praise to pour, Mid Pharian crowds conspicuous she'll return ;
But let me still my father's gods adore,
And to the old Lar his monthly incense burn.
How blest men lived when good old Saturn reigned, Ere roads had intersected hill and dale !
No pine had then the azure wave disdained, Or spread the swelling canvas to the gale ;
No roving mariner, on wealth intent,
From foreign climes a cargo homeward bore;
No sturdy steer beneath the yoke had bent, No galling bit the conquered courser wore;
No house had doors, no pillar on the wold Was reared to mark the limits of the plain;
The oaks ran honey, and all uncontrolled
The fleecy ewes brought milk to glad the swain.
Rage, broils, the curse of war, were all unknown ; The cruel smith had never forged the spear :
310
POEMS OF TIBULLUS.
Now Jove is king, the seeds of bale are sown,
Scars, wounds, and shipwrecks, thousand deaths loom near.
Spare me, great Jove ! No perjuries, I ween, Distract my heart with agonizing woe ;
No impious words by me have uttered been, Against the gods above or gods below.
But if my thread of life be wholly run, Upon my stone these lines engraven be :
" Hekb by fell Fate Tibullus lies undone, Whom dear Messala led o'eb land and sea. "
But me, the facile child of tender Love,
Will Venus waft to blest Elysium's plains,
Where dance and song resound, and every grove Rings with clear-throated warblers' dulcet strains.
Here lands untilled their richest treasures yield ; Here sweetest cassia all untended grows ;
With lavish lap the earth, in every field, Outpours the blossom of the fragrant rose.
Here bands of youths and tender maidens chime In love's sweet lures, and pay the untiring vow ;
Here reigns the lover, slain in youthhood's prime, With myrtle garland round his honored brow.
But wrapt in ebon gloom, the torture hell Low lies, and pitchy rivers round it roar ;
There serpent-haired Tisiphone doth yell,
And lash the damned crew from shore to shore.
Mark in the gate the snake-tongued sable hound, Whose hideous howls the brazen portals close;
There lewd Ixion, Juno's tempter, bound, Spins round his wheel in endless unrepose.
O'er nine broad acres stretched, base Tityus lies, On whose black entrails vultures ever prey;
And Tantalus is there, 'mid waves that rise To mock his misery and rush away.
The Danaides, who soiled Love's lovely shrine, — Fill on, and bear their pierced pails in vain ;
There writhe the wretch who's wronged a love of mine, And wished me absent on a long campaign !
POEMS OF TIBULLUS.
Be chaste, my love ; and let thine old nurse e'er, To shield thy maiden fame, around thee tread,
Tell thee sweet tales, and by the lamp's bright glare From the full distaff draw the lengthening thread.
And when thy maidens, spinning round thy knee, Sleep-worn, by slow degrees their work lay by,
Oh, let me speed unheralded to thee,
Like an immortal rushing down the sky !
Then all undrest, with ruffled locks astream, And feet unsandaled, meet me on my way 1
Aurora, goddess of the morning beam,
Bear, on thy rosy steeds, that happy day !
Sulpicia's Appeal.
(Translation of Sir Charles Elton. )
Oh savage boar ! where'er thy haunt is found,
In champaign meads or mountain thickets deep,
Spare my dear youth ; nor whet thy fangs to wound ; May guardian Love the lover harmless keep.
Him far away the wandering chase has led : Wither all woods and perish every hound !
What frantic mood, the tangled net to spread,
And sore his tender hands with brambles wound !
Where is the joy, to thread the forest lair,
While with hooked thorns thy snowy legs are frayed ?
But Cherinthus, thy wanderings share,
Thy nets I'll trail through every mountain glade.
Myself will track the nimble roebuck's trace, And from the hound the iron leash remove
Then woods will charm me, when in thy embrace The conscious nets behold me, oh my love
Unharmed the boar shall break the tangling snare, Lest our stolen hours of bliss impeded be
But, far from me, soft Venus' joys forbear
With Dian spread the nets, when far from me.
May she, that robs me of thy dear embrace,
Fall to the woodland beasts, by piecemeal torn
But to thy father leave the toilsome chase
Fly to my arms, on wings of transport borne.
;;: :
!
:
if,
I
POEMS OF TIBULLUS.
To His Mistress.
(Translation of Thomas Moore. )
" Never shall woman's smile have power " To win me from those gentle charms I
Thus swore I in that happy hour
When Love first gave them to my arms.
And still alone thou charm'st my sight— Still, though our city proudly shine With forms and faces fair and bright,
I see none fair or bright but thine.
Would thou wert fair for only me,
And couldst no heart but mine allure !
To all men else unpleasing be, So shall I feel my prize secure.
Oh, love like mine ne'er wants the zest Of others' envy, others' praise ;
But in its silence safely blest,
Broods o'er a bliss it ne'er betrays.
Charm of my life ! by whose sweet power All cares are hushed, all ills subdued —
My light in eVn the darkest hour, My crowd in deepest solitude !
No ; not though heaven itself sent down Some maid of more than heavenly charms,
With bliss undreamt thy bard to crown, Would I for her forsake those arms.
Love Deaf to Doubt. (Translation of James Grainger. )
Fame says, my mistress loves another swain ;
Would I were deaf, when Fame repeats the wrong !
All crimes to her imputed give me pain,
Not change my love : Fame, stop your saucy tongue !
ELEGIES OF PROPERTIUS. 818
ELEGIES OF PROPERTIUS.
[Sbxtub Pbopebtius, the foremost of Roman elegiac poets, was a wealthy country gentleman, born at Assisium (Assisi), in Umbria, — the birthplace of St. Francis, — about b. c. 60. Like Tibullus he was early orphaned, and his property confiscated after Philippi ; but his mother secured him an education, took him to Rome, and tried to make a lawyer of him. He preferred letters, however, and his first book of poems gained him admission to Maecenas' circle. Little is known of his later history, though he probably had a family, and certainly lived till after b. c. 16. He was a thin, sickly man, very careful in dress, morbidly sen sitive and impressionable, and much given to melancholy. His poems are very difficult in matter and language, but of high rank in originality, strength, and imaginative power. ]
To M^CENAS.
(Translated by Thomas Gray, — first published in Edmund Gosse'B edition. )
You ask why thus my loves I still rehearse, Whence the soft strain and ever melting verse ? From Cynthia all that in my numbers shines ; She is my genius, she inspires the lines ;
No Phoebus else, no other Muse I know,
She tunes my easy rhyme, and gives the lay to flow. If the loose curls around her forehead play,
Or, lawless, o'er their ivory margin stray :
If the thin Coan web her shape reveal,
And half disclose those limbs it should conceal;
Of those loose curls, that ivory front I write ;
Of the dear web whole volumes I indite :
Or if to music she the lyre awake,
That the soft subject of my song I make,
And sing with what a careless grace she flings
Her artful hand across the sounding strings.
If sinking into sleep she seems to close
Her languid lids, I favor her repose
With lulling notes, and thousand beauties see
That slumber brings to aid my poetry.
When, less averse, and yielding to desires,
She half accepts and half rejects my fires,
While to retain the envious lawn she tries,
And struggles to elude my longing eyes,
The fruitful muse from that auspicious night
Dates the long Iliad of the amorous fight.
In brief, whate'er she do, or say, or look,
'Tis ample matter for a lover's book ;
ELEGIES OF PROPERTIDS.
And many a copious narrative you'll see Big with the important Nothing's history.
Yet would the tyrant Love permit me raise
My feeble voice, to sound the victor's praise,
To paint the hero's toil, the ranks of war,
The laureled triumph and the sculptured car ;
No giant race, no tumult of the skies,
No mountain structures in my verse should rise,
Nor tale of Thebes nor Ilium there should be,
Nor how the Persian trod the indignant sea ;
Not Marius' Cimbrian wreaths would I relate,
Nor lofty Carthage struggling with her fate.
Here should Augustus great in arms appear,
And thou, Maecenas, be my second care;
Here Mutina from flames and famine free,
And there the ensanguined wave of Sicily,
And sceptered Alexandria's captive shore,
And sad Philippi, red with Roman gore :
Then, while the vaulted skies loud Ios rend,
In golden chains should loaded monarchs bend,
And hoary Nile with pensive aspect seem
To mourn the glories of his sevenfold stream,
While prows, that late in fierce encounter met,
Move through the sacred way and vainly threat. Thee, too, the Muse should consecrate to fame,
And with her garlands weave thy ever-faithful name.
But nor Callimachus' enervate strain
May tell of Jove, and Phlegra's blasted plain ;
Nor I with unaccustomed vigor trace
Back to its source divine the Julian race.
Sailors to tell of winds and seas delight,
The shepherd of his flocks, the soldier of the fight, A milder warfare I in verse display;
Each in his proper art should waste the day :
Nor thou my gentle calling disapprove, —
To die is glorious in the bed of love.
Happy the youth, and not unknown to fame, Whose heart has never felt a second flame.
Oh, might that envied happiness be mine !
To Cynthia all my wishes I confine ;
Or if, alas! it be my fate to try
Another love, the quicker let me die :
But she, the mistress of my faithful breast, Has oft the charms of constancy confest,
ELEGIES OF PROPERTIUS.
Condemns her fickle sex's fond mistake,
And hates the tale of Troy for Helen's sake.
Me from myself the soft enchantress stole ;
Ah ! let her ever my desires control,
Or if I fall the victim of her scorn,
From her loved door may my pale corse be borne, The power of herbs can other harms remove,
And find a cure for every ill but love.
The Melian's hurt Machaon could repair,
Heal the slow chief, and send again to war ;
To Chiron Phoenix owed his long-lost sight,
And Phoebus' son recalled Androgeon to the Light Here arts are vain, e'en magic here must fail,
The powerful mixture and the midnight spell ; The hand that can my captive heart release,
And to this bosom give its wonted peace,
May the long thirst of Tantalus allay,
Or drive the infernal vulture from his prey.
For ills unseen what remedy is found ?
Or who can probe the undiscovered wound ?
The bed avails not, nor the leech's care,
Nor changing skies can hurt, nor sultry air.
'Tis hard th' elusive symptoms to explore :
To-day the lover walks, to-morrow is no more;
A train of mourning friends attend his pall,
And wonder at the sudden funeral.
315
When then my Fates that breath they gave shall claim, And the short marble but preserve a name,
A little verse my all that shall remain ;
Thy passing courser's slackened speed restrain ;
(Thou envied honor of thy poet's days,
Of all our youth the ambition and the praise ! )
Then to my quiet urn awhile draw near ; —
And say, while o'er the place you drop the tear,
Love and the fair were of his life the pride;
He lived, while she was kind ; and when she frowned, he died.
The Effigy of Love.
(Translation of Sir Charles Elton. )
Had he not hands of rare device, whoe'er First painted Love in figure of a boy ?
He saw what thoughtless beings lovers were,
Who blessings lose, whilst lightest cares employ.
ELEGIES OF PROPERTIUS.
Nor added he those airy wings in vain,
And bade through human hearts the godhead fly ;
For we are tost upon a wavering main ;
Our gale, inconstant, veers around the sky.
Nor, without cause, he grasps those barbed darts, The Cretan quiver o'er his shoulder cast ;
Ere we suspect a foe, he strikes our hearts ;
And those inflicted wounds forever last.
In me are fixed those arrows, in my breast ;
But sure his wings are shorn, the boy remains ;
For never takes he flight, nor knows he rest ; Still, still I feel him warring through my veins.
In these scorched vitals dost thou joy to dwell ? Oh shame I to others let thy arrows flee ;
Let veins untouched with all thy venom swell ; Not me thou torturest, but the shade of me.
Destroy me — who shall then describe the fair ? This my light Muse to thee high glory brings : When the nymph's tapering fingers, flowing hair,
And eyes of jet, and gliding feet she sings.
Prediction of Poetic Immortality.
(Translation of Sir Charles Elton. )
Sprite of Callimachus ! and thou blest shade,
I your grove would tread : From their pure fount in Latian's orgies led.
Coan Philetas !
Me, Love's vowed priest, have Grecia's choirs obeyed,
Say, Spirits ! what inspiring grotto gave Alike to both that subtly tender strain ?
Which foot auspicious entered first the cave,
Or from what spring ye drank your flowing vein ?
Who lists, may din with arms Apollo's ear :
Smooth let the numbers glide, whose fame on high
Lifts me from earth : behold my Muse appear ! And on wreathed coursers pass in triumph by !
With me the little Loves the car ascend ;
My chariot-wheels a throng of bards pursues ;
ELEGIES OF PROPERTIUS.
Why, with loose reins, in idle strife contend ? Narrow the course which Heaven assigns the Muse.
Full many, Rome, shall bid thy annals shine, And Asian Bactra rise thy empire's bound :
Mine are the lays of peace, and flowers are mine Gather'd on Helicon's untrodden ground.
Maids of the sacred fount ! with no harsh crown, But with soft garland wreathe your poet's head!
Those honors, which th' invidious crowd disown, While yet I live, shall doubly grace me dead.
Whate'er the silent tomb has veiled in shade Shines more august through venerable fame ;
Time has the merits of the dead displayed, And rescued from the dust a glorious name.
Who, else, would know, that e'er Troy-towers had bowed To the pine-steed? that e'er Achilles strove
With grappling rivers ? that round Ida flowed
The stream of Simois, cradling infant Jove ?
If Hector's blood dyed thrice the wheel-tracked plain ? Polydamas, Deiphobus, once fell,
Or Helenus was numbered with the slain ? Scarce his own soil could of her Paris tell.
Shrunk were thy record, Troy I whose captured wall Felt twice th' . ^Steean god's resistless rage :
Nor he, the bard that registered thy fall, Had left his growing song to every age.
Me too shall Rome, among her last, revere ; But that far day shall on my ashes rise ;
No stone a worthless sepulchre shall rear, The mean memorial where a poet lies.
So may the Lycian god my vows approve ! Now let my verse its wonted sphere regain ;
That, touched with sympathies of joy and love, The melting nymph may listen to my strain.
'Tis sung that Orpheus, with his Thracian tones, Stayed the wild herd, and stayed the troubled flood ;
Moved by Amphion's lute Cythaeron's stones Leaped into form, and Thebes aspiring stood.
ELEGIES OF PROPERTIUS.
Beneath rude ^Etna's crag, O Polypheme ! On the smooth deep did Galatea rein
Her horses, dropping with the briny stream,
And wind their course to catch the floating strain.
Then, if the god of verse, the god of wine,
Look down propitious, and with smiles approve ;
What wonder, if the fair's applause be mine, If thronging virgins list the lays of love ?
Though no green marble, from Taenarian mines, Swells in the columns that my roof uphold ; No ceiling's arch with burnished ivory shines,
And intersecting beams that blaze with gold ;
My orchards vie not with Phaeacian groves,
Through my carved grot no Marcian fountains play ;
With me the Muse in breathless dances roves; Nymphs haunt my dwelling ; readers love my lay.
Oh, fortunate, fair maid ! whoe'er thou art, That, in my gentle song, shalt honored be !
This to each charm shall lasting bloom impart; Each tender verse a monument of thee !
The sumptuous pyramids, that stately rise Among the stars, the Mausolean tomb,
Th' Olympic fane, expanded like the skies — Not these can scape th' irrevocable doom.
The force of rushing rains, or wasting flame,
The weight of years may bow their glories down;
But Genius wins an undecaying name,
Through ages strong, and deathless in renown.
Praise of a Life of Ease.
(Translation of Sir Charles Elton. )
Love is the god of peace : we lovers know
But love's hard combats, and a mistress-foe : Not gold's devouring want my soul has curst; Not from a jeweled cup I slake my thirst ;
I plow not wide Campania's mellowed soil,
Nor for thy brass in ships, O Corinth I toil.
Ah ! hapless clay that erst Prometheus pressed, Molding a rash and unforeseeing breast:
ELEGIES OF PROPERTIUS. 319
The skill, that knit the frame, o'erlooked the heart; An upright reasoning soul escaped his art.
Now tost by winds we roam the troubled flood, Link foe to foe, and restless pant for blood.
Fool ! not on Acheron thy wealth shall float,
All naked drifting in th' infernal boat.
The conqueror with the captive skims the tide,
And chained Jugurtha sits at Marius' side :
Eobed Crœsus shares the tattered Irus' doom,
And owns that death the best, which soon shall come. Me in youth's flower could Helicon entrance,
My hands with Muses linked in mazy dance :
Me has it charmed to bathe my soul in wine,
And vernal roses round my temples twine :
When irksome age hath stolen on love's delight, And strewn my sable locks with sprinkled white; Then may it please to search in Nature's ways, And learn what god the world's vast fabric sways ; How dawns the rising east and fades again ;
How the round moon repairs her crescent wane ;
How winds the salt sea sweep, and th' eastern blast
The billows warps, and clouds their ceaseless waste. Whether a day shall come, when headlong hurled
Shall fall the tottering pillars of the world ;
Why drinks the purpling bow the rainy cloud ;
Why Pindus' summits reel, in earthquake bowed ;
Why shines the sun's wheeled orb with umbered light,
His golden coursers palled in mourning night;
Why turns Bootes slow his starry wain,
Why sparkling throng the Pleiads' clustered train;
Why bounded roll the deepening ocean's tides ;
Why the full year in parted seasons glides ;
If under earth gods judge, and giants rave ;
Tisiphone's fierce ringlets snaky wave ;
Furies Alcmaeon scourge, and Phineas hungering crave ; Thirst burn in streams, wheels whirl, rocks backward leap, Or Hell's dark mouth three-headed Cerberus keep :
If Tityus' straitened limbs nine acres press ;
Or fables mock man's credulous wretchedness
Through long tradition's age : nor terror's strife
Survive the pyre : — be such my close of life.
Go ye who list, the Parthian overcome,
Bring Crassus' wrested standards back to Bome.
ELEGIES OF PROPERTIUS.
The Plea of Cornelia.
(Translation of Professor E. D. A. Morshead. )
Cease, Paullus, cease ! thy fruitless tears withhold ; Unto no prayer will Hell's dark gates unfold !
From Death's dark bourne none cometh forth again ; Grief beats th' impenetrable bars in vain.
Tho' Dis should harken, in his gloomy hall,
The deaf shores drink whatever teardrops fall. Prayers may to Heaven and heavenly gods aspire, But, when Hell's ferryman hath ta'en his hire,
The dark gate seals the legacy of fire.
That truth sad trumpets pealed, when kindling flame Dropped through the bier the ashes of my frame — Mine — Scipio's child and Paullus' consort hailed, Mother of noble children — what availed ?
Found I, for all my fame, the Fates less stern ?
Light dust am I, a handful in an urn !
Ye nights of Hell ! ye fens and marshes gray, And snakelike streams that wind about my way ! Untimely have I come, yet guiltless all —
Lord of the Dead, soft let thy sentence fall !
If ^Eacus, if judgment here there be,
Let urn and scroll speak justice' doom on me ; Judge sit by judge — let Minos' throne be nigh, And the stern court, and Furies' company.
Rest, Sisyphus ! forego thy stone and hill ;
Ixion, let thy whizzing wheel be still !
The cheating wave let Tantalus recall ;
Let Cerberus no passing ghost appal ;
Hell's bolt be silent, and its chain let fall !
Lo, mine own cause I plead ! If false my plea,
Hard weigh the Danaides' urn of doom on me !
If trophied spoils bring heritage of fame,
Speak, Spain and Afric, of my grandsires' name ! Well matched with them may stand my mother's line, And Scipio's stock with Libo's race combine.
Then, when I passed from maiden unto bride, And wedlock's snood my virgin tresses tied,
Till death should part, to Paullus' side I came — Wife to one only be my funeral fame !
Dead sires ! whose threshold carven busts adorn And conquered Afric's figure, slavelike shorn —
ELEGIES OF PROPERTIUS.
Bear witness from your ashes to your home — Those ashes, worthy of thy worship, Rome ! Bear witness, Perses ! — all thy breast on fire To match Achilles' self, thy godlike sire — Thou too, whose valor shattered from its base That home of Perses' and Achilles' race — That ne'er, for sin of mine, was law made tame, Nor blushed our household for Cornelia's shame. Thro' me no stain on our renown could come — Me, crown and model of our glorious home !
I walked unswerving, held a stainless fame, From wedding torch to funeral, the same.
For Nature wrought for me a law within — Thou shalt not shun the judgment, but the sin. What urn soever shall my doom decide,
No woman e'er shall blush to seek my side :
Not thou, O Claudia, who with spotless hand Didst hale the ling'ring galley from the strand, Cybele's bark — thou matron of renown,
Servant of her who wears the turret-crown !
Not she who erst, when angered Vesta came, From stainless robe relit th' entrusted flame. Thou too, dear heart, Scribonia, mother mine ! Ne'er have I grieved thee. If thy soul repine, Say this — no more. Too short a date was thine. Tears, true as thine, the weeping city gave,
And Caesar sighed detraction from my grave. The mother of my Julia was thine, — He said ; thy life was worthy of my line Farewell ! and tears fell from his eyes divine. Mine too it was, the honored stole to gain; Nor from a barren wedlock was I ta'en. —
Ah sons, my twofold solace after death
Propped on your bosoms I resigned my breath ! Brother, twice throned in power ! the selfsame day Saw thee made consul and me rapt away.
Child, pride of Paullus' censorship begun,
Live thou like me, love one and only one.
Loyal to one, keep thou thy bed unstained,
And by thine offspring be our line maintained !
My race shall glorify my name — and now
Loosed be the death-boat — I am lief to go !
Of woman's fame, this is the highest crown,
When praised, and freed, and dead, we hold Renown.
vOL. v. — 21
ELEGIES OF PROPERTIUS.
Guard, Paullus, guard the pledges of our love — My very dust that ingrained wish can move ! Father thou art, and mother must thou be,
Unto those little ones bereft of me.
Weep they, give twofold kisses, thine and mine, Solace their hearts, and both our loves combine ; And if thou needst must weep, go, weep apart — Let not our children, folded to thine heart, Between thy kisses feel thy teardrops start. Enough, for love, be nightlong thoughts of me, And phantom forms that murmur I am she.
Or, if thou speakest to mine effigy,
Speak soft, and pause, and dream of a reply.
Yet — if a presence new our halls behold, — And a new bride my wonted place shall hold
My children, speak her fair, who pleased your sire, And let your gentleness disarm her ire ;
Nor speak in praise of me — your loyal part Will turn to gall and wormwood in her heart. But, if your father hold my worth so high, That lifelong love can people vacancy,
And solitude seem only love gone by,
Tend ye his loneliness, his thoughts engage, And bar the avenues of pain to age.
I died before my time — add my lost years Unto your youth, be to his heart compeers ; So shall he face, content, life's slow decline, Glad in my children's love, as once in mine.
Lo, all is well ! I ne'er wore garb of woe For child or husband : I was first to go.
Lo, I have said ! Rise, ye who weep ;
In high desert, worthy the Spirit Land.