ELEGY THE EIGHTH

MESSALA

The Fatal Sisters did this day ordain,Reeling threads no god can rend,Foretelling to this man should bendThe tribes of Acquitaine;And 'neath his legions' yokeTh' 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 flyingTh' 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 madeTo Jove for fruitful showers.On thee they call! Or in sepulchral shade,The life-reviving, sky-descended powersOf brightOsirishail,—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 throwIn 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 keenShore off the tendrils green.For him the bursting clusters sweetWere 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 receivesDeliverance 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 trainBear forth thy magic ark to mysteries divine.Immortal guest, our games and pageant share!Smile on the flowing cup, and hailWith us theGeniusof this natal day!From whose anointed, rose-entwisted hair,Arabian odors waft away.If thou the festal bless, I will not failTo 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 threeSurround 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!

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 burnsWhatever 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 changeOf 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 severityLet 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 andrendez-vousmy 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!

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 beThat beauteous creatures who for once offendYour 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 prowO'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 graceThe 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 defileBeauty with gold? For every wise man knowsThat riches only mantle with a smileA 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 comeWho 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 cryThat shouts aloud the thing they last would tell.How oft with tears I told thee this, when IAt thy white feet a shameful suppliant fell!Then wouldst thou vow that never glittering goldNor 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 skiesHold 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 strayedTo 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 rendezvousThe flattered object of thy roving joys.Mad that I was! Till now I never knewHow 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 saidTo drain more wine-cups than her lovers be,Though oft with wine and rose her feast is redTill the bright wheels of morn her revels see!No one like her to pass a furious nightIn 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 trimCompels her passion to allure his flameBy all the arts of beauty. 'Tis for himShe wastes thy wealth and brings thy house to shame.I praise her for it. What nice girl could bearThy 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' doorI 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."

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 turnedOn one another's breasts that cunning edgeWherewith 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 livedIn that good, golden time; nor e'er had knownA mob in arms arrayed; nor felt my heartThrob to the trumpet's call! Now to the warsI must away, where haply some chance foeBears 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 oakYour simple emblems in my dwelling stand!For so the pious generations goneRevered your powers, and with offerings rudeTo rough-hewn gods in narrow-built abodes,Lived beautiful and honorable lives.Did they not bring to crown your hallowed browsGarlands of ripest corn, or pour new wineIn pure libation on the thirsty ground?Oft on some votive day the father broughtThe consecrated loaf, and close behindHis little daughter in her virgin palmBore honey bright as gold. O powers benign!To ye once more a faithful servant praysFor safety! Let the deadly brazen spearPass harmless o'er my head! and I will slayFor 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 proveMighty in arms and by the grace of MarsLay chieftains low; and let him tell the taleTo me who drink his health, while on the boardHis wine-dipped finger draws, line after line,Just how his trenches ranged! What madness direBids 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 floodThe dark ship goes; while on the clouded shoreWith hollow cheek and tresses lustreless,Wanders the ghostly throng. O happier farSome white-haired sire, among his children dear,Beneath a lowly thatch! His sturdy sonShepherds the young rams; he, his gentle ewes;And oft at eve, his willing labor done,His careful wife his weary limbs will batheFrom 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 yokeLed oxen in the plough, who first the vineDid 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 devoursThe cruel soldier's useless sword and shield.From peaceful holiday with mirth and wineThe rustic, not half sober, driveth homeWith 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 seeHow strong were his wild hands. But mocking LoveTeaches 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 enoughTo tear her soft robe from her limbs away,And loose her knotted hair?—Enough, indeed,To move her tears! Thrice happy is the wightWhose frown some lovely mistress weeps to see!But he who gives her blows!—Go, let him bearA sword and spear! In exile let him beFrom Venus' mild domain! Come blessed Peace!Come, holding forth thy blade of ripened corn!Fill thy large lap with mellow fruits and fair!

A RUSTIC HOLIDAY

Give us good omen, friends! To-day we blessWith hallowed rites this dear, ancestral seat.Let Bacchus his twin horns with clusters dress,And Ceres clasp her brows with bursting wheat!To-day no furrows! Both for field and manBe sacred rest from delving toil and care!With necks yoke-free, at mangers full of bran,The tranquil steers shall nought but garlands bear.Our tasks to-day are heaven's. No maid shall dareUpon a distaff her deft hands employ.Let none, too rash, our simple worship share,Who wrought last eve at Venus' fleeting joy!The gods claim chastity. Come clad in white,And lave your palms at some clear fountain's brim!Then watch the mild lamb at the altar bright,Yon olive-cinctured choir close-following him!"Ye Guardian Powers, who bless our native soil,Far from these acres keep ill luck away!No withered ears the reaper's task to spoil!Nor swift wolf on our laggard lambs to prey!"So shall the master of this happy housePile the huge logs upon his blazing floor;While with kind mirth and neighborly carouse,His bondsmen build their huts beside his door.The bliss I pray for has been granted me!With reverent art observing things divine,I have explored the omens,—and I seeThe Guardian Powers are good to me and mine.Bring old Falernian from the shadows gray,And burst my Chian seal! He is disgraced,Who gets home sober from this festive day,Or finds his door without a step retraced.Health to Messala now from all our band!Drink to each letter of his noble name!Messala! laurelled from the Gallic land,Of his grim-bearded sires the last, best fame!Be with me, thou! inspire a song for meTo sing those gods of woodland, hill and glade,Without whose arts man's hunger still would beOnly on mast and gathered acorns stayed.They taught us rough-hewn rafters to prepare,And clothe low cabins with a roof of green;They bade fierce bulls the servile yoke to bear;And wheels to move a wain were theirs, I ween.Our wild fruit was forgot, when apple-boughsBore grafts, and thirsty orchards (art divine!)Were freshed by ditching; while with sweet carouseThe wine-press flowed, and water wed with wine.Our fields bore harvests, when the dog-star flameBade Summer of her tawny tress be shorn;From fields of Spring the bees, with busy game,Stored well their frugal combs the live-long morn.'Twas some field-tiller from his plough at rest,First hummed his homely words to numbers true,Or trilled his pipe of straw in songs addressedTo his blithe woodland gods, with worship due.Some rustic ruddied with vermilion clayFirst led, O Bacchus, thy swift choric throng,And won for record of thy festal daySome fold's chief goat, fit meed of frolic song!It was our rustic boys whose virgin bandNew coronals of Spring's sweet flowrets madeFor offering to the gods who bless our land,Which on the Lares' hallowed heads were laid.Our country-lasses find a pleasing careIn soft, warm wool their snowy flocks have bred;The distaff, skein and spindle they prepare,And reel, with firm-set thumb, the faultless thread.Then following Minerva's heavenly art,They weave with patient toil some fabric proud;While at her loom the lass with cheerful heartSings songs the sounding shuttle answers loud.Cupid himself with flocks and herds did passHis boyhood, and on sheep and horses drewHis erring infant bow; but now, alas!He is an archer far too swift and true.Not now dull beasts, but luckless maids engageHis enmity; brave men are brave no more;Youth's strength he wastes, and drives fond, foolish ageTo blush and sigh at scornful beauty's door.Love-lured, the virgin, guarded and discreet,Slips by the night-watch at her lover's call,Feels the dark path-way with her trembling feet,And gropes with out-spread hands along the wall.Oh! wretched are the wights this god would harm!But blest as gods whom Love with smiles will sway!Come, boy divine! and these dear revels charm—But fling thy burning brands, far, far away!Sing to this god, sweet shepherds! Ask aloudYour flocks' good health; then each, discreetly mute,His love's!—Nay, scream her name! Yon madcap crowdScreams louder, to its wry-necked Phrygian flute.On with the sport! Night's chariot appears:The stars, her children, follow through the sky:Dark Sleep comes soon, on wings no mortal hears,With strange, dim dreams that know not where they fly.

A BIRTHDAY WISH

Burn incense now! and round our altars fairWith cheerful vows or sacred silence stand!To-day Cerinthus' birth our rites declare,With perfumes from the blest Arabian land.Let his own Genius to our festal haste,While fresh-blown flowers his heavenly tresses twineAnd balm-anointed brows; so let him tasteOur offered loaf and sweet, unstinted wine!To thee Cerinthus may his favoring careGrant every wish! O claim some priceless meed!Ask a fond wife thy life-long bliss to share—Nay! This the great gods have long since decreed!Less than this gift were lordship of wide fields,Where slow-paced yoke and swain compel the corn;Less, all rich gems the womb of India yields,Where the flushed Ocean rims the shores of Morn.Thy vow is granted! Lo! on pinions bright,The Love-god comes, a yellow cincture bearing,To bind thee ever to thy dear delight,In nuptial knot, all other knots outwearing.When wrinkles delve, and o'er the reverend browFall silver locks and few, the bond shall beBut more endeared; and thou shall bless this vowO'er children's children smiling at thy knee.

MY LADY RUSTICATES

To pleasures of the country-sideMy lady-love is lightly flown;And now in cities to abideBetrays a heart of stone.Venus herself henceforth will chooseOnly in field and farm to walk,And Cupid but the language useWhich plough-boy lovers talk.O what a ploughman I could be!How deep the furrows I would trace,If while I toiled, I might but seeMy mistress' smiling face!A farmer true, I'd guide my teamOf barren steers o'er fruitful lands,Nor murmur at the noon-day beam,Or my soft, blistered hands.Once fair Apollo fed the flocksOf King Admetus, like a swain;Little availed his flowing locks,His lyre was little gain.No virtuous herb to reach that illHis heavenly arts of healing knew;For love made vain his famous skill,And all his art o'er-threw.Himself his herds afield he drove,Or where the cooling waters stray;Himself the willow baskets wove,And strained out curds and whey.Oft would his heavenly shoulders bearA calf adown some pathless place;And oft Diana met him there,And blushed at his disgrace.O often, if his voice divineEchoed the mountain glens along,Out-burst the loud, audacious kine,And bellowing drowned his song.His tripods prince and people foundAll silent to their troubled cry,His locks dishevelled and unboundWoke fond Latona's sigh.To see his pale, neglected brow,And unkempt tresses, once so fair,—They cried, "O where is Phoebus now?"His glorious tresses, where?""In place of Delos' golden fane,"Love gives thee but a lowly shed!"O, where are Delphi and its train?"The Sibyl, whither fled?"Happy the days, forever flown,When even immortal gods could dareProudly to serve at Venus' throne,Nor blushed her chain to wear!"Irreverent fables!" I am told.But lovers true these tales receive:Rather a thousand such they hold,Than loveless gods believe.O Ceres, who didst charm awayMy Nemesis from life in Rome,May barren glebe thy pains repayAnd scanty harvest come!A curse upon thy merry trade!Young Bacchus, giver of the vine!Thy vine-yards have ensnared a maidFar sweeter than thy wine.Let herbs and acorns be our meat!Drink good old water! Better soThan that my fickle beauty's feetTo those far hills should go!Did not our sires on acorns feed,And love-sick rove o'er hill and dale?Our furrowed fields they did not need,Nor did love's harvest fail.When passion did their hearts employ,And o'er them breathed the blissful hour,Mild Venus freely found them joyIn every leafy bower.No chaperone was there, no doorAgainst a lover's sighs to stand.Delicious age! May Heaven restoreIts customs to our land!Nay, take me! In my lady's trainSome stubborn field I fain would ploughLay on the lash and clamp the chain!I bear them meekly now.

ON HIS LADY'S AVARICE

A woman's slave am I, and know it well.Farewell, my birthright! farewell, liberty!In wretched slavery and chains I dwell,For love's sad captives never are set free.Whether I smile or curse, love just the sameBrands me and burns. O, cruel woman, spare!O would I were a rock, to 'scape this flameFar off upon the frosty mountains there!Would I were flint, to front the tempest's power,Wave-buffeted on some wild, wreckful shore!My sad days bring worse nights, and every hourFills me some cup of gall and brims it o'er.What use are songs? Her greedy hands disdainApollo's gift. She says some gold is due.Farewell, ye Muses, I have sung in vain!Only in quest ofherI followedyou.I sing no wars; nor how the moon and sunIn heavenly paths their circling chariots steer.To win my lady's smiles my numbers run;Farewell, ye Muses, if ye fail me here!Let deeds of bloody crime now make me bold!No longer at her bolted door I whine;But I will find that necessary gold,Though I steal treasure from some holy shrine.Venus I first will violate; for sheCompelled my crime, and did my heart enthrallTo beauty that requires a golden fee.Yes, Venus' shrine shall suffer worst of all.Curse on that man who finds the emerald green,And Tyrian purples for our flattered girls!He makes them greedy. Now they must be seenIn Coan robe and gleaming Red Sea pearls.It spoils them all. Now bolts and barriers holdTheir doors, and watch-dogs threaten through the dark;But let the lover overflow with gold,—All bolts fly back and not a dog will bark.What God did beauty unto gold degrade,And mix one bliss with many a woe and shame?Tears, quarrels, curses were the gifts he made;And Love bears now a very evil name.False girl, who dost for riches thrust asideLove's honest vow, may winds and flames conspireTo wreck thy wealth, while all thy beaux derideThe loss, nor throw one bowl-full on the fire!O when dark Death shall be thy final guest,No lover true will shed the faithful tear,Nor bring an offering where thy ashes rest,Nor lay one garland on thy lonely bier IBut some warm-hearted lass who loved not gainShall live a hundred years, yet be much mourned;Her tomb shall be some lover's holiest fane,With annual gift of all sad flowers adorned."Farewell, true heart!" his trembling lips will say,"Let peace untroubled bless thy relics dear!"Oft will he visit, and departing pray,"Light lie this earth on her whose rest is here!"Nay, it is vain such serious songs to breathe:I must be modern, if I would prevail.How much? Just all my ancestors bequeath?Come, Lares! You are advertised for sale.Let Circe and Medea bring the leesOf some foul cup! Let Thessaly prepareIts direst poison! Bring hippomanes,Fierce philtre from the frantic, brooding mare!For if my mistress mix it with a smile,I drain a draught a thousand times as vile.

THE PRIESTHOOD OF APOLLO

Smile, Phoebus, on the youthful priestWho seeks thy shrine to-day!With lyre and song attend our feast,And with imperious finger playThy loudly thrilling chords to anthems high!Come, with temples laurel-bound,O'er thine own thrice-hallowed ground,Where incense from our altars meets the sky!Come radiant and fair,In golden garb and glorious, clustering hair,The famous guise in which thou sang'st so wellOf victor Jove, when Saturn's kingdom fell!The far-off future all is thine!Thy hallowed augurs can divineWhate'er dark song the birds of omen sing;Of augury thou art the king,And thy wise haruspex finds meaning fitFor what the gods have in the victims writ.The hoary Sibyl taught of theeNever sings of Rome untrue,Chanting forth in measures dueHer mysterious prophecy.Once she bade Aeneas lookIn her all-revealing book,What time from Trojan shoreHis father and his fallen gods he bore.Doubtful and dark to him was Rome's bright name,While yet his mournful eyesSaw Ilium dying and her gods in flame.Not yet beneath the skiesHad Romulus upreared the weightOf our Eternal City's wall,Denied to Remus by unequal fate.Then lowly cabins smallPossessed the seat of Capitolian Jove;And, over Palatine, the rustics droveTheir herds afield, where Pan's similitudeDripped down with milk beneath an ilex tall,And Pales' image rudeHewn out by pruning-hook, for worship stood.The shepherd hung upon the boughHis babbling pipes in payment of a vow,—The pipe of reeds in lessening order placed,Knit well with wax from longest unto last.Where proud Velabrum lies,A little skiff across the shallows plies;And oft, to meet her shepherd lover,The village lass is ferried overFor a woodland holiday:At night returning o'er the watery way,She brings a tribute from the fruitful farms—A cheese, or white lamb, carried in her arms.

The Sibyl

"High-souled Aeneas, brother of light-winged Love,"Thy pilgrim ships Troy's fallen worship bear."To thee the Latin lands are given of Jove,"And thy far-wandering gods are welcome there."Thou thyself shalt have a shrine"By Numicus' holy wave;"Be thou its genius strong to bless and save,"By power divine!"O'er thy ship's storm-beaten prow"Victory her wings will spread,"And, glorious, rest at last above a Trojan head."I see Rutulia flaming round me now."O barbarous Turnus, I behold thee dead!"Laurentum rushes on my sight,"And proud Lavinium's castled height,"And Alba Longa for thy royal heir."Now I see a priestess fair"Close in Mars' divine embrace."Daughter of Ilium, she fled away"From Vesta's fires, and from her virgin face"The fillet dropped, and quite unheeded lay;"Nor shield nor corslet then her hero wore,"Keeping their stolen tryst by Tiber's sacred shore!"Browse, ye bulls, along the seven green hills!"For yet a little while ye may,"E'er the vast city shall confront the day!"O Rome! thy destined glory fills"A wide world subject to thy sway,—"Wide as all the regions given"To fruitful Ceres, as she looks from heaven"O'er her fields of golden corn,"From the opening gates of morn"To where the Sun in Ocean's billowy stream"Cools at eve his spent and panting team."Troy herself at last shall praise"Thee and thy far-wandering ways."My song is truth. Thus only I endure"The bitter laurel-leaf divine,"And keep me at Apollo's shrine"A virgin ever pure."So, Phoebus, in thy name the Sibyl sung,As o'er her frenzied brow her loosened locks she flung.In equal song HerophileChanted forth the times to be,From her cold Marpesian glade.Amalthea, dauntless maid,In the blessed days gone by,Bore thy book through Anio's riverAnd did thy prophecies deliver,From her mantle, safe and dry.All prophesied of omens dire,The comet's monitory fire,Stones raining down, and tumult in the skyOf trumpets, swords, and routed chivalry;The very forests whispered fear,And through the stormful yearTears, burning tears, from marble altars ran;Dumb beast took voice to tell the fate of man;The Sun himself in light did failAs if he yoked his car to horses mortal-pale.Such was the olden time. O Phoebus, nowOf mild, benignant brow,Let those portents buried beIn the wild, unfathomed sea!Now let thy laurel loudly flameOn altars to thy gracious name,And give good omen of a fruitful yearCrackling laurel if the rustic hear,He knows his granary shall bursting be,And sweet new wine flow free,And purple grapes by jolly feet be trod,Vat and cellar will be too small,While at the vintage-festival,With choral song,The tipsy swains carouse the shepherd's god:"Away, ye wolves, and do our folds no wrong!"Then shall the master touch the straw-built fire,And as it blazes high and higher,Lightly leap its lucky crest.A welcome heir with frolic faceShall his jovial sire embrace,And kiss him hard and pull him by the ears;While o'er the cradle the good grand-sire bentWill babble with the babe in equal merriment,And feel no more his weight of years.There in soft shadow of some ancient tree,Maidens, boys, and wine-cups be,Scattered on the pleasant grass;From lip to lip the cups they pass;Their own mantles garland-boundHang o'er-head for canopy,And every cup with rose is crowned;Each at banquet buildeth highOf turf the table, and of turf the bed,—Such was ancient revelry!Here too some lover at his darling's headFlings words of scorn, which by and byHe wildly prays be left unsaid,And swears that wine-cups lie.O under Phoebus' ever-peaceful sway,Away, ye bows, ye arrows fierce, away!Let Love without a shaft among earth's peoples stray!A noble weapon! but when Cupid takesHis arrow,—ah! what mortal wound he makes!Mine is the chief. This whole year have I lainWounded to death, yet cherishing the pain,And counting my delicious anguish gain.Of Nemesis my song must tell!Without her name I make no verses well,My metres limp and all fine words are vain!Therefore, my darling, since the powers on highProtect the poets,—O! a little whileOn Apollo's servant smile!So let me sing in words divineAn ode of triumph for young Messaline.Before his chariot he shall bearTowns and towers for trophies proud,And on his brow the laurel-garland wear;While, with woodland laurel crowned.His legions follow him acclaiming loud,"Io triumphe," with far-echoing sound.Let my Messala of the festive crowdReceive applause, and joyfully beholdHis son's victorious chariot passing by!Smile, Phoebus there! Thy flowing locks all gold!Thy virgin sister, too, stoop with thee from the sky!

LET LOVERS ALL ENLIST

Now for a soldier Macer goes. Will Cupid take the field?Will Love himself enlist, and bear on his soft breast a shield?Through weary marches over land, through wandering waves at sea,Armedcap-a-pie, will that small god the hero's comrade be?O burn him, boy, I pray, that could thy blessed favors slight!Back to the ranks the straggler bring beneath thy standard bright!Yet, if to soldiers thou art kind, I too will volunteer,I too will from a helmet drink, nor thirst in desert's fear.Venus, good-bye! Now, off I go! Good-bye, sweet ladies all!I am all valor, and delight to hear the trumpets call.Large is my brag! But while with pride my project I recite,I see her bolted door,—and then my boasting fails me quite.Never to visit her again, with many an oath I swore;But while I vowed, my feet had run unguided to her door.Come now, ye lovers all! who serve in Cupid's hard campaign,Let us together to the wars, and thus our peace regain!This age of iron frowns on love and smiles on golden gain,—On spoils of war which must be won by agony and pain.For spoils alone our swords are keen, and deadly spears are hurledWhile carnage, wrath, and swifter death fly broadcast through the world.For spoils, with double risk of death the threatening seas we sail,And climb the steel-beaked ship-of-war, so mighty and so frail!The spoilers proud to boundless lands their bloody titles read,And see innumerable flocks o'er endless acres feedFine foreign marbles they will bring; and all the city stare,While one tall column for a house a thousand oxen bear.They bind with bars the tameless sea; behind a rampart proudTheir little fishes swim in calm, when wintry storms are loud.Ah! Love! Will not a Samian bowl hold all our mirth and wine?And pottery of poor Cuman clay, with love, seem fair and fine?Nay! Woe is me! Naught now but gold can please our ladies gay;And so, since Venus asks for wealth, the spoils of war must pay.My Nemesis shall roll in wealth; and promenade the town,All glittering, with my golden gifts upon her gorgeous gown.Her filmy web of Coan weave with golden broidery gleams;Her swarthy slaves the Indian sun touched with its burning beams.In rival hues to make her fair all conquered regions vie,Afric its azure must bestow, and Tyre its purple dye.O look—I tell what all men know—on that most favored lover!Once in the market-place he sat, with both his soles chalked over.

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