The Works of Tibullus Containing his Love-Elegies. Translated by Mr Dart. To which is added, The Life of the Author; with Observations on the Original Design of Elegiack Verse; and the Characters of the most Celebrated Greek, Latin and English Elegiack Poets |
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| I. |
| I. | ELEGY I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
 | II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | The Works of Tibullus |  |
ELEGY I.
Let the rich Miser gather golden Gain,
And live the large Possessor of the Plain:
Whom Fears perpetual scare with neighb'ring Foes,
And sounding Trumpets wake his soft Repose.
To me the Fates with sparing Hand dispence,
The humbler Sweets of Ease, and Innocence;
Pleas'd in the Pleasures of a still Retreat,
While constant Fires supply the cheerful Seat.
Here I a Countryman, with ready Hand,
When Seasons call, and proper Times demand,
With tender Vines my Vineyard will recruit,
And plant my Orchard with the choicest Fruit;
Nor one ungrateful Produce of the Year
Shall baulk my Labour, or elude my Care,
Whilst bending Boughs their Golden Weight produce,
And frothy Vats o'erflow with purple Juice.
For I revere the Guardian Pow'rs that bound
My shady Limits, and confine my Ground;
To whom an ancient Stock or Stone is plac'd,
With Rites ador'd, and flow'ry Garlands grac'd;
And the first Fruit that mellows on my Boughs,
The Rural God receives for granted Vows.
To thee, bright Ceres, of our Harvest-Store,
Be Wreaths suspended at thy Temple Door.
Ruddy Priapus is my Orchard Guard,
He whirls his Cycle, and the Birds are scar'd.
And you kind Lares whose indulgent Care
Was large, when larger my Possessions were,
Now small receive the little we prefer:
Then for my num'rous Flocks a Heifer dy'd,
A Lamb is all that I can now provide;
A Lamb shall fall, while the surrounding Throng
Of Country Youth shall as they pass along
Repeated Io's sing, Ye Pow'rs assign
A plenteous Store of Corn, and gen'rous Wine.
And live the large Possessor of the Plain:
Whom Fears perpetual scare with neighb'ring Foes,
And sounding Trumpets wake his soft Repose.
To me the Fates with sparing Hand dispence,
The humbler Sweets of Ease, and Innocence;
2
While constant Fires supply the cheerful Seat.
Here I a Countryman, with ready Hand,
When Seasons call, and proper Times demand,
With tender Vines my Vineyard will recruit,
And plant my Orchard with the choicest Fruit;
Nor one ungrateful Produce of the Year
Shall baulk my Labour, or elude my Care,
Whilst bending Boughs their Golden Weight produce,
And frothy Vats o'erflow with purple Juice.
For I revere the Guardian Pow'rs that bound
My shady Limits, and confine my Ground;
To whom an ancient Stock or Stone is plac'd,
With Rites ador'd, and flow'ry Garlands grac'd;
And the first Fruit that mellows on my Boughs,
The Rural God receives for granted Vows.
To thee, bright Ceres, of our Harvest-Store,
Be Wreaths suspended at thy Temple Door.
3
He whirls his Cycle, and the Birds are scar'd.
And you kind Lares whose indulgent Care
Was large, when larger my Possessions were,
Now small receive the little we prefer:
Then for my num'rous Flocks a Heifer dy'd,
A Lamb is all that I can now provide;
A Lamb shall fall, while the surrounding Throng
Of Country Youth shall as they pass along
Repeated Io's sing, Ye Pow'rs assign
A plenteous Store of Corn, and gen'rous Wine.
Now I can live on little, free from Strife,
Nor walk the high fatiguing Road of Life:
But to avoid the Summer Dog-stars Heat,
I seek the Thickwood Shade, and cool Retreat;
There, on the easie Grass extended lie,
While some clear River rolls his Waters by.
Nor shall I think it mean to use the Prong;
Or drive the Cattle with the Goad along;
Or when I find a Kid or bleating Lamb
Lost in the Field, and mourn its absent Dam:
I take it in my Arm, nor blush to bear
The Off-spring home, and house the tender Care.
Ye Wolves and Thieves, my little Flock despise,
A larger Farm will yield a larger Prize.
Here I Lustrations annually prepare
To purge my Swain, and ask kind Pales Care;
Due Pray'rs prefer, and Bowls of Milk I pour,
A glad Libation to the smiling Pow'r.
Hither, ye Gods, nor scorn our homely Board,
Nor Off'rings mean which earthen Plates afford;
The inoffensive Rustick found the Way,
And form'd his Vessels first of yielding Clay.
Nor walk the high fatiguing Road of Life:
But to avoid the Summer Dog-stars Heat,
I seek the Thickwood Shade, and cool Retreat;
There, on the easie Grass extended lie,
While some clear River rolls his Waters by.
Nor shall I think it mean to use the Prong;
Or drive the Cattle with the Goad along;
4
Lost in the Field, and mourn its absent Dam:
I take it in my Arm, nor blush to bear
The Off-spring home, and house the tender Care.
Ye Wolves and Thieves, my little Flock despise,
A larger Farm will yield a larger Prize.
Here I Lustrations annually prepare
To purge my Swain, and ask kind Pales Care;
Due Pray'rs prefer, and Bowls of Milk I pour,
A glad Libation to the smiling Pow'r.
Hither, ye Gods, nor scorn our homely Board,
Nor Off'rings mean which earthen Plates afford;
The inoffensive Rustick found the Way,
And form'd his Vessels first of yielding Clay.
I nor paternal Wealth, nor Fields require,
Nor Harvests, bounteous to my wealthy Sire;
A small Estate has safer Ways to please,
And a small Bed to stretch my Limbs at Ease.
How does it please to hear surrounding Storms,
And clasp my Delia in my folding Arms!
Or when cold Show'rs drive o'er the wint'ry Plain,
Indulge my Sleep lull'd by the rusling Rain!
This be my Fate, let others Wealth injoy,
They merit well the dearly purchas'd Toy;
Who for the Trifle quit their Health and Ease,
Tempting the stormy Show'rs, and angry Seas.
Sooner let Wealth of ev'ry Foreign Shore,
Em'ralds, and Gold, and all the shining Store
Perish, than any Fair of mine should mourn,
Or when I'm absent sigh for my Return.
Nor Harvests, bounteous to my wealthy Sire;
A small Estate has safer Ways to please,
And a small Bed to stretch my Limbs at Ease.
5
And clasp my Delia in my folding Arms!
Or when cold Show'rs drive o'er the wint'ry Plain,
Indulge my Sleep lull'd by the rusling Rain!
This be my Fate, let others Wealth injoy,
They merit well the dearly purchas'd Toy;
Who for the Trifle quit their Health and Ease,
Tempting the stormy Show'rs, and angry Seas.
Sooner let Wealth of ev'ry Foreign Shore,
Em'ralds, and Gold, and all the shining Store
Perish, than any Fair of mine should mourn,
Or when I'm absent sigh for my Return.
Messalla, War is yours, and Hostile Toils,
Through foreign Lands in Quest of foreign Spoils;
To firm your Conquests, and your Palace grace
With Trophies worthy your illustrious Race.
I wear the Chain, and scorning Glory wait
The constant Porter at my Mistress's Gate.
Honour is an indiff'rent Thing to me,
I Sleight it, Delia, while possess'd of thee;
Censure may rail, and call me what she can,
I would be counted an inglorious Man.
Thee let me have for ever in my Eye,
Ev'n when my latest Hour of Life draws nigh,
Gaze o'er thy lovely Form, and as you stand,
I'll dying grasp thee with a feeble Hand.
You'll weep, and when the pale extended Spoil
Lies stretch'd out, ready for the Funeral Pile;
With Flouds of Tears repeated Kisses fix
On my cold Lips, and Tears and Kisses mix:
You'll weep, I know you will; no Iron Chains
Confine thy Heart, thy Breast no Oak retains.
No Youth unmov'd shall leave those Obsequies,
Nor tender Maid return with Tearless Eyes.
But moderate your Grief, nor move my Shade,
Nor with your Hands your lovely Cheeks invade;
That heav'nly Face from Sorrow's Fury spare,
Nor rend the dangling Tresses of your Hair.
Through foreign Lands in Quest of foreign Spoils;
To firm your Conquests, and your Palace grace
With Trophies worthy your illustrious Race.
I wear the Chain, and scorning Glory wait
The constant Porter at my Mistress's Gate.
6
I Sleight it, Delia, while possess'd of thee;
Censure may rail, and call me what she can,
I would be counted an inglorious Man.
Thee let me have for ever in my Eye,
Ev'n when my latest Hour of Life draws nigh,
Gaze o'er thy lovely Form, and as you stand,
I'll dying grasp thee with a feeble Hand.
You'll weep, and when the pale extended Spoil
Lies stretch'd out, ready for the Funeral Pile;
With Flouds of Tears repeated Kisses fix
On my cold Lips, and Tears and Kisses mix:
You'll weep, I know you will; no Iron Chains
Confine thy Heart, thy Breast no Oak retains.
No Youth unmov'd shall leave those Obsequies,
Nor tender Maid return with Tearless Eyes.
But moderate your Grief, nor move my Shade,
Nor with your Hands your lovely Cheeks invade;
That heav'nly Face from Sorrow's Fury spare,
Nor rend the dangling Tresses of your Hair.
7
But now, while Fates allow, let's join our Love,
Enjoy each Day, and ev'ry Hour improve,
For Death, with Darkness veil'd, comes on a-pace;
And helpless Age, when Love is out of Place;
He then no more his tender Things will say,
And the Gray Head forbids the am'rous Play.
Now condescending Venus grants Delight,
While Youth, and Strength, and vig'rous Thoughts invite,
To storm a Door, and hold our Revels all the Night;
These are the Wars and Conquests I pursue,
Here I'm a Captain, and a Soldier too:
But, O! ye Trumpets, and ye Ensigns gay,
With all the Pomp of War be far away;
Your dang'rous Wounds for greedy Men prepare,
And give them Wealth, a Prize below my Care;
For I contented with my little Store,
Nor less expect, nor wish to make it more.
Enjoy each Day, and ev'ry Hour improve,
For Death, with Darkness veil'd, comes on a-pace;
And helpless Age, when Love is out of Place;
He then no more his tender Things will say,
And the Gray Head forbids the am'rous Play.
Now condescending Venus grants Delight,
While Youth, and Strength, and vig'rous Thoughts invite,
To storm a Door, and hold our Revels all the Night;
These are the Wars and Conquests I pursue,
Here I'm a Captain, and a Soldier too:
But, O! ye Trumpets, and ye Ensigns gay,
With all the Pomp of War be far away;
Your dang'rous Wounds for greedy Men prepare,
And give them Wealth, a Prize below my Care;
For I contented with my little Store,
Nor less expect, nor wish to make it more.
| The Works of Tibullus | |