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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| X. | ELEGY X. |
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 | The Works of Tibullus |  |
61
ELEGY X.
Who was it first began the dang'rous Trade,
To work the Sword, and whet the shining Blade?
How savage must he be to learn such Ill!
And sure his very Soul it self was Steel.
Then Wars began, then rose the murd'ring Trade,
Then for fierce Death a shorter Way was made.
But he! unthinking Wretch, no Harm design'd,
We took the cursed Hint to Ills inclin'd;
And what he made to tame the savage Beast,
We basely turn against each other's Breast.
This Vice proceeds from greedy Thirst of Gold,
For Wars and Tumults were unknown of Old,
When cheerful Draughts were quaff'd from common Wood,
And Beechen Bowls on homely Tables stood.
No need was then of Tow'rs their Wealth to keep,
The Shepherd slept secure amidst his Sheep.
Had I liv'd then, I ne'er had us'd the Dart,
Nor heard the Trumpets sound with trembling Heart.
But now Im forc'd to War, perhaps ev'n now
Some dang'rous Man amongst the num'rous Foe,
The Jav'lin gripes that must my Breast invade,
And in my Bosom hide its pointed Head.
But you paternal Lares still be near,
My Infant Years confest your fost'ring Care.
Nor let your Deities be once asham'd,
Because of Wood and common Timber fram'd;
Mean as you are, my Ancestors thought fit
To place you in their Hall and ancient Seat.
Then better was religious Truth maintain'd,
And Piety a larger Footing gain'd;
When Gods were meanly carv'd from common Wood,
And unadorn'd the Temples where they stood;
When clust'ring Grapes, if giv'n, or round their Hair
A Wreath of Corn, engag'd their fav'ring Care:
And if the Swain in hopes of being heard,
Himself the humble Rural Gifts preferr'd;
With him his little Daughter brought from home
The luscious Off'ring of the Honey Comb.
But you kind Lares, turn the Dart away,
And from the Herd a Victim Swine I'll pay;
And I my self will in Procession go,
Rob'd in pure Vestments to attend the Show;
And Canisters entwin'd with Myrtle bear,
And round my Temples Myrtle Foliage wear.
So let me pleasure you, let others boast
Success in Arms, and a defeated Host.
To me may Souldiers talk o'er Cups of Wine,
And on the Table draw the Wars design.
To work the Sword, and whet the shining Blade?
How savage must he be to learn such Ill!
And sure his very Soul it self was Steel.
Then Wars began, then rose the murd'ring Trade,
Then for fierce Death a shorter Way was made.
But he! unthinking Wretch, no Harm design'd,
We took the cursed Hint to Ills inclin'd;
And what he made to tame the savage Beast,
We basely turn against each other's Breast.
This Vice proceeds from greedy Thirst of Gold,
For Wars and Tumults were unknown of Old,
When cheerful Draughts were quaff'd from common Wood,
And Beechen Bowls on homely Tables stood.
No need was then of Tow'rs their Wealth to keep,
The Shepherd slept secure amidst his Sheep.
62
Nor heard the Trumpets sound with trembling Heart.
But now Im forc'd to War, perhaps ev'n now
Some dang'rous Man amongst the num'rous Foe,
The Jav'lin gripes that must my Breast invade,
And in my Bosom hide its pointed Head.
But you paternal Lares still be near,
My Infant Years confest your fost'ring Care.
Nor let your Deities be once asham'd,
Because of Wood and common Timber fram'd;
Mean as you are, my Ancestors thought fit
To place you in their Hall and ancient Seat.
Then better was religious Truth maintain'd,
And Piety a larger Footing gain'd;
When Gods were meanly carv'd from common Wood,
And unadorn'd the Temples where they stood;
When clust'ring Grapes, if giv'n, or round their Hair
A Wreath of Corn, engag'd their fav'ring Care:
63
Himself the humble Rural Gifts preferr'd;
With him his little Daughter brought from home
The luscious Off'ring of the Honey Comb.
But you kind Lares, turn the Dart away,
And from the Herd a Victim Swine I'll pay;
And I my self will in Procession go,
Rob'd in pure Vestments to attend the Show;
And Canisters entwin'd with Myrtle bear,
And round my Temples Myrtle Foliage wear.
So let me pleasure you, let others boast
Success in Arms, and a defeated Host.
To me may Souldiers talk o'er Cups of Wine,
And on the Table draw the Wars design.
What Madness is it in distracted Broils
To end our happy Days by Martial Toils!
Or gain fierce Death with seeking high Renown,
Uncall'd with silent Pace he comes too soon.
No cheerful Corn the Fields below produce,
Nor clust'ring Vines, nor brisk enliv'ning Juice:
But daring Cerb'rus with his tripple Roar,
And the old Wherry on the Stygian Shore;
There the pale Crowd to dreary Lakes repair,
With blasted Cheeks, and scorch'd disorder'd Hair.
To end our happy Days by Martial Toils!
Or gain fierce Death with seeking high Renown,
Uncall'd with silent Pace he comes too soon.
64
Nor clust'ring Vines, nor brisk enliv'ning Juice:
But daring Cerb'rus with his tripple Roar,
And the old Wherry on the Stygian Shore;
There the pale Crowd to dreary Lakes repair,
With blasted Cheeks, and scorch'd disorder'd Hair.
How much more wise the Man who spends his Days
In some still Country Cottage, blest with Ease!
Himself the Sheep, his Son the Lambs attends,
At Home his busie Wife industrious spends
Her Time, to gather Herbs, and Water heat,
To bath his Limbs, and ease his weary Feet.
Such may I be, and when old Age had spread
His snowy Honours on my hoary Head,
May I secure with pleasing View declare
Strange Revolutions in the Times that were.
In some still Country Cottage, blest with Ease!
Himself the Sheep, his Son the Lambs attends,
At Home his busie Wife industrious spends
Her Time, to gather Herbs, and Water heat,
To bath his Limbs, and ease his weary Feet.
Such may I be, and when old Age had spread
His snowy Honours on my hoary Head,
May I secure with pleasing View declare
Strange Revolutions in the Times that were.
65
Mean while fair Peace secures the quiet Plain.
Fair Peace, in whose auspicious easie Reign,
They first instructed stubborn Steers to bow
Their Necks, to wear the Yoak, and draw the Plow,
Peace glads the Vines to yield a large Produce;
And swells the rip'ning Grape with kindly Juice;
That the pleas'd Peasant from paternal Bowl,
May pour large Flouds of Wine to chear his Soul.
Peace plies the Prong, and brights the shining Share,
Let eating Rust destroy the Tools of War.
The Farmer warm'd with Wine, when Rites are paid
In the thick Grove, and consecrated Shade;
And all the brisk religious Sports are done,
Home in his Cart conveys his Wife and Son:
Then Love his Battles tries, and sportive War,
Then Maids lament for their disorder'd Hair:
For beat-up Lodgings, and assaulted Doors,
And gay Distractions of the Mid-night Hours;
While from the Eyes the Tears descend a-pace,
And moist'ning Dew o'erspreads the lovely Face;
That ev'n the Victor weeps to see her moan,
And blames the mad Extravagancies done:
But wanton Love in little Wrang'lings tries
Their Rage, and urging Words to both supplies;
In secret Smiles to think when Anger's o'er,
They love with greater Ardour than before.
But sure that Man of Steel or Flint is made,
Who angry, durst with Blows the Fair invade;
And impious Hands in raging Madness stretch,
May all the Gods confound th' inhumane Wretch:
Let it suffice him to undress the Fair,
And eagerly th' opposing Vestments tear;
With rifling Hand the ruffled Tresses spread,
And discompose the Dressings of the Head.
But he, whose Hands with Cruelty are fill'd,
Let him the Jav'lin gripe, and heave the Shield;
And far from Venus' softer Rites remove,
And all the moving Tenderness of Love.
Fair Peace, in whose auspicious easie Reign,
They first instructed stubborn Steers to bow
Their Necks, to wear the Yoak, and draw the Plow,
Peace glads the Vines to yield a large Produce;
And swells the rip'ning Grape with kindly Juice;
That the pleas'd Peasant from paternal Bowl,
May pour large Flouds of Wine to chear his Soul.
Peace plies the Prong, and brights the shining Share,
Let eating Rust destroy the Tools of War.
The Farmer warm'd with Wine, when Rites are paid
In the thick Grove, and consecrated Shade;
And all the brisk religious Sports are done,
Home in his Cart conveys his Wife and Son:
Then Love his Battles tries, and sportive War,
Then Maids lament for their disorder'd Hair:
66
And gay Distractions of the Mid-night Hours;
While from the Eyes the Tears descend a-pace,
And moist'ning Dew o'erspreads the lovely Face;
That ev'n the Victor weeps to see her moan,
And blames the mad Extravagancies done:
But wanton Love in little Wrang'lings tries
Their Rage, and urging Words to both supplies;
In secret Smiles to think when Anger's o'er,
They love with greater Ardour than before.
But sure that Man of Steel or Flint is made,
Who angry, durst with Blows the Fair invade;
And impious Hands in raging Madness stretch,
May all the Gods confound th' inhumane Wretch:
Let it suffice him to undress the Fair,
And eagerly th' opposing Vestments tear;
With rifling Hand the ruffled Tresses spread,
And discompose the Dressings of the Head.
67
Let him the Jav'lin gripe, and heave the Shield;
And far from Venus' softer Rites remove,
And all the moving Tenderness of Love.
But you kind fost'ring Peace attend, and bear
In thy fair Hand the Harvest' weighty Ear:
And from thy Lap with lavish Plenty pour
Ripe Apples, and the Garden's bounteous Store.
In thy fair Hand the Harvest' weighty Ear:
And from thy Lap with lavish Plenty pour
Ripe Apples, and the Garden's bounteous Store.
| The Works of Tibullus | |