The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted ... Now First Collected. With Historical Notes, And Biographical Memoirs of the Author, by John Nichols |
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TIBULLUS, BOOK I. ELEGYI. |
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 | The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted |  |
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TIBULLUS, BOOK I. ELEGYI.
Let others wealth amass in heaps of gold,
And many acres plow'd with pride behold;
Disturb'd amidst their daily toil with fears,
Oft as the trumpet sound, or foe appears:
The dire alarm repeated still denies
Peace to their mind, and slumber to their eyes:
An humbler life less painful I require,
While in my parlour shines a nightly fire;
Unblighted while my promis'd harvest grows,
And with the racy grape my vat o'erflows:
Of my own farm the husbandman I'll be,
And prune the vine, and plant the apple-tree;
Nor will I scorn the rustic fork to wield,
Or goad the heifer o'er the furrow'd field;
Or in my arms to bear the bleating lamb,
Or kid forsaken of its heedless dam.
And many acres plow'd with pride behold;
Disturb'd amidst their daily toil with fears,
Oft as the trumpet sound, or foe appears:
The dire alarm repeated still denies
Peace to their mind, and slumber to their eyes:
An humbler life less painful I require,
While in my parlour shines a nightly fire;
Unblighted while my promis'd harvest grows,
And with the racy grape my vat o'erflows:
Of my own farm the husbandman I'll be,
And prune the vine, and plant the apple-tree;
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Or goad the heifer o'er the furrow'd field;
Or in my arms to bear the bleating lamb,
Or kid forsaken of its heedless dam.
With due lustrations through my flock I go,
And yearly does my milk to Pales flow;
And if a land-mark deck'd with flowers I see,
I worship tow'rds the sacred stone or tree:
Of every orchard, fruit the year bestows,
The choice an offering to Vertumnus grows:
O Ceres, yellow Goddess of the corn!
Thy porch my wheaten garland shall adorn:
Thou, ruddy God, thy sickle shalt display,
To guard my fruit, and fright the birds away:
Nor you invoke I with an empty hand,
Ye Gods, once guardians of a spreading land;
A heifer, then, for a vast herd I slew;
But now a victim lamb is scarcely due:
A lamb I vow; the village youth shall join,
And cry aloud, “O bless the corn and wine!”
Though small, attend, ye powers, my sacrifice,
Nor vessels fashion'd out of clay despise;
While yet the world was of an early date,
The purest clay was molded into plate:
Spare my poor flock, ye men and beasts of prey,
And let the crowded folds your tribute pay.
And yearly does my milk to Pales flow;
And if a land-mark deck'd with flowers I see,
I worship tow'rds the sacred stone or tree:
Of every orchard, fruit the year bestows,
The choice an offering to Vertumnus grows:
O Ceres, yellow Goddess of the corn!
Thy porch my wheaten garland shall adorn:
Thou, ruddy God, thy sickle shalt display,
To guard my fruit, and fright the birds away:
Nor you invoke I with an empty hand,
Ye Gods, once guardians of a spreading land;
A heifer, then, for a vast herd I slew;
But now a victim lamb is scarcely due:
A lamb I vow; the village youth shall join,
And cry aloud, “O bless the corn and wine!”
Though small, attend, ye powers, my sacrifice,
Nor vessels fashion'd out of clay despise;
While yet the world was of an early date,
The purest clay was molded into plate:
Spare my poor flock, ye men and beasts of prey,
And let the crowded folds your tribute pay.
I ask you not those harvests to restore,
Which to their barns my rich forefathers bore:
A sparing crop will all my wants supply,
If stretch'd at ease on my own couch I lie:
How sweet to hear the winds at midnight blow,
While round my Love my tender arms I throw;
Or, when aslant the wintery tempests sweep,
Lull'd by the beating rain, secure to sleep!
This be my lot: let riches be their share,
Who cold and wet and stormy seas can bear;
For I, averse to journey by the wind,
Can plenty in a little income find:
On the cool margin of a murmuring stream,
Shaded by trees, I shun the sultry beam:
Oh! rather let the earth her treasures keep,
Than any virgin should my absence weep!
Which to their barns my rich forefathers bore:
A sparing crop will all my wants supply,
If stretch'd at ease on my own couch I lie:
How sweet to hear the winds at midnight blow,
While round my Love my tender arms I throw;
Or, when aslant the wintery tempests sweep,
Lull'd by the beating rain, secure to sleep!
This be my lot: let riches be their share,
Who cold and wet and stormy seas can bear;
For I, averse to journey by the wind,
Can plenty in a little income find:
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Shaded by trees, I shun the sultry beam:
Oh! rather let the earth her treasures keep,
Than any virgin should my absence weep!
Do you, Messala, seek out warlike toils
By land and sea, and grace your house with spoils;
While I unactive wear some Beauty's chain,
And watching at her door whole nights complain:
Inglorious be my life, and lost to praise;
So I with thee, my Delia, count my days:
With thee, my Delia, I the plow could speed,
Or sheep upon a lonely mountain feed;
And, while with soft embrace I fold thee round,
Indulge my slumbers on the barren ground:
In vain, alas! are beds of Tyrian dye,
If hopeless in our loves we waking lie;
For then in down and silk no sleep we find,
Nor the soft fall of water lulls the mind.
By land and sea, and grace your house with spoils;
While I unactive wear some Beauty's chain,
And watching at her door whole nights complain:
Inglorious be my life, and lost to praise;
So I with thee, my Delia, count my days:
With thee, my Delia, I the plow could speed,
Or sheep upon a lonely mountain feed;
And, while with soft embrace I fold thee round,
Indulge my slumbers on the barren ground:
In vain, alas! are beds of Tyrian dye,
If hopeless in our loves we waking lie;
For then in down and silk no sleep we find,
Nor the soft fall of water lulls the mind.
How rugged and how void of sense was he,
Who could, to follow camps, abandon thee!
Let him pursue Cilicia's routed bands,
And pitch his tents amidst their conquer'd lands;
In gold and silver, ornaments of pride,
Conspicuous through the cohorts let him ride:
Thee feebly grasping, Delia, let me die,
And view thy beauties with my closing eye;
Then shalt thou weep, then kisses mix with tears,
When on the kindling pile my corpse appears:
Sure thou wilt weep, and tender sorrows feel;
Nor flint thy heart, nor is thy breast of steel.
The youths, the virgins, all shall grace my urn,
With moisten'd eyes, and weeping home return:
Disturb not thou my shade; O Delia, spare
Thy lovely cheeks, and thy dishevel'd hair.
Who could, to follow camps, abandon thee!
Let him pursue Cilicia's routed bands,
And pitch his tents amidst their conquer'd lands;
In gold and silver, ornaments of pride,
Conspicuous through the cohorts let him ride:
Thee feebly grasping, Delia, let me die,
And view thy beauties with my closing eye;
Then shalt thou weep, then kisses mix with tears,
When on the kindling pile my corpse appears:
Sure thou wilt weep, and tender sorrows feel;
Nor flint thy heart, nor is thy breast of steel.
The youths, the virgins, all shall grace my urn,
With moisten'd eyes, and weeping home return:
Disturb not thou my shade; O Delia, spare
Thy lovely cheeks, and thy dishevel'd hair.
While Fate permits, let us our loves enjoy;
Darkness and death will soon our hopes destroy:
Soon will age come; nor Love will then be sped,
Nor dalliances become the hoary head:
Now, Venus, is thy time, when bolts and bars
I bravely force, nor dread fond midnight's jars;
Skill'd in those wars, deaf to the trumpet's call,
Let wounds and wealth to the vain-glorious fall;
Safe in my little fortunes I retire;
No want I fear, nor opulence desire.
Darkness and death will soon our hopes destroy:
Soon will age come; nor Love will then be sped,
Nor dalliances become the hoary head:
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I bravely force, nor dread fond midnight's jars;
Skill'd in those wars, deaf to the trumpet's call,
Let wounds and wealth to the vain-glorious fall;
Safe in my little fortunes I retire;
No want I fear, nor opulence desire.
| The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted | |