A Poetical Translation of the elegies of Tibullus and of the poems of Sulpicia. With The Original Text, and Notes Critical and Explanatory. In two volumes. By James Grainger |
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 | II. | VOL. II. |
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 | A Poetical Translation of the elegies of Tibullus |  |
II. VOL. II.
5
TIBULLUS. BOOK THE SECOND.
ELEGY THE FIRST.
[Attend! and favour! as our Sires ordain]
Attend! and favour! as our Sires ordain;
The Fields we lustrate, and the rising Grain:
Come, Bacchus, and thy Horns with Grapes surround;
Come, Ceres, with thy wheaten Garland crown'd;
This hallow'd Day suspend each Swain his Toil,
Rest let the Plough, and rest th'uncultur'd Soil:
Unyoke the Steer, his Racks heap high with Hay,
And deck with Wreaths his honest Front To-day.
Be all your Thoughts to this grand Work apply'd!
And lay, ye thrifty Fair, your Wool aside!
Hence I command you Mortals from the Rite,
Who spent in amorous Blandishment the Night,
The vernal Powers in Chastity delight.
But come, ye Pure, in spotless Garbs array'd!
For you the solemn Festival is made!
Come! follow thrice the Victim round the Lands!
In running Water purify your Hands!
See! to the Flames the willing Victim come!
Ye Swains with Olive crown'd, be dumb! be dumb!
“From Ills, O sylvan Gods, our Limits shield,
“To-day we purge the Farmer and the Field;
“O let no Weeds destroy the rising Grain;
“By no fell Prowler be the Lambkin slain;
“So shall the Hind dread Penury no more;
“But gaily smiling o'er his plenteous Store,
“With liberal Hand shall larger Billets bring,
“Heap the broad Hearth, and hail the genial Spring.
“His numerous Bond-slaves all in goodly Rows,
“With wicker Hutts your Altars shall inclose.
“That done, they'll cheerly laugh, and dance, and play,
“And praise your Goodness in their uncouth Lay.”
The Fields we lustrate, and the rising Grain:
Come, Bacchus, and thy Horns with Grapes surround;
Come, Ceres, with thy wheaten Garland crown'd;
7
Rest let the Plough, and rest th'uncultur'd Soil:
9
And deck with Wreaths his honest Front To-day.
11
And lay, ye thrifty Fair, your Wool aside!
13
Who spent in amorous Blandishment the Night,
The vernal Powers in Chastity delight.
But come, ye Pure, in spotless Garbs array'd!
For you the solemn Festival is made!
Come! follow thrice the Victim round the Lands!
In running Water purify your Hands!
See! to the Flames the willing Victim come!
Ye Swains with Olive crown'd, be dumb! be dumb!
15
“To-day we purge the Farmer and the Field;
“O let no Weeds destroy the rising Grain;
“By no fell Prowler be the Lambkin slain;
“So shall the Hind dread Penury no more;
“But gaily smiling o'er his plenteous Store,
“With liberal Hand shall larger Billets bring,
“Heap the broad Hearth, and hail the genial Spring.
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“With wicker Hutts your Altars shall inclose.
“That done, they'll cheerly laugh, and dance, and play,
“And praise your Goodness in their uncouth Lay.”
The Gods assent! see! see! those Entrails show,
That Heaven approves of what is done below!
Now quaff Falernian, let my Chian Wine,
Pour'd from the Cask in massy Goblets shine!
Drink deep, my Friends; all, all, be madly gay,
'Twere Irreligion not to reel To-day!
Health to Messala, every Peasant toast,
And not a Letter of his Name be lost!
O come, my Friend, whom Gallic Triumphs grace,
That Heaven approves of what is done below!
Now quaff Falernian, let my Chian Wine,
Pour'd from the Cask in massy Goblets shine!
Drink deep, my Friends; all, all, be madly gay,
'Twere Irreligion not to reel To-day!
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And not a Letter of his Name be lost!
Thou noblest Splendor of an antient Race;
Thou whom the Arts all emulously crown,
Sword of the State, and Honour of the Gown;
My Theme is Gratitude, inspire my Lays!
O be my Genius! while I strive to praise
The rural Deities, the rural Plain,
The Use of foodful Corn they taught the Swain.
They taught Man first the social Hut to raise,
And thatch it o'er with Turf, or leafy Sprays:
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And on rude Wheels the rolling Carriage laid.
Man left his savage Ways; the Garden glow'd,
Fruits not their own admiring Trees bestow'd,
While thro' the thirsty Ground meandring Runnels flow'd.
There Bees of Sweets dispoil the breathing Spring,
And to their Cells the dulcet Plunder bring.
The Ploughman first to sooth the toilsome Day,
Chanted in measur'd Feet his sylvan Lay:
And, Seed-time o'er, he first in blythsome Vein,
Pip'd to his Houshold Gods the hymning Strain.
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And cooling Water made it fit for Man.
The Village-Lad first made a Wreath of Flowers
To deck in Spring the tutelary Powers:
Blest be the Country, yearly there the Plain
Yields, when the Dog-star burns, the golden Grain:
Thence too thy Chorus, Bacchus, first began,
The painted Clown first laid the tragic Plan.
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The Village sent it, recompenc'd the Song.
There too the Sheep his woolly Treasure wears;
There too the Swain his woolly Treasure shears;
This to the thrifty Dame long Work supplies;
The Distaff hence, and Basket took their Rise.
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Thy Praise, Minerva, and Arachne's Doom!
Mid Mountain Herds Love first drew vital Air,
Unknown to Man, and Man had nought to fear;
'Gainst Herds, his Bow th'unskilful Archer drew;
Ah my pierc'd Heart, an Archer now too true!
Now Herds may roam untouch'd, 'tis Cupid's Joy,
The Brave to vanquish, and to fix the Coy.
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Nor sighs for Wealth, nor waits at Grandeur's Heels;
Age fir'd by Love is touch'd by Shame no more,
But blabs its Follies at the Fair One's Door!
Led by soft Love, the tender trembling Fair
Steals to her Swain, and cheats Suspicion's Care,
With out-stretch'd Arms she wins her darkling Way,
And Tiptoe listens that no Noise betray!
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How happy they, whose mutual Choice he crowns!
Will Love partake the Banquet of the Day?
O come—but throw thy burning Shafts away.
Ye Swains, begin to mighty Love the Song,
Your Songs, ye Swains, to mighty Love belong!
Breathe out aloud your Wishes for my Fold,
Your own soft Vows in Whispers may be told.
But hark! loud Mirth and Musick fire the Crowd—
Ye now may venture to request aloud!
Pursue your Sports; Night mounts her curtain'd Wane;
The dancing Stars compose her filial Train;
Black muffled Sleep steals on with silent Pace,
And Dreams flit last, Imaginations Race!
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THE SECOND ELEGY.
[Rise, happy Morn, without a Cloud arise!]
Rise, happy Morn, without a Cloud arise!
This Morn, Cornutus blest his Mother's Eyes!
Hence each unholy Wish, each adverse Sound,
As we his Altar's hallowed Verge surround!
Let rich Arabian Odors scent the Skies,
And sacred Incense from his Altar rise;
Implor'd, thou tutelary God, descend!
And deck'd with flowery Wreaths the Rites attend!
Then as his Brows with precious Unguents flow,
Sweet sacred Cakes, and liberal Wine bestow.
This Morn, Cornutus blest his Mother's Eyes!
Hence each unholy Wish, each adverse Sound,
As we his Altar's hallowed Verge surround!
Let rich Arabian Odors scent the Skies,
And sacred Incense from his Altar rise;
Implor'd, thou tutelary God, descend!
And deck'd with flowery Wreaths the Rites attend!
Then as his Brows with precious Unguents flow,
Sweet sacred Cakes, and liberal Wine bestow.
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O Genius, grant whate'er my Friend desires:
The Cake is scatter'd, and the Flame aspires!
Ask then, my noble Friend, whate'er you want:
What silent still? your Prayer the God will grant:
Uncovetous of rural wide Domains,
You beg no woody Hills, no cultur'd Plains:
Not venal, you request no Eastern Stores,
Where ruddy Waters lave the gemmy Shores:
Your Wish I guess; you wish a beauteous Spouse,
Joy of your Joy, and faithful to your Vows.
'Tis done! my Friend! see nuptial Love appears!
See! in his Hand a yellow Zone he bears!
A yellow Zone, that spite of Years shall last,
And heighten Fondness, even when Beauty's past.
The Cake is scatter'd, and the Flame aspires!
Ask then, my noble Friend, whate'er you want:
What silent still? your Prayer the God will grant:
Uncovetous of rural wide Domains,
You beg no woody Hills, no cultur'd Plains:
Not venal, you request no Eastern Stores,
Where ruddy Waters lave the gemmy Shores:
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Joy of your Joy, and faithful to your Vows.
'Tis done! my Friend! see nuptial Love appears!
See! in his Hand a yellow Zone he bears!
A yellow Zone, that spite of Years shall last,
And heighten Fondness, even when Beauty's past.
With happy Signs, great Power, confirm our Prayer,
With endless Concord bless the married Pair.
O grant, dread Genius, that a numerous Race
Of beauteous Infants crown their fond Embrace;
Their beauteous Infants round thy Feet shall play,
And keep with custom'd Rites this happy Day.
With endless Concord bless the married Pair.
O grant, dread Genius, that a numerous Race
Of beauteous Infants crown their fond Embrace;
Their beauteous Infants round thy Feet shall play,
And keep with custom'd Rites this happy Day.
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THE THIRD ELEGY.
[My fair, Cornutus, to the Country's flown]
My fair, Cornutus, to the Country's flown,
Oh how insipid is the City grown!
No Taste have they for Elegance refin'd;
No tender Bosoms, who remain behind:
Now Cytherea glads the laughing Plain,
And Smiles and Sports compose her sylvan Train.
Now Cupid joys to learn the Ploughman's Phrase,
And clad a Peasant o'er the Fallows strays.
O how the weighty Prong I'll busy weild!
Should the Fair wander to the labour'd Field;
A Farmer then the crooked Plough-share hold,
Whilst the dull Ox prepares the vigorous Mold:
I'd not complain tho' Phœbus burnt the Lands,
And painful Blisters swell'd my tender Hands.
Oh how insipid is the City grown!
No Taste have they for Elegance refin'd;
No tender Bosoms, who remain behind:
Now Cytherea glads the laughing Plain,
And Smiles and Sports compose her sylvan Train.
Now Cupid joys to learn the Ploughman's Phrase,
And clad a Peasant o'er the Fallows strays.
O how the weighty Prong I'll busy weild!
Should the Fair wander to the labour'd Field;
A Farmer then the crooked Plough-share hold,
Whilst the dull Ox prepares the vigorous Mold:
I'd not complain tho' Phœbus burnt the Lands,
And painful Blisters swell'd my tender Hands.
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Admetus' Herds the fair Apollo drove,
In spite of Med'cine's Power, a Prey to Love;
Nor aught avail'd to sooth his amorous Care,
His Lyre of silver Sound, or waving Hair.
To quench their Thirst, the Kine to Streams he led,
And drove them from their Pasture to the Shed:
The Milk to curdle, then, the Fair he taught,
And from the Cheese to strain the dulcet Draught.
Oft, oft his Virgin-sister blush'd for Shame,
As bearing Lambkins o'er the Field he came!
Oft would he sing the listning Vales among,
Till lowing Oxen broke the plaintive Song.
To Delphi, trembling anxious Chiefs repair,
But got no Answer, Phœbus was not there.
Thy curling Locks that charm'd a Step-dame's Eye,
A jealous Step-dame, now neglected fly!
To see thee, Phœbus, thus disfigur'd stray!
Who could discover the fair God of Day?
Constrain'd by Cupid in a Cott to pine,
Where was thy Delos, where thy Pythian Shrine?
Thrice happy Days, when Love almighty sway'd!
And openly the Gods his Will obey'd.
Now Love's soft Power's become a common Jest—
Yet those, who feel his Influence in their Breast,
The Prudes Contempt, the Wiseman's Sneer despise,
Nor would his Chains forego, to rule the Skies.
In spite of Med'cine's Power, a Prey to Love;
Nor aught avail'd to sooth his amorous Care,
His Lyre of silver Sound, or waving Hair.
To quench their Thirst, the Kine to Streams he led,
And drove them from their Pasture to the Shed:
The Milk to curdle, then, the Fair he taught,
And from the Cheese to strain the dulcet Draught.
Oft, oft his Virgin-sister blush'd for Shame,
As bearing Lambkins o'er the Field he came!
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Till lowing Oxen broke the plaintive Song.
To Delphi, trembling anxious Chiefs repair,
But got no Answer, Phœbus was not there.
Thy curling Locks that charm'd a Step-dame's Eye,
A jealous Step-dame, now neglected fly!
To see thee, Phœbus, thus disfigur'd stray!
Who could discover the fair God of Day?
Constrain'd by Cupid in a Cott to pine,
Where was thy Delos, where thy Pythian Shrine?
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And openly the Gods his Will obey'd.
Now Love's soft Power's become a common Jest—
Yet those, who feel his Influence in their Breast,
The Prudes Contempt, the Wiseman's Sneer despise,
Nor would his Chains forego, to rule the Skies.
Curst Farm! that forc'd my Nemesis from Town,
Blasts taint thy Vines, and Rains thy Harvests drown.
Tho' Hymns implore your Aid, great God of Wine!
Assist the Lover, and neglect the Vine;
To Shades, unpunish'd, ne'er let Beauty stray;
Not all your Vintage can its Absence pay!
Rather than Harvest should the Fair detain,
May Rills and Acorns feed th'unactive Swain!
The Swains of old, no golden Ceres knew,
And yet how fervent was their Love and true?
Their melting Vows the Paphian Queen approv'd,
And every Valley witness'd how they lov'd.
Then lurk'd no Spies to catch the willing Maid;
Doorless each House; in vain no Shepherd pray'd.
Once more ye simple Usages obtain!
No—lead me, drive me to the cultur'd Plain!
Enchain me, whip me, if the Fair command;
Whipp'd, and enchain'd, I'll plough the stubborn Land!
Blasts taint thy Vines, and Rains thy Harvests drown.
Tho' Hymns implore your Aid, great God of Wine!
Assist the Lover, and neglect the Vine;
To Shades, unpunish'd, ne'er let Beauty stray;
Not all your Vintage can its Absence pay!
Rather than Harvest should the Fair detain,
May Rills and Acorns feed th'unactive Swain!
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And yet how fervent was their Love and true?
Their melting Vows the Paphian Queen approv'd,
And every Valley witness'd how they lov'd.
Then lurk'd no Spies to catch the willing Maid;
Doorless each House; in vain no Shepherd pray'd.
Once more ye simple Usages obtain!
No—lead me, drive me to the cultur'd Plain!
Enchain me, whip me, if the Fair command;
Whipp'd, and enchain'd, I'll plough the stubborn Land!
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THE FOURTH ELEGY.
[Chains, and a haughty Fair I fearless view!]
Chains, and a haughty Fair I fearless view!
Hopes of paternal Freedom all adieu.
Ah when will Love compassionate my Woes?
In one sad Tenour my Existence flows:
Whether I kiss or bite the galling Chain,
Alike my Pleasure, and alike my Pain.
I burn, I burn! oh banish my Despair!
Oh ease my Torture, too too cruel Fair:
Rather than feel such vast, such matchless Woe,
I'd rise some Rock o'erspread with endless Snow!
Or frown a Cliff on some disastrous Shore,
Where Ships are wreck'd, and Tempests ever roar!
Hopes of paternal Freedom all adieu.
Ah when will Love compassionate my Woes?
In one sad Tenour my Existence flows:
Whether I kiss or bite the galling Chain,
Alike my Pleasure, and alike my Pain.
I burn, I burn! oh banish my Despair!
Oh ease my Torture, too too cruel Fair:
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I'd rise some Rock o'erspread with endless Snow!
Or frown a Cliff on some disastrous Shore,
Where Ships are wreck'd, and Tempests ever roar!
In pensive Gloominess I pass the Night,
Nor feel Contentment at the Dawn of Light.
What though the God of Verse my Woes indite,
What though I soothing Elegies can write,
No Strains of Elegy her Pride controul;
Gold is the Passport to her venal Soul.
I ask not of the Nine the epic Lay;
Ye Nine! or aid my Passion, or away.
I ask not to describe in lofty Strain,
The Sun's Eclipses, or the lunar Wane;
To win Admission to the haughty Maid,
Alone I crave your elegiac Aid;
But if she still contemns the tearful Lay,
Ye, and your Elegies, away, away!
In vain I ask, but Gold ne'er asks in vain;
Then will I desolate the World for Gain!
For Gold, I'll impious plunder every Shrine;
But chief, O Venus, will I plunder thine!
By thee compell'd, I love a venal Maid,
And quit for bloody Fields my peaceful Shade:
By thee compell'd, I rob the hallowed Shrine,
Then chiefly Venus will I plunder thine!
Nor feel Contentment at the Dawn of Light.
What though the God of Verse my Woes indite,
What though I soothing Elegies can write,
No Strains of Elegy her Pride controul;
Gold is the Passport to her venal Soul.
I ask not of the Nine the epic Lay;
Ye Nine! or aid my Passion, or away.
I ask not to describe in lofty Strain,
The Sun's Eclipses, or the lunar Wane;
To win Admission to the haughty Maid,
Alone I crave your elegiac Aid;
But if she still contemns the tearful Lay,
Ye, and your Elegies, away, away!
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Then will I desolate the World for Gain!
For Gold, I'll impious plunder every Shrine;
But chief, O Venus, will I plunder thine!
By thee compell'd, I love a venal Maid,
And quit for bloody Fields my peaceful Shade:
By thee compell'd, I rob the hallowed Shrine,
Then chiefly Venus will I plunder thine!
Perish the Man! whose curst industrious Toil
Or finds the Gem, or dies the wooly Spoil;
Hence, hence the Sex's Avarice arose,
And Art with Nature not enough bestows:
Hence, the fierce Dog was posted for a Guard,
The Fair grew venal, and their Gates were barr'd.
But weighty Presents Vigilance o'ercome,
The Gate bursts open, and the Dog is dumb.
Or finds the Gem, or dies the wooly Spoil;
Hence, hence the Sex's Avarice arose,
And Art with Nature not enough bestows:
Hence, the fierce Dog was posted for a Guard,
The Fair grew venal, and their Gates were barr'd.
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The Gate bursts open, and the Dog is dumb.
From venal Charms, ye Gods! what Mischiefs flow?
The Joy, how much o'er-ballanc'd by the Woe!
Hence, hence so few, sweet Love, frequent thy Fane,
Hence impious Slander loads thy guiltless Reign.
The Joy, how much o'er-ballanc'd by the Woe!
Hence, hence so few, sweet Love, frequent thy Fane,
Hence impious Slander loads thy guiltless Reign.
But ye! who sell your heavenly Charms for Hire,
Your ill-got Riches be consum'd with Fire!
May not one Lover strive to quench the Blaze,
But smile malicious, as o'er all it preys!
And when ye die, no gentle Friend be near,
To catch your Breath, or shed a genuine Tear!
Behind the Corpse, to march in solemn Show,
Or Syrian Odors on the Pile bestow.
Your ill-got Riches be consum'd with Fire!
May not one Lover strive to quench the Blaze,
But smile malicious, as o'er all it preys!
And when ye die, no gentle Friend be near,
To catch your Breath, or shed a genuine Tear!
Behind the Corpse, to march in solemn Show,
Or Syrian Odors on the Pile bestow.
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Far other Fates attend the generous Maid,
Tho' Age and Sickness bid her Beauties fade,
Still she's rever'd; and when Death's easy Call
Has freed her Spirit from Life's anxious Thrall,
The pitying Neighbours all her Loss deplore,
And many a weeping Friend besets the Door;
While some old Lover touch'd with grateful Woe,
Shall yearly Garlands on her Tomb bestow;
And home returning, thus the Fair address,
‘Light may the Turf thy gentle Bosom press.’
Tho' Age and Sickness bid her Beauties fade,
Still she's rever'd; and when Death's easy Call
Has freed her Spirit from Life's anxious Thrall,
The pitying Neighbours all her Loss deplore,
And many a weeping Friend besets the Door;
While some old Lover touch'd with grateful Woe,
Shall yearly Garlands on her Tomb bestow;
And home returning, thus the Fair address,
‘Light may the Turf thy gentle Bosom press.’
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'Tis Truth; but what has Truth with Love to do?
Imperious Cupid, I submit to you!
To sell my Father's Seat should you command;
Adieu my Father's Gods, my Father's Land!
From madding Mares, whate'er of Poyson flows,
Or on the Forehead of their Offspring grows,
Whate'er Medea brew'd of baleful Juice,
What noxious Herbs Æmathian Hills produce;
Of all, let Nemesis a Draught compose,
Or mingle Poysons, feller still than those;
If she but smile, the deadly Cup I'll drain,
Forget her Avarice, and exult in Pain!
Imperious Cupid, I submit to you!
To sell my Father's Seat should you command;
Adieu my Father's Gods, my Father's Land!
From madding Mares, whate'er of Poyson flows,
Or on the Forehead of their Offspring grows,
Whate'er Medea brew'd of baleful Juice,
What noxious Herbs Æmathian Hills produce;
Of all, let Nemesis a Draught compose,
Or mingle Poysons, feller still than those;
If she but smile, the deadly Cup I'll drain,
Forget her Avarice, and exult in Pain!
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THE FIFTH ELEGY.
[To hear our solemn Vows, O Phœbus deign!]
To hear our solemn Vows, O Phœbus deign!
A novel Pontiff treads thy sacred Fane:
Nor distant hear, dread Power! 'tis Rome's Request,
That with thy golden Lyre thou standst confest:
Deign mighty Bard! to strike the vocal String,
And praise thy Pontiff; we, his Praises sing:
Around thy Brows, triumphant Laurels twine,
Thine Altar visit, and thy Rites divine:
New flush thy Charms, new curl thy waving Hair;
O come the God in Vestment, and in Air!
When Saturn was dethron'd, so crown'd with Bays,
So rob'd, thou sungst th'Almighty Victor's Praise.
What Fate, from Gods and Man, has wrapt in Night,
Prophetic flashes on thy mental Sight:
From Thee, Diviners learn their prescient Lore,
On reeking Bowels, as they thoughtful pore:
The Seer thou teachest the Success of Things,
As flies the Bird, or feeds, or screams, or sings:
The Sibyl-leaves if Rome ne'er sought in vain;
Thou gav'st a Meaning to the mystic Strain:
Thy sacred Influence may this Pontiff know,
And as he reads them, with the Prophet glow.
A novel Pontiff treads thy sacred Fane:
Nor distant hear, dread Power! 'tis Rome's Request,
That with thy golden Lyre thou standst confest:
Deign mighty Bard! to strike the vocal String,
And praise thy Pontiff; we, his Praises sing:
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Thine Altar visit, and thy Rites divine:
New flush thy Charms, new curl thy waving Hair;
O come the God in Vestment, and in Air!
When Saturn was dethron'd, so crown'd with Bays,
So rob'd, thou sungst th'Almighty Victor's Praise.
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Prophetic flashes on thy mental Sight:
From Thee, Diviners learn their prescient Lore,
On reeking Bowels, as they thoughtful pore:
The Seer thou teachest the Success of Things,
As flies the Bird, or feeds, or screams, or sings:
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Thou gav'st a Meaning to the mystic Strain:
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And as he reads them, with the Prophet glow.
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When great Æneas snatch'd his aged Sire,
And burning Lares, from the Grecian Fire,
She , she foretold this Empire fix'd by fate,
And all the Triumphs of the Roman State;
Yet when he saw his Ilion wrapp'd in Flame,
He scarce could credit the mysterious Dame.
And burning Lares, from the Grecian Fire,
She , she foretold this Empire fix'd by fate,
And all the Triumphs of the Roman State;
Yet when he saw his Ilion wrapp'd in Flame,
He scarce could credit the mysterious Dame.
(Quirinus had not plann'd eternal Rome,
Nor had his Brother met his early Doom,
Where now Jove's Temple swells, low Hamlets stood,
And Domes ascend, where Heifers crop'd their Food.
Sprinkled with Milk, Pan grac'd an Oak's dun Shade,
And Scythe-arm'd Pales watch'd the mossy Glade;
For Help from Pan, to Pan on ev'ry Bough
Pipes hung, the grateful Shepherd's vocal Vow,
Of Reeds, still lessening, was the Gift compos'd,
And friendly Wax th'unequal Junctures clos'd.
So where Velabrian Streets like Cities seem,
One little Wherry plied the lazy Stream,
O'er which the wealthy Shepherd's favourite Maid
Was to her Swain, on Holydays, convey'd;
The Swain, his Truth of Passion to declare,
Or Lamb, or Cheese, presented to the Fair.)
Nor had his Brother met his early Doom,
Where now Jove's Temple swells, low Hamlets stood,
And Domes ascend, where Heifers crop'd their Food.
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And Scythe-arm'd Pales watch'd the mossy Glade;
83
Pipes hung, the grateful Shepherd's vocal Vow,
Of Reeds, still lessening, was the Gift compos'd,
And friendly Wax th'unequal Junctures clos'd.
So where Velabrian Streets like Cities seem,
One little Wherry plied the lazy Stream,
O'er which the wealthy Shepherd's favourite Maid
Was to her Swain, on Holydays, convey'd;
The Swain, his Truth of Passion to declare,
Or Lamb, or Cheese, presented to the Fair.)
The Cumæan Sibyl speaks.
“Fierce Brother of the Power of soft Desire,“Who fly'st, with Trojan Gods, the Grecian Fire!
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“Those friendly Plains invite thy banish'd Gods!
“There shall a nobler Troy herself applaud,
“Admire her Wanderings, and the Grecian Fraud!
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“A God thyself, and mingle with the Skies!
“No more thy Phrygians for their Country sigh,
“See Conquest o'er your shatter'd Navy fly!
“See the Rutulian Tents, a mighty Blaze!
“Thou, Turnus! soon shalt end thy hateful Days!
“The Camp I see, Lavinium greets my View!
“And Alba! brave Ascanius! built by you:
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“And, clasp'd by Mars, in amorous Bliss expire!
“On Tyber's Bank, thy sacred Robes I see,
“And Arms abandon'd, eager God! by thee.
“Your Hills crop fast, ye Herds! while Fate allows;
“Eternal Rome shall rise, where now ye brouze:
“Rome, that shall stretch her irresistless Reign,
“Wherever Ceres views her golden Grain;
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“And where the West shuts up the Gates of Day.
“The Truth I sing; so may the Laurels prove
“Safe Food, and I be screen'd from guilty Love.”
Thus sung the Sibyl, and address'd her Prayer,
Phœbus! to thee, and madding, loos'd her Hair.
Nor, Phœbus! give him only these to know,
A farther Knowlege on thy Priest bestow:
Let him interpret what thy fav'rite Maid,
What Amalthea, what Mermessia said:
Let him interpret what Albuna bore
Thro' Tyber's Waves, unwet, to Tyber's farthest Shore.
Phœbus! to thee, and madding, loos'd her Hair.
93
A farther Knowlege on thy Priest bestow:
Let him interpret what thy fav'rite Maid,
What Amalthea, what Mermessia said:
Let him interpret what Albuna bore
Thro' Tyber's Waves, unwet, to Tyber's farthest Shore.
When stony Tempests fell, when Comets glar'd,
Intestine Wars their Oracles declar'd:
The sacred Groves (our Ancestors relate)
Foretold the Changes of the Roman State:
To charge the Clarion sounded in the Sky,
Arms clash'd, Blood ran, and Warriours seem'd to die:
With monstrous Prodigies the Year began:
An annual Darkness the whole Globe o'er-ran;
Apollo, shorn of every beamy Ray,
Oft strove, but strove in vain, to light the Day:
The Statues of the Gods wept tepid Tears;
And speaking Oxen fill'd Mankind with Fears!
Intestine Wars their Oracles declar'd:
95
Foretold the Changes of the Roman State:
To charge the Clarion sounded in the Sky,
Arms clash'd, Blood ran, and Warriours seem'd to die:
With monstrous Prodigies the Year began:
An annual Darkness the whole Globe o'er-ran;
Apollo, shorn of every beamy Ray,
Oft strove, but strove in vain, to light the Day:
The Statues of the Gods wept tepid Tears;
And speaking Oxen fill'd Mankind with Fears!
These were of old: No more, Apollo! frown,
But in the Waves each adverse Omen drown.
O! let thy Bays in crackling Flames ascend;
So shall the Year with Joy begin and end!
The Bays give prosp'rous Signs; rejoice ye Swains!
Propitious Ceres shall reward your Pains.
With Must the jolly Rustic purpled o'er,
Shall squeeze rich Clusters, which their Tribute pour,
Till Vatts are wanting, to contain their Store.
Far hence, ye Wolves! the mellow Shepherds bring
Their Gifts to Pales, and her Praises sing.
Now, fir'd with Wine, they solemn Bonfires raise,
And leap, untimorous, thro' the strawy Blaze!
From every Cott, unnumber'd Children throng,
Frequent the Dance, and louder raise the Song:
And while in Mirth the Hours they thus employ,
At home the Grandsire tends his little Boy;
And in each Feature pleas'd himself to trace,
Foretells his Pratler will adorn the Race.
But in the Waves each adverse Omen drown.
O! let thy Bays in crackling Flames ascend;
So shall the Year with Joy begin and end!
The Bays give prosp'rous Signs; rejoice ye Swains!
Propitious Ceres shall reward your Pains.
With Must the jolly Rustic purpled o'er,
Shall squeeze rich Clusters, which their Tribute pour,
Till Vatts are wanting, to contain their Store.
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Their Gifts to Pales, and her Praises sing.
Now, fir'd with Wine, they solemn Bonfires raise,
And leap, untimorous, thro' the strawy Blaze!
From every Cott, unnumber'd Children throng,
Frequent the Dance, and louder raise the Song:
And while in Mirth the Hours they thus employ,
At home the Grandsire tends his little Boy;
And in each Feature pleas'd himself to trace,
Foretells his Pratler will adorn the Race.
The sylvan Youth, their grateful Homage paid,
Where plays some Streamlet, seek th'embowering Shade;
Or stretch'd on soft enamel'd Meadows lie,
Where thickest Umbrage cools the Summer-sky:
With Roses, see! the sacred Cup is crown'd,
Hark! Music breathes her animating Sound:
The Couch of Turf, and festal Tables stand
Of Turf, erected by each Shepherd-hand;
And all well-pleas'd, the votive Feast prepare,
Each one his Goblet, and each one his Share.
Now drunk, they blame their Stars and curse the Maid;
But sober, deprecate whate'er they said.
Where plays some Streamlet, seek th'embowering Shade;
Or stretch'd on soft enamel'd Meadows lie,
Where thickest Umbrage cools the Summer-sky:
With Roses, see! the sacred Cup is crown'd,
Hark! Music breathes her animating Sound:
The Couch of Turf, and festal Tables stand
Of Turf, erected by each Shepherd-hand;
And all well-pleas'd, the votive Feast prepare,
Each one his Goblet, and each one his Share.
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But sober, deprecate whate'er they said.
Perish thy Shafts, Apollo! and thy Bow!
If Love unarmed in our Forests go.
Yet since he learn'd to wing th'unerring Dart,
Much cause has Man to curse his fatal Art:
But most have I; the Sun has wheel'd his round
Since first I felt the deadly festering Wound;
Yet, yet I fondly, madly, wish to burn,
Abjure Indifference, and at Comfort spurn;
And tho' from Nemesis my Genius flows;
Her scarce I sing, so weighty are my Woes!
If Love unarmed in our Forests go.
Yet since he learn'd to wing th'unerring Dart,
Much cause has Man to curse his fatal Art:
But most have I; the Sun has wheel'd his round
Since first I felt the deadly festering Wound;
Yet, yet I fondly, madly, wish to burn,
Abjure Indifference, and at Comfort spurn;
And tho' from Nemesis my Genius flows;
Her scarce I sing, so weighty are my Woes!
O cruel Love! how joyous should I be,
Your Arrows broke, and Torch extinct to see!
From you, my want of Reverence to the Skies!
From you, my Woes and Imprecations rise!
Yet I advise you, too relentless Fair!
(As Heaven protects the Bards) a Bard to spare!
Your Arrows broke, and Torch extinct to see!
From you, my want of Reverence to the Skies!
From you, my Woes and Imprecations rise!
Yet I advise you, too relentless Fair!
(As Heaven protects the Bards) a Bard to spare!
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E'en now, the Pontiff claims my loftiest Lay,
In Triumph, soon he'll mount the sacred Way.
Then pictur'd Towns shall show successful War,
And Spoils and Chiefs attend his ivory Car:
Myself will bear the Laurel in my Hand;
And pleas'd, amid the pleas'd Spectators stand:
While war-worn Veterans, with Laurels crown'd,
With Io-triumphs shake the Streets around.
His Father hails him, as he rides along,
And entertains with pompous Shews the Throng.
In Triumph, soon he'll mount the sacred Way.
Then pictur'd Towns shall show successful War,
And Spoils and Chiefs attend his ivory Car:
Myself will bear the Laurel in my Hand;
And pleas'd, amid the pleas'd Spectators stand:
While war-worn Veterans, with Laurels crown'd,
With Io-triumphs shake the Streets around.
His Father hails him, as he rides along,
And entertains with pompous Shews the Throng.
O Phœbus! kindly deign to grant my Prayer;
So may'st thou ever wave thy curled Hair;
So ever may thy Virgin-sister's Name
Preserve the Lustre of a spotless Fame.
So may'st thou ever wave thy curled Hair;
So ever may thy Virgin-sister's Name
Preserve the Lustre of a spotless Fame.
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THE SIXTH ELEGY.
[Macer campaigns; who now will thee obey]
Macer campaigns; who now will thee obey
O Love! if Macer dare forego thy Sway?
Put on the Crest, and grasp the burnish'd Shield,
Pursue the base Deserter to the Field:
Or if to Winds he gives the loosen'd Sail,
Mount thou the Deck, and risk the stormy Gale:
To dare desert thy sweetly-pleasing Pains,
For stormy Seas, or sanguinary Plains!
'Tis, Cupid! thine, the Wanderer to reclaim,
Regain thy Honour, and avenge thy Name!
If such thou spar'st, a Soldier I will be,
The meanest Soldier, and abandon thee.
Adieu, ye trifling Loves! farewel, ye Fair!
The Trumpet charms me, I to Camps repair;
The martial Look, the martial Garb assume,
And see the Laurel on my Forehead bloom!
My vaunts how vain! debarr'd the cruel Maid,
The Warriour softens, and my Laurels fade.
Piqu'd to the Soul, how frequent have I swore,
Her Gate so servile to approach no more?
Unconscious what I did, I still return'd,
Was still deny'd Access, and yet I burn'd!
O Love! if Macer dare forego thy Sway?
Put on the Crest, and grasp the burnish'd Shield,
Pursue the base Deserter to the Field:
Or if to Winds he gives the loosen'd Sail,
Mount thou the Deck, and risk the stormy Gale:
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For stormy Seas, or sanguinary Plains!
'Tis, Cupid! thine, the Wanderer to reclaim,
Regain thy Honour, and avenge thy Name!
107
The meanest Soldier, and abandon thee.
Adieu, ye trifling Loves! farewel, ye Fair!
The Trumpet charms me, I to Camps repair;
109
And see the Laurel on my Forehead bloom!
My vaunts how vain! debarr'd the cruel Maid,
The Warriour softens, and my Laurels fade.
Piqu'd to the Soul, how frequent have I swore,
Her Gate so servile to approach no more?
Unconscious what I did, I still return'd,
Was still deny'd Access, and yet I burn'd!
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Ye Youths, whom Love commands with angry Sway,
Attend his Wars, like me, and pleas'd obey.
This Iron Age approves his Sway no more:
All fly to Camps for Gold, and Gold adore:
Yet Gold clothes kindred States in hostile Arms!
Hence Blood and Death, Confusion and Alarms!
Mankind, for Lust of Gold, at once defy
The naval Combat, and the stormy Sky!
The Soldier hopes, by martial Spoils, to gain
Flocks without Number, and a rich Domain:
His Hopes obtain'd by every horrid Crime,
He seeks for Marble in each foreign Clime:
A thousand Yoke sustain the pillar'd Freight,
And Rome, surpriz'd beholds th'enormous Weight.
Let such with Moles the furious Deep inclose,
Where Fish may swim unhurt, tho' Winter blows:
Let Flocks and Villas call the Spoiler Lord!
And be the Spoiler by the Fair ador'd!
Let one we know, a whipp'd Barbarian Slave,
Live like a King, with kingly Pride behave!
Be ours the Joys of œconomic Ease,
From bloody Fields remote, and stormy Seas!
Attend his Wars, like me, and pleas'd obey.
This Iron Age approves his Sway no more:
All fly to Camps for Gold, and Gold adore:
Yet Gold clothes kindred States in hostile Arms!
Hence Blood and Death, Confusion and Alarms!
Mankind, for Lust of Gold, at once defy
The naval Combat, and the stormy Sky!
The Soldier hopes, by martial Spoils, to gain
Flocks without Number, and a rich Domain:
His Hopes obtain'd by every horrid Crime,
He seeks for Marble in each foreign Clime:
A thousand Yoke sustain the pillar'd Freight,
And Rome, surpriz'd beholds th'enormous Weight.
Let such with Moles the furious Deep inclose,
Where Fish may swim unhurt, tho' Winter blows:
Let Flocks and Villas call the Spoiler Lord!
And be the Spoiler by the Fair ador'd!
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Live like a King, with kingly Pride behave!
Be ours the Joys of œconomic Ease,
From bloody Fields remote, and stormy Seas!
In Gold, alas! the venal Fair delight!
Since Beauty sighs for Spoil, for Spoil I'll fight!
In all my Plunder Nemesis shall shine,
Yours be the Profit, be the Peril mine:
To deck your heav'nly Charms the Silk-worm dies,
Embroidery labours, and the Shuttle flies!
For you be rifled Ocean's pearly Store!
To you Pactolus send his golden Ore!
Ye Indians! blacken'd by the nearer Sun,
Before her Steps in splendid Liveries run;
For you shall wealthy Tyre and Afric vie,
To yield the Purple, and the Scarlet Dye.
Since Beauty sighs for Spoil, for Spoil I'll fight!
In all my Plunder Nemesis shall shine,
Yours be the Profit, be the Peril mine:
To deck your heav'nly Charms the Silk-worm dies,
Embroidery labours, and the Shuttle flies!
For you be rifled Ocean's pearly Store!
To you Pactolus send his golden Ore!
Ye Indians! blacken'd by the nearer Sun,
Before her Steps in splendid Liveries run;
For you shall wealthy Tyre and Afric vie,
To yield the Purple, and the Scarlet Dye.
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THE SEVENTH ELEGY.
[Thousands in Death would seek an End of Woe]
Thousands in Death would seek an End of Woe,
But Hope, deceitful Hope! prevents the Blow!
Hope plants the Forest, and she sows the Plain;
And feeds, with future Granaries, the Swain;
Hope snares the winged Vagrants of the Sky,
Hope cheats in reedy Brooks the scaly Fry;
By Hope, the fetter'd Slave, the Drudge of Fate,
Sings, shakes his Irons, and forgets his State;
Hope promis'd you, you haughty still deny;
Yield to the Goddess, O my Fair! comply.
Hope whisper'd me, “Give Sorrow to the Wind!
“The haughty Fair-one shall at last be kind.”
Yet, yet you treat me with the same Disdain:
O let not Hope's soft Whispers prove in vain!
But Hope, deceitful Hope! prevents the Blow!
Hope plants the Forest, and she sows the Plain;
And feeds, with future Granaries, the Swain;
119
Hope cheats in reedy Brooks the scaly Fry;
By Hope, the fetter'd Slave, the Drudge of Fate,
Sings, shakes his Irons, and forgets his State;
121
Yield to the Goddess, O my Fair! comply.
Hope whisper'd me, “Give Sorrow to the Wind!
“The haughty Fair-one shall at last be kind.”
Yet, yet you treat me with the same Disdain:
O let not Hope's soft Whispers prove in vain!
Untimely Fate your Sister snatch'd away;
Spare me, O spare me, by her Shade I pray!
So shall my Garlands deck her Virgin-tomb;
So shall I weep, no Hypocrite, her Doom!
So may her Grave with rising Flowers be drest,
And the green Turf lie lightly on her Breast.
Spare me, O spare me, by her Shade I pray!
So shall my Garlands deck her Virgin-tomb;
So shall I weep, no Hypocrite, her Doom!
So may her Grave with rising Flowers be drest,
And the green Turf lie lightly on her Breast.
Ah me! will nought avail? The World I'll fly,
And, prostrate at her Tomb, a Suppliant sigh!
To her attentive Ghost, of you complain;
Tell my long Sorrowing, tell of your Disdain:
Oft, when alive, in my Behalf she spoke:
Your endless Coyness must her Shade provoke:
With ugly Dreams she'll haunt your Hour of Rest,
And weep before you, an unwelcome Guest!
Ghastly and pale, as when besmear'd with Blood,
Oh fatal Fall! she pass'd the Stygian Flood.
And, prostrate at her Tomb, a Suppliant sigh!
To her attentive Ghost, of you complain;
Tell my long Sorrowing, tell of your Disdain:
Oft, when alive, in my Behalf she spoke:
Your endless Coyness must her Shade provoke:
With ugly Dreams she'll haunt your Hour of Rest,
And weep before you, an unwelcome Guest!
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Oh fatal Fall! she pass'd the Stygian Flood.
No more, my Strains! your Eyes with Tears o'erflow,
This moving Object renovates your Woe:
You, you are guiltless! I your Maid accuse;
You generous are! she, she has selfish Views.
Nay, were you guilty, I'll no more complain;
One Tear from you o'erpays a Life of Pain!
She, Phryne, promis'd to promote my Vows:
She took, but never gave my Billet-doux.
You're gone abroad, she confidently swears,
Oft when your sweet-ton'd Voice salutes mine Ears:
Or, when you promise to reward my Pains,
That you're afraid, or indispos'd, she feigns:
Then madding Jealousy inflames my Breast;
Then Fancy represents a Rival blest;
I wish thee, Phryne! then, a thousand Woes;—
And if the Gods with half my Wishes close,
Phryne! a Wretch of Wretches thou shalt be,
And vainly beg of Death to set thee free!
This moving Object renovates your Woe:
You, you are guiltless! I your Maid accuse;
You generous are! she, she has selfish Views.
Nay, were you guilty, I'll no more complain;
One Tear from you o'erpays a Life of Pain!
She, Phryne, promis'd to promote my Vows:
She took, but never gave my Billet-doux.
125
Oft when your sweet-ton'd Voice salutes mine Ears:
Or, when you promise to reward my Pains,
That you're afraid, or indispos'd, she feigns:
Then madding Jealousy inflames my Breast;
Then Fancy represents a Rival blest;
I wish thee, Phryne! then, a thousand Woes;—
And if the Gods with half my Wishes close,
Phryne! a Wretch of Wretches thou shalt be,
And vainly beg of Death to set thee free!
137
TIBULLUS. BOOK THE THIRD.
ELEGY THE FIRST.
[Thy Calends, Mars! are come, from whence of old]
POET.Thy Calends, Mars! are come, from whence of old,
The Year's Beginning our Forefathers told:
Now various Gifts thro' every House impart,
The pleasing Tokens of the friendly Heart.
139
What shall I give, what Honour shall I pay?
Dear, e'en if fickle; dearer, if my Friend!
To the lov'd Fair, what Present shall I send?
141
Gold wins the venal, Verse the lovely Maid:
In your smooth Numbers be her Charms display'd.
On polish'd Ivory let the Sheets be roll'd,
Your Name in Signature, the Edges Gold.
143
In a gay Wrapper then secure the whole.
Thus to adorn your Poems be your Care;
And thus adorn'd, transmit them to the Fair.
POET.
Fair Maids of Pindus! I your Counsel praise:
As you advise me, I'll adorn my Lays:
But by your Streams, and by your Shades, I pray,
Yourselves the Volume to the Fair convey.
O let it lowly at her Feet be laid,
Ere the gilt Wrapper, or the Edges fade;
Then let her tell me, if her Flames decline,
If quite extinguish'd, or if still she's mine.
But first your graceful Salutations paid,
In Terms submissive thus address the Maid:
“Chaste Fair! the Bard, who doats upon your Charms,
“And once could clasp them in his nuptial Arms,
“This Volume sends; and humbly hopes, that you,
“With kind Indulgence, will the Present view.
“You, you! he prizes more, he vows, than Life;
“Still a lov'd Sister, or again his Wife.
145
“And once more grant you to his fond Desire!
“Fix'd in this Hope, he'll reach the dreary Shore,
“Where Sense shall fail, and Memory be no more.”
147
THE SECOND ELEGY.
[Hard was the first, who ventur'd to divide]
Hard was the first, who ventur'd to divide
The youthful Bridegroom, and the tender Bride:
More hard the Bridegroom, who can bear the Day,
When Force has torn his tender Bride away.
Here too my Patience, here my Manhood fails;
The Brave grow Dastards, when fierce Grief assails:
Die, die I must! the Truth I freely own;
My Life too burthensome a Load is grown.
Then, when I flit a thin an empty Shade,
When on the mournful Pile my Corse is laid,
With melting Grief, with Tresses loose and torn,
Wilt thou, Neæra! for thy Husband mourn?
A Parent's Anguish will thy Mother shew,
For the lost Youth, who liv'd, who dy'd for you?
The youthful Bridegroom, and the tender Bride:
More hard the Bridegroom, who can bear the Day,
When Force has torn his tender Bride away.
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The Brave grow Dastards, when fierce Grief assails:
Die, die I must! the Truth I freely own;
My Life too burthensome a Load is grown.
Then, when I flit a thin an empty Shade,
When on the mournful Pile my Corse is laid,
With melting Grief, with Tresses loose and torn,
Wilt thou, Neæra! for thy Husband mourn?
A Parent's Anguish will thy Mother shew,
For the lost Youth, who liv'd, who dy'd for you?
But see the Flames o'er all my Body stray!
And now my Shade ye call, and now ye pray
In Black array'd; the Flame forgets to soar;
And now pure Water on your Hands ye pour;
My lov'd Remains next gather'd in a Heap,
With Wine ye sprinkle, and in Milk ye steep.
The Moisture dry'd, within the Urn ye lay
My Bones, and to the Monument convey.
Panchaian Odours thither ye will bring,
And all the Produce of an Eastern Spring:
But what than Eastern Springs I hold more dear,
O wet my Ashes with a genuine Tear!
And now my Shade ye call, and now ye pray
151
And now pure Water on your Hands ye pour;
My lov'd Remains next gather'd in a Heap,
With Wine ye sprinkle, and in Milk ye steep.
The Moisture dry'd, within the Urn ye lay
My Bones, and to the Monument convey.
153
And all the Produce of an Eastern Spring:
But what than Eastern Springs I hold more dear,
O wet my Ashes with a genuine Tear!
Thus, by you both lamented, let me die,
Be thus perform'd my mournful Obsequy!
Then shall these Lines, by some throng'd Way, relate
The dear Occasion of my dismal Fate:
“Here lies poor Lygdamus; a lovely Wife,
“Torn from his Arms, cut short his Thread of Life”
Be thus perform'd my mournful Obsequy!
Then shall these Lines, by some throng'd Way, relate
The dear Occasion of my dismal Fate:
“Here lies poor Lygdamus; a lovely Wife,
“Torn from his Arms, cut short his Thread of Life”
155
THE THIRD ELEGY.
[Why did I supplicate the Powers divine?]
Why did I supplicate the Powers divine?
Why votive Incense burn at every Shrine?
Not that I Marble Palaces might own,
To draw Spectators, and to make me known;
Not that my Teams might plough new-purchas'd Plains,
And bounteous Autumn glad my countless Swains:
I begg'd with you my youthful Days to share,
I begg'd in Age to clasp the lovely Fair;
And when my stated Race of Life was o'er,
I begg'd to pass alone the Stygian Shore.
Why votive Incense burn at every Shrine?
Not that I Marble Palaces might own,
To draw Spectators, and to make me known;
Not that my Teams might plough new-purchas'd Plains,
And bounteous Autumn glad my countless Swains:
157
I begg'd in Age to clasp the lovely Fair;
And when my stated Race of Life was o'er,
I begg'd to pass alone the Stygian Shore.
Can treasur'd Gold the tortur'd Breast compose?
Or Plains, wide-cultur'd, sooth the Lover's Woes?
Can Marble-pillar'd Domes, the Pride of Art,
Secure from Sorrow the Possessor's Heart?
Not circling Woods, resembling sacred Groves,
Not Parian Pavements, nor gay-gilt Alcoves,
Not all the Gems that load an Eastern Shore,
Not whate'er else the greedy Great adore,
Possess'd, can shield the Owner's Breast from Woe,
Since fickle Fortune governs all below:
Such Toys, in little Minds, may Envy raise;
Still little Minds improper Objects praise.
Poor let me be; for Poverty can please
With you; without you, Crowns could give no Ease.
Or Plains, wide-cultur'd, sooth the Lover's Woes?
Can Marble-pillar'd Domes, the Pride of Art,
Secure from Sorrow the Possessor's Heart?
Not circling Woods, resembling sacred Groves,
Not Parian Pavements, nor gay-gilt Alcoves,
159
Not whate'er else the greedy Great adore,
Possess'd, can shield the Owner's Breast from Woe,
Since fickle Fortune governs all below:
Such Toys, in little Minds, may Envy raise;
Still little Minds improper Objects praise.
Poor let me be; for Poverty can please
With you; without you, Crowns could give no Ease.
Shine forth, bright Morn! and every Bliss impart,
Restore Neæra to my doating Heart!
For if her glad Return the Gods deny,
If I sollicit still in vain the Sky,
Nor Power, nor all the Wealth this Globe contains,
Can ever mitigate my Heart-felt Pains;
Let others these enjoy; be Peace my Lot,
Be mine Neæra, mine a humble Cot!
Saturnia, grant thy Suppliant's timid Prayer!
And aid me, Venus! from thy pearly Chair!
Restore Neæra to my doating Heart!
For if her glad Return the Gods deny,
If I sollicit still in vain the Sky,
Nor Power, nor all the Wealth this Globe contains,
Can ever mitigate my Heart-felt Pains;
Let others these enjoy; be Peace my Lot,
Be mine Neæra, mine a humble Cot!
161
And aid me, Venus! from thy pearly Chair!
Yet, if the Sisters, who o'er Fate preside,
My Vows contemning, still detain my Bride,
Cease, Breast, to heave! cease, anxious Blood, to flow!
Come, Death! transport me to thy Realms below.
My Vows contemning, still detain my Bride,
Cease, Breast, to heave! cease, anxious Blood, to flow!
Come, Death! transport me to thy Realms below.
163
THE FOURTH ELEGY.
[Last Night's ill-boding Dreams, ye Gods avert!]
Last Night's ill-boding Dreams, ye Gods avert!
Nor plague, with Portents, a poor Lover's Heart!
But why? From Prejudice our Terrors rise;
Vain Visions have no Commerce with the Skies:
Th'Event of Things the Gods alone foresee,
And Tuscan Priests foretel what they decree.
Dreams flit at Midnight round the Lover's Head,
And timorous Man alarm with idle Dread:
And hence Oblations to divert the Woe,
Weak stuperstitious Minds on Heaven bestow.
But since whate'er the Gods foretel is true,
And Man's oft warn'd, mysterious Dreams! by you;
Dread Juno! make my nightly Visions vain,
Vain make my boding Fears, and calm my Pain!
The blessed Gods, you know, I ne'er revil'd,
And nought iniquous e'er my Heart defil'd.
Nor plague, with Portents, a poor Lover's Heart!
But why? From Prejudice our Terrors rise;
Vain Visions have no Commerce with the Skies:
Th'Event of Things the Gods alone foresee,
And Tuscan Priests foretel what they decree.
165
And timorous Man alarm with idle Dread:
And hence Oblations to divert the Woe,
Weak stuperstitious Minds on Heaven bestow.
But since whate'er the Gods foretel is true,
And Man's oft warn'd, mysterious Dreams! by you;
Dread Juno! make my nightly Visions vain,
Vain make my boding Fears, and calm my Pain!
The blessed Gods, you know, I ne'er revil'd,
And nought iniquous e'er my Heart defil'd.
Now Night had lav'd her Coursers in the Main,
And left to dewy Dawn a doubtful Reign;
Bland Sleep, that from the Couch of Sorrow flies,
(The Wretch's Solace) had not clos'd my Eyes;
At last, when Morn unbar'd the Gates of Light,
A downy Slumber shut my labouring Sight:
A Youth appear'd, with Virgin-laurel crown'd,
He mov'd majestic, and I heard the Sound.
Such Charms, such manly Charms, were never seen,
As fir'd his Eyes, and harmoniz'd his Mein;
His Hair, in Ringlets of an auburn Hue,
Shed Syrian Sweets, and o'er his Shoulders flew;
As white as thine, fair Luna! was his Skin,
So vein'd with Azure, and as smoothly thin;
So soft a Blush vermilion'd o'er his Face,
As when a Maid first melts in Man's Embrace;
Or when the Fair with curious Art unite
The purple Amaranth, and Lilly white.
A Bloom like his, when ting'd by Autumn's Pride,
Reddens the Apple on the sunny Side;
A Tyrian Tunic to his Ancles flow'd,
Which thro' it's sirfled Plaits his godlike Beauties show'd.
A Lyre, the Present Mulciber bestow'd,
On his left Arm with easy Grandeur glow'd;
The peerless Work of Virgin Gold was made,
With Ivory, Gems, and Tortoise interlaid;
O'er all the vocal Strings his Fingers stray,
The vocal Strings his Fingers glad obey,
And, harmoniz'd, a sprightly Prelude play:
But when he join'd the Music of his Tongue,
These soft, sad elegiac Lays he sung:
And left to dewy Dawn a doubtful Reign;
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(The Wretch's Solace) had not clos'd my Eyes;
At last, when Morn unbar'd the Gates of Light,
A downy Slumber shut my labouring Sight:
A Youth appear'd, with Virgin-laurel crown'd,
He mov'd majestic, and I heard the Sound.
Such Charms, such manly Charms, were never seen,
As fir'd his Eyes, and harmoniz'd his Mein;
His Hair, in Ringlets of an auburn Hue,
Shed Syrian Sweets, and o'er his Shoulders flew;
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So vein'd with Azure, and as smoothly thin;
So soft a Blush vermilion'd o'er his Face,
As when a Maid first melts in Man's Embrace;
Or when the Fair with curious Art unite
The purple Amaranth, and Lilly white.
A Bloom like his, when ting'd by Autumn's Pride,
Reddens the Apple on the sunny Side;
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Which thro' it's sirfled Plaits his godlike Beauties show'd.
A Lyre, the Present Mulciber bestow'd,
On his left Arm with easy Grandeur glow'd;
The peerless Work of Virgin Gold was made,
With Ivory, Gems, and Tortoise interlaid;
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The vocal Strings his Fingers glad obey,
And, harmoniz'd, a sprightly Prelude play:
But when he join'd the Music of his Tongue,
These soft, sad elegiac Lays he sung:
“All hail, thou Care of Heaven! (a virtuous Bard
“The God of Wine, the Muses, I, regard;)
“But neither Bacchus, nor the Thespian Nine,
“The sacred Will of Destiny divine:
“The secret Book of Destiny to see,
“Heaven's awful Sire has given alone to me;
“And I, unerring God, to you explain
“(Attend and credit) what the Fates ordain.
“The God of Wine, the Muses, I, regard;)
“But neither Bacchus, nor the Thespian Nine,
“The sacred Will of Destiny divine:
“The secret Book of Destiny to see,
“Heaven's awful Sire has given alone to me;
“And I, unerring God, to you explain
“(Attend and credit) what the Fates ordain.
“She who is still your ever constant Care,
“Dearer to you than Sons to Mothers are,
“Whose Beauties bloom in every softned Line,
“Her Sex's Envy, and the Love of thine:
“Not with more Warmth is female Fondness mov'd,
“Not with more Warmth are tenderest Brides belov'd.
“For whom you hourly importune the Sky,
“For whom you wish to live, nor fear to die,
“Whose Form, when Night has wrap'd in Black the Pole,
“Cheats in soft Vision your enamour'd Soul;
“Neæra! whose bright Charms your Verse displays,
“Seeks a new Lover, and inconstant strays!
“For thee no more with mutual Warmth she burns,
“But thy chaste House, and chaste Embrace, she spurns.
“Dearer to you than Sons to Mothers are,
“Whose Beauties bloom in every softned Line,
“Her Sex's Envy, and the Love of thine:
“Not with more Warmth is female Fondness mov'd,
“Not with more Warmth are tenderest Brides belov'd.
“For whom you hourly importune the Sky,
“For whom you wish to live, nor fear to die,
“Whose Form, when Night has wrap'd in Black the Pole,
“Cheats in soft Vision your enamour'd Soul;
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“Seeks a new Lover, and inconstant strays!
“For thee no more with mutual Warmth she burns,
“But thy chaste House, and chaste Embrace, she spurns.
“O cruel, perjur'd, false, intriguing Sex!
“O born with Woes poor wretched Man to vex!
“Whoe'er has learn'd her Lover to betray,
“Her Beauty perish, and her Name decay!
“O born with Woes poor wretched Man to vex!
“Whoe'er has learn'd her Lover to betray,
“Her Beauty perish, and her Name decay!
“Yet, as the Sex will change, avoid Despair;
“A patient Homage may subdue the Fair.
“Fierce Love taught Man to suffer, laugh at Pain;
“Fierce Love taught Man, with Joy, to drag the Chain;
“Fierce Love, nor vainly fabulous the Tale,
“Forc'd me, yes forc'd me, to the lonely Dale:
“There I Admetus' snowy Heifers drove,
“Nor tun'd my Lyre, nor sung, absorb'd in Love
“The favourite Son of Heaven's almighty Sire,
“Prefer'd a Straw-pipe to his golden Lyre.
“A patient Homage may subdue the Fair.
“Fierce Love taught Man to suffer, laugh at Pain;
“Fierce Love taught Man, with Joy, to drag the Chain;
“Fierce Love, nor vainly fabulous the Tale,
“Forc'd me, yes forc'd me, to the lonely Dale:
“There I Admetus' snowy Heifers drove,
“Nor tun'd my Lyre, nor sung, absorb'd in Love
“The favourite Son of Heaven's almighty Sire,
“Prefer'd a Straw-pipe to his golden Lyre.
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“Tho' false the Fair, tho' Love is wild, obey;
“Or, Youth, you know not Love's tyrannic Sway.
“In plaintive Strains address the haughty Fair;
“The Haughty soften at the Voice of Prayer.
“If ever true my Delphian Answers prove,
“Bear this my Message to the Maid you love.
“Or, Youth, you know not Love's tyrannic Sway.
“In plaintive Strains address the haughty Fair;
“The Haughty soften at the Voice of Prayer.
“If ever true my Delphian Answers prove,
“Bear this my Message to the Maid you love.
“Pride of your Sex, and Passion of the Age!
“No more let other Men your Love engage;
“A Bard on you the Delian God bestows,
“This Match alone can warrant your Repose.”
“No more let other Men your Love engage;
“A Bard on you the Delian God bestows,
“This Match alone can warrant your Repose.”
He sung. When Morpheus from my Pillow flew,
And plung'd me in substantial Griefs anew.
And plung'd me in substantial Griefs anew.
Ah! who could think that thou had'st broke thy Vows,
That thou, Neæra! sought'st another Spouse?
Such horrid Crimes, as all Mankind detest,
Could they, how could they, harbour in thy Breast?
The ruthless Deep, I know, was not thy Sire;
Nor fierce Chimæra, belching Floods of Fire;
Nor did'st thou from the triple Monster spring,
Round whom a Coil of kindred Serpents cling;
Thou art not of the Lybian Lions' Seed,
Of barking Scylla's, nor Charybdis' Breed;
Nor Afric's Sands, nor Scythia gave thee Birth;
But a compassionate, benignant Earth.
No! thou, my Fair! deriv'st thy noble Race
From Parents deck'd with every human Grace.
That thou, Neæra! sought'st another Spouse?
Such horrid Crimes, as all Mankind detest,
Could they, how could they, harbour in thy Breast?
The ruthless Deep, I know, was not thy Sire;
Nor fierce Chimæra, belching Floods of Fire;
Nor did'st thou from the triple Monster spring,
Round whom a Coil of kindred Serpents cling;
Thou art not of the Lybian Lions' Seed,
Of barking Scylla's, nor Charybdis' Breed;
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But a compassionate, benignant Earth.
No! thou, my Fair! deriv'st thy noble Race
From Parents deck'd with every human Grace.
Ye Gods! avert the Woes that haunt my Mind,
And give the cruel Phantoms to the Wind.
And give the cruel Phantoms to the Wind.
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THE FIFTH ELEGY.
[While you at Tuscan Baths for Pleasure stay]
While you at Tuscan Baths for Pleasure stay,
(Too hot when Sirius darts his sultry Ray,
Tho' now that purple Spring adorns the Trees,
Not Baia's more medicinal than these,)
Me harder Fates attend, my Youth decays;
Yet spare, Persephone! my blameless Days:
With secret Wickedness unstung my Soul;
I never mix'd, nor gave the baneful Bowl;
I ne'er the holy Mysteries proclaim'd;
I fir'd no Temple, and no God defam'd;
Age has not snow'd my jetty Locks with White,
Nor bent my Body, nor decay'd my Sight;
(When both the Consuls fell, ah fatal Morn!
Fatal to Roman Freedom! I was born.)
Apples unripe, what Folly 'tis to pull,
Or crush the Cluster ere the Grapes are full!
(Too hot when Sirius darts his sultry Ray,
Tho' now that purple Spring adorns the Trees,
Not Baia's more medicinal than these,)
Me harder Fates attend, my Youth decays;
Yet spare, Persephone! my blameless Days:
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I never mix'd, nor gave the baneful Bowl;
I ne'er the holy Mysteries proclaim'd;
I fir'd no Temple, and no God defam'd;
185
Nor bent my Body, nor decay'd my Sight;
(When both the Consuls fell, ah fatal Morn!
Fatal to Roman Freedom! I was born.)
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Or crush the Cluster ere the Grapes are full!
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Ye gloomy Gods! whom Acheron obeys,
Dispel my Sickness, and prolong my Days!
Ere to the Shades my dreary Steps I take,
Or ferry o'er th'irremeable Lake,
Let me (with Age when wrinkled all my Face)
Tell ancient Stories to my listening Race;
Dispel my Sickness, and prolong my Days!
191
Or ferry o'er th'irremeable Lake,
193
Tell ancient Stories to my listening Race;
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Thrice five long Days and Nights consum'd with Fire,
(O sooth its Rage!) I gradually expire;
While you the Naiad of your Fountain praise,
Or lave, or spend in gentle Sport your Days:
Yet, O my Friends! whate'er the Fates decree,
Joy guide your Steps, and still remember me!
(O sooth its Rage!) I gradually expire;
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Or lave, or spend in gentle Sport your Days:
Yet, O my Friends! whate'er the Fates decree,
Joy guide your Steps, and still remember me!
Mean Time, to deprecate the fierce Disease,
And hasten glad Returns of vigorous Ease,
Milk, mix'd with Wine, O promise to bestow,
And sable Victims, on the Gods below.
And hasten glad Returns of vigorous Ease,
Milk, mix'd with Wine, O promise to bestow,
And sable Victims, on the Gods below.
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THE SIXTH ELEGY.
[Come, Bacchus, come! so may the mystic Vine]
LOVER.Come, Bacchus, come! so may the mystic Vine
And verdant Ivy round thy Temples twine!
My Pains, the Anguish I endure, remove;
Oft hast thou vanquish'd the fierce Pangs of Love.
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In the gay Cordial let me drench my Soul.
Hence, gloomy Care! I give you to the Wind;
The God of Fancy frolicks in my Mind!
My dear Companions! favour my Design,
Let's drown our Senses all, in rosy Wine!
COMPANION.
Those may the Fair with practis'd Guile abuse,
Who, sourly wise, the gay Dispute refuse:
The jolly God can Cheerfulness impart,
Enlarge the Soul, and pour out all the Heart.
LOVER.
But Love the Monsters of the Wood can tame,
The wildest Tygers own the powerful Flame:
He bends the stubborn to his awful Sway,
And melts Insensibility away:
So wide the Reign of Love!
COMPANION.
Wine, Wine, dear Boy!
Can any here in empty Goblets joy?
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That those who praise him, should a Bumper love.
What Terrors arm his Brow? the Goblet drain:
To be too sober, is to be profane!
Her Son, who mock'd his Rites, Agave tore,
And furious scatter'd round the yelling Shore!
Such Fears be far from us, dread God of Wine!
Thy Rites we honour, we are wholly thine!
But let the sober Wretch thy Vengeance prove:
LOVER.
Or her, whom all my Sufferings cannot move!
—What pray'd I rashly for? my madding Prayer,
Ye Winds! disperse, unratified, in Air:
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Serenely rise your Days, serenely roll!
COMPANION.
The Love-sick Struggle past, again be gay:
Come, crown'd with Roses, let's drink down the Day!
LOVER.
Ah me! loud-laughing Mirth how hard to feign!
When doom'd a Victim to Love's dreadful Pain:
How forc'd the drunken Catch, the smiling Jest,
When black Sollicitude annoys the Breast!
COMPANION.
Complaints, away! the blythsome God of Wine
Abhors to hear his genuine Votaries whine.
LOVER.
You, Ariadne! on a Coast unknown,
The perjur'd Theseus wept, and wept alone;
But learn'd Catullus, in immortal Strains,
Has sung his Baseness, and has wept your Pains.
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Thrice happy they, who hear Experience call,
And shun the Precipice where others fall.
When the Fair clasps you to her Breast, beware,
Nor trust her, by her Eyes altho' she swear;
Not tho', to drive Suspicion from your Breast,
Or Love's soft Queen, or Juno she attest;
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LOVER.
Yet Jove connives at amorous Perjuries.
Hence, serious Thoughts! then why do I complain?
The Fair are licenc'd by the Gods to feign.
Yet would the Guardian Powers of gentle Love,
This once indulgent to my Wishes prove,
Each Day we then should laugh, and talk, and toy,
And pass each Night in hymeneal Joy.
O let my Passion six thy faithless Heart!
For still I love thee, faithless as thou art!
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My Wine to temper cooler Streams employ.
What tho' the smiling Board Neæra flies,
And in a Rival's Arms perfidious lies,
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Not I—
COMPANION.
Quick, Servants! bring us stronger Wine.
LOVER.
Now Syrian Odours scent the festal Room,
Let rosy Garlands on our Foreheads bloom.
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THE SEVENTH ELEGY.
[To you my Tongue eternal Fealty swore]
I
To you my Tongue eternal Fealty swore,My Lips the Deed with conscious Rapture own;
A fickle Libertine I rove no more,
You only please, and lovely seem alone.
II
The numerous Beauties that gay Rome can boast,With you compar'd, are Ugliness at best;
On me their Bloom and practis'd Smiles are lost,
Drive then, my Fair! Suspicion from your Breast.
III
Ah no! Suspicion is the Test of Love:I too dread Rivals, I'm suspicious grown;
Your Charms the most insensate Heart must move;
Would you were beauteous in my Eyes alone!
IV
I want not Man to envy my sweet Fate,I little care that others think me blest;
Of happy Conquests let the Coxcomb prate;
Vainglorious Vaunts the silent Wise detest.
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V
Supremely pleas'd with you, my heavenly Fair!In any trackless Desert I could dwell;
From our Recess your Smiles would banish Care,
Your Eyes give Lustre to the Midnight Cell.
VI
For various Converse I should long no more,The blythe, the moral, witty, and severe;
Its various Arts are her's, whom I adore;
She can depress, exalt, instruct, and cheer.
VII
Should mighty Jove send down from Heaven a Maid,With Venus' Cestus zon'd, my Faith to try,
(So, as I Truth declare, me Juno aid!)
For you I'd scorn the Charmer of the Sky.
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VIII
But hold! you're mad to vow, unthinking Fool!Her boundless Sway you're mad to let her know:
Safe from Alarms, she'll treat you as a Tool—
Ah, babbling Tongue! from thee what Mischiefs flow!
IX
Yet let her use me with Neglect, Disdain;In all, subservient to her Will I'll prove;
Whate'er I feel, her Slave I'll still remain,
Who shrinks from Sorrow, cannot be in Love!
X
Imperial Queen of Bliss! with Fetters bound,I'll sit me down before your holy Fane;
You kindly heal the constant Lover's Wound,
Th'inconstant torture with Increase of Pain.
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SULPICIA's POEMS.
POEM THE FIRST.
[Great God of War! Sulpicia, lovely Maid]
Great God of War! Sulpicia, lovely Maid,
To grace your Calends, is in Pomp array'd.
If Beauty warms you, quit th'ethereal Height,
E'en Cytherea will indulge the Sight:
But while you gaze o'er all her matchless Charms,
Beware your Hands should meanly drop your Arms!
When Cupid would the Gods with Love surprize,
He lights his Torches at her radiant Eyes.
A secret Grace her every Act improves,
And pleasing follows wheresoe'er she moves:
If loose her Hair upon her Bosom plays,
Unnumber'd Charms that Negligence betrays:
Or if 'tis plaited with a labour'd Care,
Alike the labour'd Plaits become the Fair.
Whether rich Tyrian Robes her Charms invest,
Or all in snowy White the Nymph is drest,
All, all she graces, still supremely fair,
Still charms Spectators with a fond Despair.
A thousand Dresses thus Vertumnus wears,
And beauteous equally in each appears.
To grace your Calends, is in Pomp array'd.
If Beauty warms you, quit th'ethereal Height,
E'en Cytherea will indulge the Sight:
But while you gaze o'er all her matchless Charms,
Beware your Hands should meanly drop your Arms!
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He lights his Torches at her radiant Eyes.
237
And pleasing follows wheresoe'er she moves:
If loose her Hair upon her Bosom plays,
Unnumber'd Charms that Negligence betrays:
Or if 'tis plaited with a labour'd Care,
Alike the labour'd Plaits become the Fair.
Whether rich Tyrian Robes her Charms invest,
Or all in snowy White the Nymph is drest,
All, all she graces, still supremely fair,
Still charms Spectators with a fond Despair.
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And beauteous equally in each appears.
The richest Tints and deepest Tyrian Hue,
To thee, O wonderous Maid! are solely due:
To thee th'Arabian Husbandman should bring
The spicy Produce of his eastern Spring:
Whatever Gems the swarthy Indians boast,
Their shelly Treasures, and their golden Coast,
Alone thou merit'st! Come, ye tuneful Choir!
And come, bright Phœbus! with thy plausive Lyre!
This solemn Festival harmonious praise,
No Theme so much deserves harmonious Lays.
To thee, O wonderous Maid! are solely due:
To thee th'Arabian Husbandman should bring
The spicy Produce of his eastern Spring:
Whatever Gems the swarthy Indians boast,
Their shelly Treasures, and their golden Coast,
Alone thou merit'st! Come, ye tuneful Choir!
And come, bright Phœbus! with thy plausive Lyre!
This solemn Festival harmonious praise,
No Theme so much deserves harmonious Lays.
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THE SECOND POEM.
[Whether, fierce churning Boars! in Meads ye stray]
Whether, fierce churning Boars! in Meads ye stray,Or haunt the shady Mountain's devious Way;
Whet not your Tusks, my lov'd Cerinthus spare!
Know, Cupid! I consign him to your Care.
What Madness 'tis, shagg'd tractless Wilds to beat,
And wound, with pointed Thorns, your tender Feet:
O! why to savage Beasts your Charms oppose?
With Toils and Blood-hounds why their Haunts inclose?
The Lust of Game decoys you far away;
Ye Blood-hounds perish, and ye Toils decay!
Yet, yet could I with lov'd Cerinthus rove
Thro' dreary Desarts, and the thorny Grove:
The cumbrous Meshes on my Shoulders bear,
And face the Monsters with my barbed Spear:
Could track the bounding Stags thro' tainted Grounds,
Beat up their Cover, and unchain the Hounds:
Thro' dreary Desarts, and the thorny Grove:
The cumbrous Meshes on my Shoulders bear,
And face the Monsters with my barbed Spear:
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Beat up their Cover, and unchain the Hounds:
But most to spread our artful Toils I'd joy,
For while we watch'd them, I could clasp the Boy!
Then, as entranc'd in amorous Bliss we lay,
Mix'd Soul with Soul, and melted all away!
Snar'd in our Nets, the Boar might safe retire,
And owe his Safety to our mutual Fire.
For while we watch'd them, I could clasp the Boy!
Then, as entranc'd in amorous Bliss we lay,
Mix'd Soul with Soul, and melted all away!
Snar'd in our Nets, the Boar might safe retire,
And owe his Safety to our mutual Fire.
O! without me ne'er taste the Joys of Love,
But a chaste Hunter in my Absence prove.
And O! may Boars the wanton Fair destroy,
Who would Cerinthus to their Arms decoy!
Yet, yet I dread!—Be Sports your Father's Care;
But you, all Passion! to my Arms repair!
But a chaste Hunter in my Absence prove.
And O! may Boars the wanton Fair destroy,
Who would Cerinthus to their Arms decoy!
Yet, yet I dread!—Be Sports your Father's Care;
But you, all Passion! to my Arms repair!
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THE THIRD POEM.
[Come, Phœbus! with your loosely floating Hair]
Come, Phœbus! with your loosely floating Hair,
O sooth her Torture, and restore the Fair!
Come, quickly come! we supplicant implore,
Such Charms your happy Skill ne'er sav'd before!
Let not her Frame, consumptive pine away,
Her Eyes grow languid, and her Bloom decay;
Propitious come! and with you bring along
Each pain-subduing Herb, and soothing Song;
Or real Ills, or whate'er Ills we fear,
To Ocean's farthest Verge let Torrents bear.
O! rack no more, with harsh, unkind Delays,
The Youth, who ceaseless for her Safety prays;
'Twixt Love and Rage his tortur'd Soul is torn;
And now he prays, now treats the Gods with Scorn.
O sooth her Torture, and restore the Fair!
Come, quickly come! we supplicant implore,
Such Charms your happy Skill ne'er sav'd before!
Let not her Frame, consumptive pine away,
Her Eyes grow languid, and her Bloom decay;
Propitious come! and with you bring along
Each pain-subduing Herb, and soothing Song;
Or real Ills, or whate'er Ills we fear,
To Ocean's farthest Verge let Torrents bear.
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The Youth, who ceaseless for her Safety prays;
'Twixt Love and Rage his tortur'd Soul is torn;
And now he prays, now treats the Gods with Scorn.
Take Heart, fond Youth! you have not vainly pray'd,
Still persevere to love th'inchanting Maid:
Sulpicia is your own! for you she sighs,
And slights all other Conquests of her Eyes:
Dry then your Tears; your Tears would fitly flow
Did she on others her Esteem bestow.
Still persevere to love th'inchanting Maid:
Sulpicia is your own! for you she sighs,
And slights all other Conquests of her Eyes:
Dry then your Tears; your Tears would fitly flow
Did she on others her Esteem bestow.
O come! what Honour will be yours, to save
At once two Lovers from the doleful Grave?
Then both will emulous exalt your Skill;
With grateful Tablets, both your Temples fill;
Both heap with spicy Gums your sacred Fire;
Both sing your Praises to th'harmonious Lyre:
Your Brother-Gods will prize your healing Powers,
Lament their Attributes, and envy yours.
At once two Lovers from the doleful Grave?
Then both will emulous exalt your Skill;
With grateful Tablets, both your Temples fill;
Both heap with spicy Gums your sacred Fire;
Both sing your Praises to th'harmonious Lyre:
Your Brother-Gods will prize your healing Powers,
Lament their Attributes, and envy yours.
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THE FOURTH POEM.
[On my Account, to Grief a ceaseless Prey]
On my Account, to Grief a ceaseless Prey,Dost thou a sympathetic Anguish prove?
I would not wish to live another Day,
If my Recovery did not charm my Love:
For what were Life, and Health, and Bloom to me,
Were they displeasing, beauteous Youth! to thee.
THE FIFTH POEM.
[With Feasts I'll ever grace the sacred Morn]
With Feasts I'll ever grace the sacred Morn,
When my Cerinthus, lovely Youth! was born.
At Birth, to you th'unerring Sisters sung
Unbounded Empire o'er the Gay and Young:
But I, chief I! (if you my Love repay,)
With Rapture own your ever-pleasing Sway.
This I conjure you, by your charming Eyes,
Where Love's soft God in wanton Ambush lies!
This by your Genius, and the Joys we stole,
Whose sweet Remembrance still enchants my Soul!
When my Cerinthus, lovely Youth! was born.
At Birth, to you th'unerring Sisters sung
Unbounded Empire o'er the Gay and Young:
But I, chief I! (if you my Love repay,)
With Rapture own your ever-pleasing Sway.
This I conjure you, by your charming Eyes,
Where Love's soft God in wanton Ambush lies!
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Whose sweet Remembrance still enchants my Soul!
Great natal Genius! grant my Heart's Desire,
So shall I heap with costly Gums your Fire!
Whenever Fancy paints me to the Boy,
Let his Breast pant with an impatient Joy:
But if the Libertine for others sigh
(Which Love forbid!) O Love! your Aid deny.
Nor, Love! be partial, let us both confess
The pleasing Pain, or make my Passion less.
But O! much rather 'tis my Soul's Desire,
That both may feel an equal, endless Fire.
So shall I heap with costly Gums your Fire!
Whenever Fancy paints me to the Boy,
Let his Breast pant with an impatient Joy:
But if the Libertine for others sigh
(Which Love forbid!) O Love! your Aid deny.
Nor, Love! be partial, let us both confess
The pleasing Pain, or make my Passion less.
But O! much rather 'tis my Soul's Desire,
That both may feel an equal, endless Fire.
In secret my Cerinthus begs the same,
But the Youth blushes to confess his Flame:
Assent, thou God! to whom his Heart is known,
Whether he public ask, or secret own.
But the Youth blushes to confess his Flame:
Assent, thou God! to whom his Heart is known,
Whether he public ask, or secret own.
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THE SIXTH POEM.
[Accept, O natal Queen! with placent Air]
Accept, O natal Queen! with placent Air,The Incense offer'd by the learned Fair.
She's rob'd in cheerful Pomp, O Power divine!
She's rob'd to decorate your Matron-shrine;
Such her Pretence; but well her Lover knows
Whence her gay Look, and whence her Finery flows.
Thou, who dost o'er the nuptial Bed preside,
O! let not envious Night their Joys divide,
But make the Bridegroom amorous as the Bride!
So shall they tally, matchless lovely Pair!
A Youth all Transport, and a melting Fair!
Then let no Spies their secret Haunts explore;
Teach them thy Wiles, O Love! and guard the Door.
O! let not envious Night their Joys divide,
But make the Bridegroom amorous as the Bride!
So shall they tally, matchless lovely Pair!
A Youth all Transport, and a melting Fair!
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Teach them thy Wiles, O Love! and guard the Door.
Assent, chaste Queen! in purple Pomp appear;
Thrice Wine is pour'd, and Cakes await you, here.
Her Mother tells her for what Boon to pray;
Her Heart denies it, tho' her Lips obey.
She burns, that Altar as the Flames devour;
She burns, and slights the Safety in her Power.
So may the Boy, whose Chains you proudly wear,
Thro' Youth the soft indulgent Anguish bear;
And when old Age has chill'd his every Vein,
The dear Remembrance may he still retain!
Thrice Wine is pour'd, and Cakes await you, here.
Her Mother tells her for what Boon to pray;
Her Heart denies it, tho' her Lips obey.
She burns, that Altar as the Flames devour;
She burns, and slights the Safety in her Power.
So may the Boy, whose Chains you proudly wear,
Thro' Youth the soft indulgent Anguish bear;
And when old Age has chill'd his every Vein,
The dear Remembrance may he still retain!
257
THE SEVENTH POEM.
[At last the natal odious Morn draws nigh]
I
At last the natal odious Morn draws nigh,When to your cold, cold Villa I must go;
There, far, too far from my Cerinthus Sigh:
Oh why, Messala! will you plague me so?
II
Let studious Mortals prize the sylvan Scene;And ancient Maidens hide them in the Shade;
Green Trees perpetually give me the Spleen;
For Crowds, for Joy, for Rome, Sulpicia's made!
III
Your too officious Kindness gives me Pain.How fall the Hail-stones! hark! how howls the Wind!
Then know, to grace your Birth-day should I deign,
My Soul, my All, I leave at Rome behind.
259
THE EIGHTH POEM.
[At last the Fair's determin'd not to go]
At last the Fair's determin'd not to go:My Lord! you know the Whimsies of the Sex.
Then let us gay carouze, let Odours flow;
Your Mind no longer with her Absence vex:
For oh! consider, Time incessant flies;
But every Day's a Birth-day to the Wise!
THE NINTH POEM.
[That I, descended of Patrician Race]
That I, descended of Patrician Race,With Charms of Fortune, and with Charms of Face,
Am so indifferent grown to you of late,
So little car'd for, now excites no Hate.
Rare Taste, and worthy of a Poet's Brain,
To prey on Garbage, and a Slave adore!
In such to find out Charms, a Bard must feign
Beyond what Fiction ever feign'd of Yore.
261
No! no! she honours your transcendent Taste.
THE TENTH POEM.
[If from the Bottom of my love-sick Heart]
If from the Bottom of my love-sick Heart,Of last Night's Coyness I do not repent,
May I no more your tender Anguish hear,
No longer see you shed th'impassion'd Tear.
You grasp'd my Knees, and yet to let you part—
O Night more happy with Cerinthus spent!
My Flame with Coyness to conceal I thought,
But this Concealment was too dearly bought.
263
THE ELEVENTH POEM.
[Fame says, my Mistress loves another Swain]
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 sawcy Tongue!
THE TWELFTH POEM.
[Let other Maids, whose Eyes less prosperous prove]
Let other Maids, whose Eyes less prosperous prove,Publish my Weakness, and condemn my Love.
Exult, my Heart! at last the Queen of Joy,
Won by the Music of her Votary's Strain,
Leads to the Couch of Bliss herself the Boy;
And bids Enjoyment thrill in every Vein:
Last Night entranc'd in Extacy we lay,
And chid the quick, too quick Return of Day!
But stop, my Hand! beware what loose you scrawl,
Lest into curious Hands the Billet fall.
No—the Remembrance charms!—begone, Grimace!
Matrons! be yours Formality of Face.
Know, with a Youth of Worth, the Night I spent,
And cannot, cannot, for my Soul repent!
THE END.
| A Poetical Translation of the elegies of Tibullus | |