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Mine is the chief. This whole year have I lain Wounded to death, yet cheris.h.i.+ng the pain, And counting my delicious anguish gain.
Of Nemesis my song must tell!
Without her name I make no verses well, My metres limp and all fine words are vain!
Therefore, my darling, since the powers on high Protect the poets,--O! a little while On Apollo's servant smile!
So let me sing in words divine An ode of triumph for young Messaline.
Before his chariot he shall bear Towns and towers for trophies proud, And on his brow the laurel-garland wear; While, with woodland laurel crowned.
His legions follow him acclaiming loud, "Io triumphe," with far-echoing sound.
Let my Messala of the festive crowd Receive applause, and joyfully behold His son's victorious chariot pa.s.sing by!
Smile, Phoebus there! Thy flowing locks all gold!
Thy virgin sister, too, stoop with thee from the sky!
ELEGY THE SIXTH
LET LOVERS ALL ENLIST
Now for a soldier Macer goes. Will Cupid take the field?
Will Love himself enlist, and bear on his soft breast a s.h.i.+eld?
Through weary marches over land, through wandering waves at sea, Armed _cap-a-pie_, will that small G.o.d the hero's comrade be?
O burn him, boy, I pray, that could thy blessed favors slight!
Back to the ranks the straggler bring beneath thy standard bright!
Yet, if to soldiers thou art kind, I too will volunteer, I too will from a helmet drink, nor thirst in desert's fear.
Venus, good-bye! Now, off I go! Good-bye, sweet ladies all!
I am all valor, and delight to hear the trumpets call.
Large is my brag! But while with pride my project I recite, I see her bolted door,--and then my boasting fails me quite.
Never to visit her again, with many an oath I swore; But while I vowed, my feet had run unguided to her door.
Come now, ye lovers all! who serve in Cupid's hard campaign, Let us together to the wars, and thus our peace regain!
This age of iron frowns on love and smiles on golden gain,-- On spoils of war which must be won by agony and pain.
For spoils alone our swords are keen, and deadly spears are hurled While carnage, wrath, and swifter death fly broadcast through the world.
For spoils, with double risk of death the threatening seas we sail, And climb the steel-beaked s.h.i.+p-of-war, so mighty and so frail!
The spoilers proud to boundless lands their b.l.o.o.d.y t.i.tles read, And see innumerable flocks o'er endless acres feed
Fine foreign marbles they will bring; and all the city stare, While one tall column for a house a thousand oxen bear.
They bind with bars the tameless sea; behind a rampart proud Their little fishes swim in calm, when wintry storms are loud.
Ah! Love! Will not a Samian bowl hold all our mirth and wine?
And pottery of poor c.u.man clay, with love, seem fair and fine?
Nay! Woe is me! Naught now but gold can please our ladies gay; And so, since Venus asks for wealth, the spoils of war must pay.
My Nemesis shall roll in wealth; and promenade the town, All glittering, with my golden gifts upon her gorgeous gown.
Her filmy web of Coan weave with golden broidery gleams; Her swarthy slaves the Indian sun touched with its burning beams.
In rival hues to make her fair all conquered regions vie, Afric its azure must bestow, and Tyre its purple dye.
O look--I tell what all men know--on that most favored lover!
Once in the market-place he sat, with both his soles chalked over.
BOOK III
ELEGY THE FIRST
THE NEW-YEAR'S GIFT
Now the month of Mars beginning brings the merry season near, By our fathers named and numbered as the threshold of the year.
Faithfully their custom keeping, through the wide streets to and fro, Offered at each friendly dwelling, seasonable gifts must go.
O what gifts, Pierian Muses, may acceptably be poured On my own adored Neaera?--or, if not my own, adored!
Song is love's best gift to beauty; gold but tempts the venal soul; Therefore, 'tis a song I send her on this amateurish scroll.
Wind a page of saffron parchment round the white papyrus there, Polish well with careful pumice every silvery margin fair:
On the dainty little cover, for a t.i.tle to the same Let her bright eyes read the blazon of a love-sick poet's name.
Let the pair of horn-tipped handles be embossed with colors gay, For my book must make a toilet, must put on its best array.
By Castalia's whispering shadow, by Pieria's vocal spring, By yourselves, O listening Muses, who did prompt the song I sing,-- Fly, I pray you, to her chamber, and my pretty booklet bear, All unmarred and perfect give it, every color fresh and fair: Let her send you back, confessing, if our hearts together burn; Or, if she but loves me little, or will nevermore return.
Utter first, for she deserves it, many a golden wish and vow; Then deliver this true message, humbly, as I speak it now.
'Tis a gift, O chaste Neaera, from thy husband yet to be.
Take the trifle, though a "brother" now is all he seems to thee.
