The Elegies of Tibullus - LightNovelsOnl.com
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He will swear he loves thee dearer than the blood in all his veins; Whether husband, or if only that cold "sister" name remains.
Ah! but "wife" he calls it: nothing takes this sweet hope from his soul!
Till a hapless ghost he wanders where the Stygian waters roll.
ELEGY THE SECOND
HE DIED FOR LOVE
Whoe'er from darling bride her husband dear First forced to part, had but a heart of stone; And not less hard the man who could appear To bear such loss and live unloved, alone.
I am but weak in this; such fort.i.tude My soul has not; grief breaks my spirit quite.
I shame not to declare it is my mood To sicken of a life such sorrows smite.
When I shall journey to the shadowy land, And over my white bones black ashes be, Beside my pyre let fair Neaera stand, With long, loose locks unbound, lamenting me.
Let her dear mother's grief with hers have share, One mourn a husband, one a son bewail!
Then call upon my ghost with holy prayer, And pour ablution o'er their fingers pale.
The white bones, which my body's wreck outlast, Girdled in flowing black they will upbear, Sprinkle with rare, old wine, and gently cast In bath of snowy milk, with pious care.
These will they swathe with linen mantles o'er, And lay unmouldering in their marble bed; Then gift of Arab or Panchaian sh.o.r.e, a.s.syrian balm and Orient incense shed.
And may they o'er my tomb the gift disburse Of faithful tears, remembering him below; For those cold ashes I have made this verse, That all my doleful way of death may know.
My oft-frequented grave the words shall bear, And all who pa.s.s will read with pitying eyes:-- "_Here Lygdamus, consumed with grief and care "For his lost bride Neaera, hapless lies_."
ELEGY THE THIRD
RICHES ARE USELESS
'Tis vain to plague the skies with eager prayer, And offer incense with thy votive song, If only thou dost ask for marbles fair, To deck thy palace for the gazing throng.
Not wider fields my oxen to employ, Nor flowing harvests and abundant land, I ask of heaven; but for a long life's joy With thee, and in old age to clasp thy hand.
If when my season of sweet light is o'er, I, carrying nothing, unto Charon yield, What profits me a ponderous golden store, Or that a thousand yoke must plough my field?
What if proud Phrygian columns fill my halls, Taenarian, Carystian, and the rest, Or branching groves adorn my s.p.a.cious walls, Or golden roof, or floor with marbles dressed?
What pleasure in rare Erythraean dyes, Or purple pride of Sidon and of Tyre, Or all that can solicit envious eyes, And which the mob of fools so well admire?
Wealth has no power to lift life's load of care, Or free man's lot from Fortune's fatal chain; With thee, Neaera, poverty looks fair, And lacking thee, a kingdom were in vain.
O golden day that shall at last restore My lost love to my arms! O blest indeed, And worthy to be hallowed evermore!
May some kind G.o.d my long pet.i.tion heed!
No! not dominion, nor Pactolian stream, Nor all the riches the wide world can give!
These other men may ask. My fondest dream Is, poor but free, with my true wife to live.
Saturnian Juno, to all nuptials kind, Receive with grace my ever-anxious vow!
Come, Venus, wafted by the Cyprian wind, And from thy car of sh.e.l.l smile on me now!
But if the mournful sisters, by whose hands Our threads of life are spun, refuse me all-- May Pluto bid me to his dreary lands, Where those wide rivers through the darkness fall!
ELEGY THE FOURTH
A DREAM FROM PHOEBUS
Be kinder, G.o.ds! Let not the dreams come true Which last night's cruel slumber bade believe!
Begone! your vain, delusive spells undo, Nor ask me to receive!
The G.o.ds tell truth. With truth the Tuscan seer In entrails dark a book of fate may find; But dreams are folly and with fruitless fear Address the trembling mind.
Although mankind, against night's dark surprise With sprinkled meal or salt ward off the ill, And often turn deaf ear to prophets wise, While dreams deceive them still;--
May bright Lucina my foreboding mind From such vain terrors of the night redeem, For in my soul no deed of guilt I find, Nor do my lips blaspheme.
Now had the Night upon her ebon wain Pa.s.sed o'er the upper sky, and dipped a wheel In the blue sea: but Sleep, the friend of pain, Refused my sense to seal.
Sleep stands defeated at the house of care: And only when from purpled orient skies Peered Phoebus forth, did tardy slumber bear Down on my weary eyes.
Then seemed a youth with holy laurel crowned To fill my door: a wight so wondrous rare Was not in all the vanished ages found.
No marble half so fair!
Adown his neck, with myrtle-buds inwove And Syrian dews, his unshorn tresses flow: White is he as the moon in heaven above, But rose is blent with snow.
Like that soft blush on face of virgin fair Led to her husband; or as maidens twine Lilies in amaranth; or Autumn's air Tinges the apples fine.
A long, loose mantle to his ankles played,-- Such vesture did his lucent shape enfold: His left hand bore the vocal lyre, all made Of gleaming sh.e.l.l and gold.
He smote its strings with ivory instrument, And words auspicious tuned his heavenly tongue; Then, while his hands and voice concording blent, These sad, sweet words he sung:
"Hail, blest of Heaven! For a poet divine Phoebus and Bacchus and the Muses bless.
But Bacchus and the skilful Sisters nine No prophecies possess.
"But of what Fate ordains for times to be Jove gave me vision. Therefore, minstrel dear!
Receive what my unerring lips decree!
The Cynthian wisdom hear!
