The Elegies of Tibullus Part 4

I shall take care she does not nod or smile To any other, nor her hand imbue With his fast-flowing wine, that her swift guile May scribble on the board their rendez-vous.

When she goes out, beware! And if she hie To Bona Dea, where no males may be, Straight to the sacred altars follow I, Who only trust her if my eyes can see.

Oh! oft I pressed that soft hand I adore, Feigning with some rare ring or seal to play, And plied thee with strong wine till thou didst snore, While I, with wine and water, won the day.

I wronged thee, aye! But 'twas not what I meant.

Forgive, for I confess. 'Twas Cupid's spell O'er-swayed me. Who can foil a G.o.d's intent?

Now have I courage all my deeds to tell.

Yes, it was I, unblus.h.i.+ng I declare.

At whom thy watch-dog all night long did bay:-- But some-one else now stands insistent there, Or peers about him and then walks away.

He seems to pa.s.s. But soon will backward fare Alone, and, coughing, at the threshold hide.

What skill hath stolen love! Beware, beware!

Thy boat is drifting on a treacherous tide.

What worth a lovely wife, if others buy Thy treasure, if thy stoutest bolt betrays, If in thy very arms she breathes a sigh For absent joy, and feigns a slight _malaise?_

Give her in charge to me! I will not spare A master's whip. Her chain shall constant be.

While thou mayst go abroad and have no care Who trims his curls, or flaunts his toga free.

Whatever beaux accost her, all is well!

Not the least hint of scandal shall be made.

For I will send them far away, to tell In some quite distant street their amorous trade.

All this a G.o.d decrees; a sibyl wise In prophet-song did this to me proclaim; Who when Bellona kindles in her eyes, Fears neither twisted scourge nor scorching flame.

Then with a battle-axe herself will scar Her own wild arms, and sprinkle on the ground Blood, for Bellona's emblems of wild war, Swift-flowing from the bosom's gaping wound.

A barb of iron rankles in her breast, As thus she chants the G.o.d's command to all: "Oh, spare a beauty by true love possessed, Lest some vast after-woe upon thee fall!

"For shouldst thou win her, all thy power will fail, As from this wound flows forth the fatal gore, Or as these ashes cast upon the gale, Are scattered far and kindled never more."

And, O my Delia, the fierce prophetess Told dreadful things that on thy head should fall:-- I know not what they were--but none the less I pray my darling may escape them all.

Not for thyself do I forgive thee, no!

'Tis thy sweet mother all my wrath disarms,-- That precious creature, who would come and go, And lead thee through the darkness to my arms.

Though great the peril, oft the silent dame Would join our hands together, and all night Wait watching on the threshold till I came, Nor ever failed to know my steps aright.

Long be thy life! dear, kind and faithful heart!

Would it were possible my life's whole year Were at the friendly hearth-stone where thou art!

'Tis for thy sake I hold thy daughter dear.

Be what she will, she is not less thy child.

Oh, teach her to be chaste! Though well she knows No free-born fillet binds her tresses wild Nor Roman stole around her ankles flows!

My lot is servile too. Whate'er I see Of beauty brings her to my fevered eye.

If I should be accused of crime, or be Dragged up the steep street, by the hair, to die:--

Even then there were no fear that I should lay Rude hands on thee my sweet! for if o'erswayed By such blind frenzy in an evil day, I should bewail the hour my hands were made.

Yet would I have thee chaste and constant be, Not with a fearful but a faithful heart; And that in thy fond breast the love of me Burn but more fondly when we live apart.

She who was never faithful to a friend Will come to age and misery, and wind With tremulous ringer from her distaff's end The ever-twisting wool; and she will bind

Upon her moving looms the finished thread, Or clean and pick the long skeins white as snow.

And all her fickle gallants when they wed, Will say, "That old one well deserves her woe."

Venus from heaven will note her flowing tear: "I smile not on the faithless," she will say.

Her curse on others fall! O, Delia dear!

Let us teach true love to grow old and gray!

ELEGY THE EIGHTH

MESSALA

The Fatal Sisters did this day ordain, Reeling threads no G.o.d can rend, Foretelling to this man should bend The tribes of Acquitaine; And 'neath his legions' yoke Th' impetuous torrent Atur glide subdued.

All was accomplished as the Fates bespoke; His triumph then ensued: The Roman youth, exulting from afar, Acclaimed his mighty deeds, And watched the fettered chieftains filing by, While, drawn by snow-white steeds, Messala followed on his ivory car, Laurelled and lifted high!

Not without me this glory and renown!

Let Pyrenees my boast attest!

Tarbella, little mountain-town, Cold Ocean rolling in the utmost West, Arar, Garonne, and rus.h.i.+ng Rhone, Will bear me witness due; And valleys broad the blond Carnutes own, By Liger darkly blue.

I saw the Cydnus flow, Winding on in ever-tranquil mood, And from his awful peak, in cloud and snow, Cold Taurus o'er his wild Cilicians' brood.

I saw through thronged streets unmolested flying Th' inviolate white dove of Palestine; I looked on Tyrian towers, by soundless waters lying, Whence Tyrians first were masters of the brine.

The flooding Nile I knew; What time hot Sirius glows, And Egypt's thirsty field the covering deluge knows; But whence the wonder flows, O Father Nile! no mortal e'er did view.

Along thy bank not any prayer is made To Jove for fruitful showers.

On thee they call! Or in sepulchral shade, The life-reviving, sky-descended powers Of bright _Osiris_ hail,-- While, wildly chanting, the barbaric choir, With timbrels and strange fire, Their Memphian bull bewail.

Osiris did the plough bestow, And first with iron urged the yielding ground.

He taught mankind good seed to throw In furrows all untried; He plucked fair fruits the nameless trees did hide: He first the young vine to its trellis bound, And with his sounding sickle keen Sh.o.r.e off the tendrils green.

For him the bursting cl.u.s.ters sweet Were in the wine-press trod; Song followed soon, a prompting of the G.o.d, And rhythmic dance of lightly leaping feet.

Of Bacchus the o'er-wearied swain receives Deliverance from all his pains; Bacchus gives comfort when a mortal grieves, And mirth to men in chains.

Not to Osiris toils and tears belong, But revels and delightful song; Lightly beckoning loves are thine!

Garlands deck thee, G.o.d of wine!

We hear thee coming, with the flute's refrain, With fruit of ivy on thy forehead bound, Thy saffron vesture streaming to the ground.

And thou hast garments, too, of Tyrian stain, When thine ecstatic train Bear forth thy magic ark to mysteries divine.

Immortal guest, our games and pageant share!

Smile on the flowing cup, and hail With us the _Genius_ of this natal day!

From whose anointed, rose-entwisted hair, Arabian odors waft away.

If thou the festal bless, I will not fail To burn sweet incense unto him and thee, And offerings of Arcadian honey bear.

So grant Messala fortunes ever fair!