The Elegies of Tibullus Part 7

Deem it no shame that hewn of ancient oak Your simple emblems in my dwelling stand!

For so the pious generations gone Revered your powers, and with offerings rude To rough-hewn G.o.ds in narrow-built abodes, Lived beautiful and honorable lives.

Did they not bring to crown your hallowed brows Garlands of ripest corn, or pour new wine In pure libation on the thirsty ground?

Oft on some votive day the father brought The consecrated loaf, and close behind His little daughter in her virgin palm Bore honey bright as gold. O powers benign!

To ye once more a faithful servant prays For safety! Let the deadly brazen spear Pa.s.s harmless o'er my head! and I will slay For sacrifice, with many a thankful song, A swine and all her brood, while I, the priest, Bearing the votive basket myrtle-bound, Walk clothed in white, with myrtle in my hair.

Grant me but this! and he who can may prove Mighty in arms and by the grace of Mars Lay chieftains low; and let him tell the tale To me who drink his health, while on the board His wine-dipped finger draws, line after line, Just how his trenches ranged! What madness dire Bids men go foraging for death in war?

Our death is always near, and hour by hour, With soundless step a little nearer draws.

What harvest down below, or vineyard green?

There Cerberus howls, and o'er the Stygian flood The dark s.h.i.+p goes; while on the clouded sh.o.r.e With hollow cheek and tresses l.u.s.treless, Wanders the ghostly throng. O happier far Some white-haired sire, among his children dear, Beneath a lowly thatch! His st.u.r.dy son Shepherds the young rams; he, his gentle ewes; And oft at eve, his willing labor done, His careful wife his weary limbs will bathe From a full, steaming bowl. Such lot be mine!

So let this head grow gray, while I shall tell, Repeating oft, the deeds of long ago!

Then may long Peace my country's harvests bless!

Till then, let Peace on all our fields abide!

Bright-vestured Peace, who first beneath their yoke Led oxen in the plough, who first the vine Did nourish tenderly, and chose good grapes, That rare old wine may pa.s.s from sire to son!

Peace! who doth keep the plow and harrow bright, While rust on some forgotten shelf devours The cruel soldier's useless sword and s.h.i.+eld.

From peaceful holiday with mirth and wine The rustic, not half sober, driveth home With wife and weans upon the lumbering wain.

But wars by Venus kindled ne'er have done; The vanquished la.s.s, with tresses rudely torn, Of doors broke down, and smitten cheek complains; And he, her victor-lover, weeps to see How strong were his wild hands. But mocking Love Teaches more angry words, and while they rave, Sits with a smile between! O heart of stone!

O iron heart! that could thy sweetheart strike!

Ye G.o.ds avenge her! Is it not enough To tear her soft robe from her limbs away, And loose her knotted hair?--Enough, indeed, To move her tears! Thrice happy is the wight Whose frown some lovely mistress weeps to see!

But he who gives her blows!--Go, let him bear A sword and spear! In exile let him be From Venus' mild domain! Come blessed Peace!

Come, holding forth thy blade of ripened corn!

Fill thy large lap with mellow fruits and fair!

BOOK II

ELEGY THE FIRST

A RUSTIC HOLIDAY

Give us good omen, friends! To-day we bless With hallowed rites this dear, ancestral seat.

Let Bacchus his twin horns with cl.u.s.ters dress, And Ceres clasp her brows with bursting wheat!

To-day no furrows! Both for field and man Be sacred rest from delving toil and care!

With necks yoke-free, at mangers full of bran, The tranquil steers shall nought but garlands bear.

Our tasks to-day are heaven's. No maid shall dare Upon a distaff her deft hands employ.

Let none, too rash, our simple wors.h.i.+p share, Who wrought last eve at Venus' fleeting joy!

The G.o.ds claim chast.i.ty. Come clad in white, And lave your palms at some clear fountain's brim!

Then watch the mild lamb at the altar bright, Yon olive-cinctured choir close-following him!

"Ye Guardian Powers, who bless our native soil, Far from these acres keep ill luck away!

No withered ears the reaper's task to spoil!

Nor swift wolf on our laggard lambs to prey!"

So shall the master of this happy house Pile the huge logs upon his blazing floor; While with kind mirth and neighborly carouse, His bondsmen build their huts beside his door.

The bliss I pray for has been granted me!

With reverent art observing things divine, I have explored the omens,--and I see The Guardian Powers are good to me and mine.

Bring old Falernian from the shadows gray, And burst my Chian seal! He is disgraced, Who gets home sober from this festive day, Or finds his door without a step retraced.

Health to Messala now from all our band!

Drink to each letter of his n.o.ble name!

Messala! laurelled from the Gallic land, Of his grim-bearded sires the last, best fame!

Be with me, thou! inspire a song for me To sing those G.o.ds of woodland, hill and glade, Without whose arts man's hunger still would be Only on mast and gathered acorns stayed.

They taught us rough-hewn rafters to prepare, And clothe low cabins with a roof of green; They bade fierce bulls the servile yoke to bear; And wheels to move a wain were theirs, I ween.

Our wild fruit was forgot, when apple-boughs Bore grafts, and thirsty orchards (art divine!) Were freshed by ditching; while with sweet carouse The wine-press flowed, and water wed with wine.

Our fields bore harvests, when the dog-star flame Bade Summer of her tawny tress be shorn; From fields of Spring the bees, with busy game, Stored well their frugal combs the live-long morn.

'Twas some field-tiller from his plough at rest, First hummed his homely words to numbers true, Or trilled his pipe of straw in songs addressed To his blithe woodland G.o.ds, with wors.h.i.+p due.

Some rustic ruddied with vermilion clay First led, O Bacchus, thy swift choric throng, And won for record of thy festal day Some fold's chief goat, fit meed of frolic song!

It was our rustic boys whose virgin band New coronals of Spring's sweet flowrets made For offering to the G.o.ds who bless our land, Which on the Lares' hallowed heads were laid.

Our country-la.s.ses find a pleasing care In soft, warm wool their snowy flocks have bred; The distaff, skein and spindle they prepare, And reel, with firm-set thumb, the faultless thread.

Then following Minerva's heavenly art, They weave with patient toil some fabric proud; While at her loom the la.s.s with cheerful heart Sings songs the sounding shuttle answers loud.

Cupid himself with flocks and herds did pa.s.s His boyhood, and on sheep and horses drew His erring infant bow; but now, alas!

He is an archer far too swift and true.

Not now dull beasts, but luckless maids engage His enmity; brave men are brave no more; Youth's strength he wastes, and drives fond, foolish age To blush and sigh at scornful beauty's door.

Love-lured, the virgin, guarded and discreet, Slips by the night-watch at her lover's call, Feels the dark path-way with her trembling feet, And gropes with out-spread hands along the wall.

Oh! wretched are the wights this G.o.d would harm!

But blest as G.o.ds whom Love with smiles will sway!

Come, boy divine! and these dear revels charm-- But fling thy burning brands, far, far away!

Sing to this G.o.d, sweet shepherds! Ask aloud Your flocks' good health; then each, discreetly mute, His love's!--Nay, scream her name! Yon madcap crowd Screams louder, to its wry-necked Phrygian flute.