The Elegies of Tibullus Part 9

Would I were flint, to front the tempest's power, Wave-buffeted on some wild, wreckful sh.o.r.e!

My sad days bring worse nights, and every hour Fills me some cup of gall and brims it o'er.

What use are songs? Her greedy hands disdain Apollo's gift. She says some gold is due.

Farewell, ye Muses, I have sung in vain!

Only in quest of _her_ I followed _you_.

I sing no wars; nor how the moon and sun In heavenly paths their circling chariots steer.

To win my lady's smiles my numbers run; Farewell, ye Muses, if ye fail me here!

Let deeds of b.l.o.o.d.y crime now make me bold!

No longer at her bolted door I whine; But I will find that necessary gold, Though I steal treasure from some holy shrine.

Venus I first will violate; for she Compelled my crime, and did my heart enthrall To beauty that requires a golden fee.

Yes, Venus' shrine shall suffer worst of all.

Curse on that man who finds the emerald green, And Tyrian purples for our flattered girls!

He makes them greedy. Now they must be seen In Coan robe and gleaming Red Sea pearls.

It spoils them all. Now bolts and barriers hold Their doors, and watch-dogs threaten through the dark; But let the lover overflow with gold,-- All bolts fly back and not a dog will bark.

What G.o.d did beauty unto gold degrade, And mix one bliss with many a woe and shame?

Tears, quarrels, curses were the gifts he made; And Love bears now a very evil name.

False girl, who dost for riches thrust aside Love's honest vow, may winds and flames conspire To wreck thy wealth, while all thy beaux deride The loss, nor throw one bowl-full on the fire!

O when dark Death shall be thy final guest, No lover true will shed the faithful tear, Nor bring an offering where thy ashes rest, Nor lay one garland on thy lonely bier I

But some warm-hearted la.s.s who loved not gain Shall live a hundred years, yet be much mourned; Her tomb shall be some lover's holiest fane, With annual gift of all sad flowers adorned.

"Farewell, true heart!" his trembling lips will say, "Let peace untroubled bless thy relics dear!"

Oft will he visit, and departing pray, "Light lie this earth on her whose rest is here!"

Nay, it is vain such serious songs to breathe: I must be modern, if I would prevail.

How much? Just all my ancestors bequeath?

Come, Lares! You are advertised for sale.

Let Circe and Medea bring the lees Of some foul cup! Let Thessaly prepare Its direst poison! Bring hippomanes, Fierce philtre from the frantic, brooding mare!

For if my mistress mix it with a smile, I drain a draught a thousand times as vile.

ELEGY THE FIFTH

THE PRIESTHOOD OF APOLLO

Smile, Phoebus, on the youthful priest Who seeks thy shrine to-day!

With lyre and song attend our feast, And with imperious finger play Thy loudly thrilling chords to anthems high!

Come, with temples laurel-bound, O'er thine own thrice-hallowed ground, Where incense from our altars meets the sky!

Come radiant and fair, In golden garb and glorious, cl.u.s.tering hair, The famous guise in which thou sang'st so well Of victor Jove, when Saturn's kingdom fell!

The far-off future all is thine!

Thy hallowed augurs can divine Whate'er dark song the birds of omen sing; Of augury thou art the king, And thy wise haruspex finds meaning fit For what the G.o.ds have in the victims writ.

The h.o.a.ry Sibyl taught of thee Never sings of Rome untrue, Chanting forth in measures due Her mysterious prophecy.

Once she bade Aeneas look In her all-revealing book, What time from Trojan sh.o.r.e His father and his fallen G.o.ds he bore.

Doubtful and dark to him was Rome's bright name, While yet his mournful eyes Saw Ilium dying and her G.o.ds in flame.

Not yet beneath the skies Had Romulus upreared the weight Of our Eternal City's wall, Denied to Remus by unequal fate.

Then lowly cabins small Possessed the seat of Capitolian Jove; And, over Palatine, the rustics drove Their herds afield, where Pan's similitude Dripped down with milk beneath an ilex tall, And Pales' image rude Hewn out by pruning-hook, for wors.h.i.+p stood.

The shepherd hung upon the bough His babbling pipes in payment of a vow,-- The pipe of reeds in lessening order placed, Knit well with wax from longest unto last.

Where proud Velabrum lies, A little skiff across the shallows plies; And oft, to meet her shepherd lover, The village la.s.s is ferried over For a woodland holiday: At night returning o'er the watery way, She brings a tribute from the fruitful farms-- A cheese, or white lamb, carried in her arms.

_The Sibyl_

"High-souled Aeneas, brother of light-winged Love, "Thy pilgrim s.h.i.+ps Troy's fallen wors.h.i.+p bear.

"To thee the Latin lands are given of Jove, "And thy far-wandering G.o.ds are welcome there.

"Thou thyself shalt have a shrine "By Numicus' holy wave; "Be thou its genius strong to bless and save, "By power divine!

"O'er thy s.h.i.+p's storm-beaten prow "Victory her wings will spread, "And, glorious, rest at last above a Trojan head.

"I see Rutulia flaming round me now.

"O barbarous Turnus, I behold thee dead!

"Laurentum rushes on my sight, "And proud Lavinium's castled height, "And Alba Longa for thy royal heir.

"Now I see a priestess fair "Close in Mars' divine embrace.

"Daughter of Ilium, she fled away "From Vesta's fires, and from her virgin face "The fillet dropped, and quite unheeded lay; "Nor s.h.i.+eld nor corslet then her hero wore, "Keeping their stolen tryst by Tiber's sacred sh.o.r.e!

"Browse, ye bulls, along the seven green hills!

"For yet a little while ye may, "E'er the vast city shall confront the day!

"O Rome! thy destined glory fills "A wide world subject to thy sway,-- "Wide as all the regions given "To fruitful Ceres, as she looks from heaven "O'er her fields of golden corn, "From the opening gates of morn "To where the Sun in Ocean's billowy stream "Cools at eve his spent and panting team.

"Troy herself at last shall praise "Thee and thy far-wandering ways.

"My song is truth. Thus only I endure "The bitter laurel-leaf divine, "And keep me at Apollo's shrine "A virgin ever pure."

So, Phoebus, in thy name the Sibyl sung, As o'er her frenzied brow her loosened locks she flung.

In equal song Herophile Chanted forth the times to be, From her cold Marpesian glade.

Amalthea, dauntless maid, In the blessed days gone by, Bore thy book through Anio's river And did thy prophecies deliver, From her mantle, safe and dry.

All prophesied of omens dire, The comet's monitory fire, Stones raining down, and tumult in the sky Of trumpets, swords, and routed chivalry; The very forests whispered fear, And through the stormful year Tears, burning tears, from marble altars ran; Dumb beast took voice to tell the fate of man; The Sun himself in light did fail As if he yoked his car to horses mortal-pale.

Such was the olden time. O Phoebus, now Of mild, benignant brow, Let those portents buried be In the wild, unfathomed sea!

Now let thy laurel loudly flame On altars to thy gracious name, And give good omen of a fruitful year Crackling laurel if the rustic hear, He knows his granary shall bursting be, And sweet new wine flow free, And purple grapes by jolly feet be trod, Vat and cellar will be too small, While at the vintage-festival, With choral song, The tipsy swains carouse the shepherd's G.o.d: "Away, ye wolves, and do our folds no wrong!"

Then shall the master touch the straw-built fire, And as it blazes high and higher, Lightly leap its lucky crest.

A welcome heir with frolic face Shall his jovial sire embrace, And kiss him hard and pull him by the ears; While o'er the cradle the good grand-sire bent Will babble with the babe in equal merriment, And feel no more his weight of years.

There in soft shadow of some ancient tree, Maidens, boys, and wine-cups be, Scattered on the pleasant gra.s.s; From lip to lip the cups they pa.s.s; Their own mantles garland-bound Hang o'er-head for canopy, And every cup with rose is crowned; Each at banquet buildeth high Of turf the table, and of turf the bed,-- Such was ancient revelry!

Here too some lover at his darling's head Flings words of scorn, which by and by He wildly prays be left unsaid, And swears that wine-cups lie.

O under Phoebus' ever-peaceful sway, Away, ye bows, ye arrows fierce, away!

Let Love without a shaft among earth's peoples stray!

A n.o.ble weapon! but when Cupid takes His arrow,--ah! what mortal wound he makes!