The Elegies of Tibullus Part 12

"She whom thy love holds dearer than sweet child Is to a mother's breast, or virgin soft To longing lover, she for whom thy wild Prayers vex high Heaven so oft,

"Who worries thee each day, and vainly fills Dark-mantled sleep with visions that beguile, Lovely Neaera, theme of all thy quills, Now elsewhere gives her smile.

"For sighs not thine her fickle pa.s.sions flame: For thy chaste house Neaera has no care.

O cruel tribe! O woman, faithless name!

Curse on the false and fair!

"But woo her still! For mutability Is woman's soul. Fond vows may yet prevail, Fierce love bears well a woman's cruelty, Nor at the lash will quail.

"That I did feed Admetus' heifers white Is no light tale. Upon the lyric string Nor more could I my joyful notes indite, Nor with sweet concord sing.

"On oaten pipe I sued the woodland Muse-- I, of Latona and the Thunderer son!

Thou knowst not what love is, if thou refuse T'endure a cruel one.

"Go, then, and ply her with persuasive woe!

Soft supplications the hard heart subdue.

Then, if my oracles the future know, Give her this message true:

"'The G.o.d whose seat is Delos' marble isle, Declares this marriage happy and secure.

It has Apollo's own auspicious smile.

_Cast off that rival wooer!_'"

He spoke: dull slumber from my body fell.

Can I believe such perils round me fold?

That such discordant vows thy tongue can tell?

Thy heart in guilt so bold?

Thou wert not gendered by the Pontic Sea, Nor where Chimaera's lips fierce flame out-pour, Nor of that dog with tongues and foreheads three, His back all snakes and gore;

Nor out of Scylla's whelp-engirdled womb; Nor wert thou of fell lioness the child; Nor was thy cradle Scythia's forest-gloom, Nor Syrtis' sandy wild.

No, but thy home was human! round its fire Sate creatures lovable: of all her kind Thy mother was the mildest, and thy sire Showed a most friendly mind.

May Heaven in these bad dreams good omen show, And bid warm south-winds to oblivion blow!

ELEGY THE FIFTH

TO FRIENDS AT THE BATHS

You take your pleasure by Etrurian streams, Save when the dog-star burns: Or bathe you where mysterious Baiae steams, When purple Spring returns.

But dread Persephone a.s.signs to me The hour of gloom and fears.

O Queen of death! be innocence my plea!

Pity my youthful tears!

I never have profaned that sacred shrine Where none but women go, Nor in my cup cast hemlock, or poured wine Death-drugged for friend or foe.

I have not burned a temple: nor to crime My fevered pa.s.sions given: Nor with wild blasphemy at wors.h.i.+p-time Insulted frowning Heaven.

Not yet is my dark hair defaced with gray, Nor stoop nor staff have I; For I was born upon that fatal day That saw two consuls die.

What profits it from tender vine to tear The growing grape? Or who Would pluck with naughty hand an apple fair, Before its season due?

Have mercy! G.o.ds who keep the murky stream Of that third kingdom dark!

On my far future let Elysium beam!

Postpone me Charon's bark!--

Till wrinkled age shall make my features pale, And to the listening boys The old man babbles his repeated tale Of vanished days and joys!

I trust I fear too much this fever-heat Which two long weeks I have, While with Etrurian nymphs ye sweetly meet, And cleave the yielding wave.

Live lucky, friends! live loyal unto me, Though life, though death be mine!

Let herds all black dread Pluto's offering be With white milk and red wine!

ELEGY THE SIXTH

A FARE-WELL TOAST

Come radiant Bacchus! With the hallowed leaf Of grape and ivy be thy forehead crowned!

For thou canst chase away or cure my grief-- Let love in wine be drowned!

Dear bearer of my cup, come, brim it o'er!

Pour forth unstinted our Falernian wine!

Care's cruel brood is gone; I toil no more, If Phoebus o'er me s.h.i.+ne.

Dear, jovial friends, let not a lip be dry!

Drink as I drink, and every toast obey!

And him who will not with my wine-cup vie, May some false la.s.s betray!

This G.o.d makes all men rich. He tames proud souls, And bids them by a woman's hand be chained; Armenian tigresses his power controls, And lions tawny-maned.

That love-G.o.d is as strong; but I delight In Bacchus rather. Fill our cups once more!

Just and benign is he, if mortal wight Him and his vines adore!

But, O! he rages, if his gift ye spurn.

Drink, if ye dare not a G.o.d's anger brave!

How fierce his stroke, let temperate fellows learn Of Pentheus' gory grave.

Away such fear! Rather may some fierce stroke On that false beauty fall!--O frightful prayer!

O, I am mad! O may my curse be broke, And melt in misty air!