The Elegies of Tibullus | Page 3

only bring One white lamb from my little fold, While my few bondmen at the altar sing Our harvest anthems old.
Gods of my hearth! ye never learned to slight A poor man's gift. My bowls of clay To ye are hallowed by the cleansing rite, The best, most ancient way.
If from my sheep the thief, the wolf, be driven, If fatter flocks allure them more, To me the riches to my fathers given Kind Heaven need not restore.
My small, sure crop contents me; and the storm That pelts my thatch breaks not my rest, While to my heart I clasp the beauteous form Of her it loves the best.
My simple cot brings such secure repose, When so companioned I can lie, That winds of winter and the whirling snows Sing me soft lullaby.
This lot be mine! I envy not their gold Who rove the furious ocean foam: A frugal life will all my pleasures hold, If love be mine, and home.
Enough I travel, if I steal away To sleep at noon-tide by the flow Of some cool stream. Could India's jewels pay For longer absence? No!
Let great Messala vanquish land and sea, And deck with spoils his golden hall! I am myself a conquest, and must be My Delia's captive thrall.
Be Delia mine, and Fame may flout and scorn, Or brand me with the sluggard's name! With cheerful hands I'll plant my upland corn, And live to laugh at Fame.
If I might hold my Delia to my side, The bare ground were a happier bed Than theirs who, on a couch of silken pride, Must mourn for love long dead.
Gilt couch, soft down, slow fountains murmuring song-- These bring no peace. Befooled by words Was he who, when in love a victor strong, Left it for spoils and swords.
For such let sad Cilicia's captives bleed, Her citadels his legions hold! And let him stride his swift, triumphal steed, In silvered robes or gold!
These eyes of mine would look on only thee In that last hour when light shall fail. Embrace me, dear, in death! Let thy hand be In my cold fingers pale!
With thine own arms my lifeless body lay On that cold couch so soon on fire! Give thy last kisses to my grateful clay, And weep beside my pyre!
And weep! Ah, me! Thy heart will wear no steel Nor be stone-cold that rueful day: Thy faithful grief may all true lovers feel Nor tearless turn away!
Yet ask I not that thou shouldst vex my shade With cheek all wan and blighted brow: But, O, to-day be love's full tribute paid, While the swift Fates allow.
Soon Death, with shadow-mantled head, will come, Soon palsied age will creep our way, Bidding love's flatteries at last be dumb, Unfit for old and gray.
But light-winged Venus still is smiling fair: By night or noon we heed her call; To pound on midnight doors I still may dare, Or brave for love a brawl.
I am a soldier and a captain good In love's campaign, and calmly yield To all who hunger after wounds and blood, War's trumpet-echoing field.
Ye toils and triumphs unto glory dear! Ye riches home from conquest borne! If my small fields their wonted harvest bear, Both wealth and want I scorn!

ELEGY THE SECOND
LOVE AND WITCHCRAFT
Bring larger bowls and give my sorrows wine, By heaviest slumbers be my brain possessed! Soothe my sad brows with Bacchus' gift divine, Nor wake me while my hapless passions rest!
For Delia's jealous master at her door Has set a watch, and bolts it with stern steel. May wintry tempests strike it o'er and o'er, And amorous Jove crash through with thunder-peal!
My sighs alone, O Door, should pierce thee through, Or backward upon soundless hinges turn. The curses my mad rhymes upon thee threw,-- Forgive them!--Ah! in my own breast they burn!
May I not move thee to remember now How oft, dear Door, thou wert love's place of prayer? While with fond kiss and supplicating vow, I hung thee o'er with many a garland fair?
In vain the prayer! Thine own resolve must break Thy prison, Delia, and its guards evade. Bid them defiance for thy lover's sake! Be bold! The brave bring Venus to their aid.
'Tis Venus guides a youth through doors unknown; 'Tis taught of her, a maid with firm-set lips Steals from her soft couch, silent and alone, And noiseless to her tryst securely trips.
Her art it is, if with a husband near, A lady darts a love-lorn look and smile To one more blest; but languid sloth and fear Receive not Venus' perfect gift of guile.
Trust Venus, too, t' avert the wretched wrath Of footpad, hungry for thy robe and ring! So safe and sacred is a lover's path, That common caution to the winds we fling.
Oft-times I fail the wintry frost to