The Elegies of Tibullus | Page 4

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 feel, And drenching rains unheeded
round me pour, If Delia comes at last with mute appeal, And, finger on
her lip, throws wide the door.
Away those lamps! Thou, man or maid, away! Great Venus wills not
that her gifts be scanned. Ask me no names! Walk lightly there, I pray!
Hold back thy tell-tale torch and curious hand!
Yet fear not! Should some slave our loves behold, Let him look on, and

at his liking stare! Hereafter not a whisper shall be told; By all the gods
our innocence he'll swear.
Or should one such from prudent silence swerve The chatterer who
prates of me and thee Shall learn, too late, why Venus, whom I serve,
Was born of blood upon a storm-swept sea.
Nay, even thy husband will believe no ill. All this a wondrous witch
did tell me true: One who can guide the stars to work her will, Or turn a
torrent's course her task to do.
Her spells call forth pale spectres from their graves, And charm bare
bones from smoking pyres away: 'Mid trooping ghosts with fearful
shriek she raves, Then sprinkles with new milk, and holds at bay.
She has the power to scatter tempests rude, And snows in summer at
her whisper fall; The horrid simples by Medea brewed Are hers; she
holds the hounds of Hell in thrall.
For me a charm this potent witch did weave; Thrice if thou sing, then
speak with spittings three, Thy husband not one witness will believe,
Nor his own eyes, if our embrace they see!
But tempt not others! He will surely spy All else--to me, me only,
magic-blind! And, hark! the hag with drugs, she said, would try To heal
love's madness and my heart unbind.
One cloudless night, with smoky torch, she burned Black victims to her
gods of sorcery; Yet asked I not love's loss, but love returned, And
would not wish for life, if robbed of thee.

ELEGY THE THIRD
SICKNESS AND ABSENCE
Am I abandoned? Does Messala sweep Yon wide Aegean wave, not
any more He, nor my mates, remembering where I weep, Struck down
by fever on this alien shore?
Spare me, dark death! I have no mother here, To clasp my relics to her
widowed breast; No sister, to pour forth with hallowing tear Assyrian
incense where my ashes rest.
Nor Delia, who, before she said adieu, Asked omens fair at every
potent shrine. Thrice did the ministrants give blessings true, The
thrice-cast lot returned the lucky sign.
All promised safe return; but she had fears And doubting sorrows,
which implored my stay; While I, though all was ready, dried her tears,

And found fresh pretext for one more delay.
An evil bird, I cried, did near me flit, Or luckless portent thrust my
plans aside; Or Saturn's day, unhallowed and unfit, Forbade a journey
from my Delia's side.
Full oft, when starting on the fatal track, My stumbling feet foretold
unhappy hours: Ah! he who journeys when love calls him back, Should
know he disobeys celestial powers!
Help me, great Goddess! For thy healing power The votive tablets on
thy shrine display. See Delia there outwatch the midnight hour, Sitting,
white-stoled, until the dawn of day!
Each day her tresses twice she doth unbind, And sings, the loveliest of
the Pharian band. O that my fathers' gods this prayer could find! Gods
of my hearth and of my native land!
How happily men lived when Saturn reigned! Ere weary highways
crossed the fair young world, Ere lofty ships the purple seas disdained,
Their swelling canvas to the winds unfurled!
No roving seaman, from a distant course, Filled full of far-fetched
wares his frail ship's hold: At home, the strong bull stood unyoked; the
horse Endured no bridle in the age of gold.
Men's houses had no doors? No firm-set rock Marked field from field
by niggard masters held. The very oaks ran honey; the mild flock
Brought home its swelling udders, uncompelled.
Nor wrath nor war did that blest kingdom know; No craft was taught in
old Saturnian time, By which the frowning smith, with blow on blow,
Could forge the furious sword and so much crime.
Now Jove is king! Now have