The Elegies of Tibullus | Page 6

buy, "In
grave accurst, with all his riches lie!
"O beauteous youth, how will ye dare to slight "The Muse, to whom
Pierian streams belong? "Will ye not smile on poets, and delight, "More
than all golden gifts, in gift of song? "Did not some song empurple
Nisus' hair, "And bid young Pelops' ivory shoulder glow? "That youth
the Muses praise, is he not fair, "Long as the stars shall shine or waters
flow ?

"But he who scorns the Muse, and will for gain "Surrender his base
heart,--let his foul cries "Pursue the Corybants' infuriate train, "Through
all the cities of the Phrygian plain,-- "Unmanned forever, in foul
Phrygian guise! "But Venus blesses lovers who endear "Love's quest
alone by flattery, by fear, "By supplication, plaint, and piteous tear."
Such song the god of gardens bade me sing For Titius; but his fond
wife would fling Such counsel to the winds: "Beware," she cried,
"Trust not fair youth too far. For each one's pride "Offers alluring
charms: one loves to ride "A gallant horse, and rein him firmly in; "One
cleaves the calm wave with white shoulder bare; "One is all courage,
and for this looks fair; "And one's pure, blushing cheeks thy praises
win."
Let him obey her! But my precepts wise Are meant for all whom
youthful beauty's eyes Turn from in scorn. Let each his glory boast!
Mine is, that lovers, when despairing most, My clients should be called.
For them my door Stands hospitably open evermore. Philosopher to
Venus I shall be, And throngs of studious youth will learn of me.
Alas! alas! How love has been my bane! My cunning fails, and all my
arts are vain. Have mercy, fair one, lest my pupils all Mock me, who
point a path in which I fall!

ELEGY THE FIFTH
COUNTRY-LIFE WITH DELIA
With haughty frown I swore I could employ Thine absence well. But
all my pride is o'er! Now am I lashed, as when a madcap boy Whirls a
swift top along the level floor.
Aye! Twist me! Plague me! Never shall I say Such boast again. Thy
scorn and anger spare! Spare me!--by all our stolen loves I pray, By
Venus,--by thy wealth of plaited hair!
Was it not I, when fever laid thee low, Whose holy rites and offerings
set thee free? Thrice round thy bed with brimstone did I go, While the
wise witch sang healing charms for thee.
Lest evil dreams should vex thee, I did bring That worshipped wafer by
the Vestal given; Then, with loose robes and linen stole, did sing Nine
prayers to Hecate 'neath the midnight heaven.
All rites were done! Yet doth a rival hold My darling, and my futile
prayers deride: For I dreamed madly of a life all gold, If she were

healed,--but Heaven the dream denied.
A pleasant country-seat, whose orchards yield Sweet fruit to be my
Delia's willing care, While our full corn-crop in the sultry field Stands
ripe and dry! O, but my dreams were fair!
She in the vine-vat will our clusters press, And tread the rich must with
her dancing feet; She oft my sheep will number, oft caress Some pretty,
prattling slave with kisses sweet.
She offers Pan due tributes of our wealth, Grapes for the vine, and for a
field of corn Wheat in the ear, or for the sheep-fold's health Some
frugal feast is to his altar borne.
Of all my house let her the mistress be! I am displaced and give not one
command! Then let Messala come! From each choice tree Let Delia
pluck him fruit with her soft hand!
To serve and please so worshipful a guest, She spends her utmost art
and anxious care; Asks his least wish, and spreads her dainty best,
Herself the hostess and hand-maiden fair.
Mad hope! The storm-winds bore away that dream Far as Armenia's
perfume-breathing bids. Great Venus! Did I at thy shrine blaspheme?
Am I accursed for rash and impious words?
Had I, polluted, touched some altar pure, Or stolen garlands from a
temple door-- What prayers and vigils would I not endure, And
weeping kiss the consecrated floor?
Had I deserved this stroke,--with pious pain From shrine to shrine my
suppliant knees should crawl; I would to all absolving gods complain,
And smite my forehead on the marble wall.
Thou who thy gibes at love canst scarce repress, Beware! The angry
god may strike again! I knew a youth who laughed at love's distress,
And bore, when old, the worst that lovers ken.
His poor, thin voice he did compel to woo, And curled, for mockery,
his scanty hair; Spied on her door, as slighted lovers do, And stopped
her maid in any public square.
The forum-loungers thrust him roughly by, And spat upon