The Elegies of Tibullus | Page 9

plucked fair fruits the nameless trees did hide: He first the young
vine to its trellis bound, And with his sounding sickle keen Shore off
the tendrils green.
For him the bursting clusters sweet Were in the wine-press trod; Song
followed soon, a prompting of the god, And rhythmic dance of lightly
leaping feet. Of Bacchus the o'er-wearied swain receives Deliverance
from all his pains; Bacchus gives comfort when a mortal grieves, And
mirth to men in chains. Not to Osiris toils and tears belong, But revels
and delightful song; Lightly beckoning loves are thine! Garlands deck
thee, god of wine! We hear thee coming, with the flute's refrain, With
fruit of ivy on thy forehead bound, Thy saffron vesture streaming to the
ground. And thou hast garments, too, of Tyrian stain, When thine
ecstatic train Bear forth thy magic ark to mysteries divine.
Immortal guest, our games and pageant share! Smile on the flowing
cup, and hail With us the Genius of this natal day! From whose
anointed, rose-entwisted hair, Arabian odors waft away. If thou the
festal bless, I will not fail To burn sweet incense unto him and thee,
And offerings of Arcadian honey bear.
So grant Messala fortunes ever fair! Of such a sire the children worthy
be! Till generations two and three Surround his venerated chair! See,
winding upward through the Latin land, Yon highway past, the Alban
citadel, At great Messala's mandate made, In fitted stones and firm-set
gravel laid, Thy monument forever more to stand! The
mountain-villager thy fame will tell, When through the darkness
wending late from Rome, He foots it smoothly home.
O Genius of this natal day, May many a year thy gift declare! Now
bright and fair thy pinions soar away,-- Return, thou bright and fair!

ELEGY THE NINTH
TO PHOLOE AND MARATHUS
The language of a lover's eyes I cannot choose but see; The oracles in
tender sighs were never dark to me.
No art of augury I need, nor heart of victims slain, Nor birds of omen
singing forth the future's bliss or bane.
Venus herself did round my arm th' enchanted wimple throw, And
taught me--Ah! not unchastised!--what wizardry I know.
Deceive me then no more! The god more furiously burns Whatever

wight rebelliously his first commandment spurns.
To Pholoe Fair Pholoe! what profits it to plait thy flowing hair? Why
rearrange each lustrous tress with fond, superfluous care?
Why tint that blooming cheek anew? Or give thy fingers, Girl! To
slaves who keep the dainty tips a perfect pink and pearl?
Why strain thy sandal-string so hard? or why the daily change Of
mantles, robes, and broideries, of fashions new and strange?
Howe'er thou hurry from thy glass in careless disarray, Thou canst not
miss the touch that steals thy lover's heart away!
Thou needst not ask some wicked witch her potion to provide, Brewed
of the livid, midnight herbs, to draw him to thy side.
Her magic from a neighbor's field the coming crop can charm, Or stop
the viper's lifted sting before it work thee harm.
Such magic would the riding moon from her white chariot spill, Did
not the brazen cymbals' sound undo the impious ill!
But fear not thou thy smitten swain of lures and sorcery tell, Thy
beauty his enchantment was, without inferior spell.
To touch thy flesh, to taste thy kiss, his freedom did destroy; Thy
beauteous body in his arms enslaved the hapless boy.
Proud Pholoe! why so unkind, when thy young lover pleads?
Remember Venus can avenge a fair one's heartless deeds!
Nay, nay! no gifts! Go gather them of bald-heads rich and old! Ay! let
them buy thy mocking smiles and languid kisses cold!
Better than gold that youthful bloom of his round, ruddy face, And
beardless lips that mar not thine, however close th' embrace.
If thou above his shoulders broad thy lily arms entwine, The luxury of
monarchs proud is mean compared with thine.

May Venus teach thee how to yield to all thy lover's will, When
blushing passion bursts its bounds and bids thy bosom thrill.
Go, meet his dewy, lingering lips in many a breathless kiss! And let his
white neck bear away rose-tokens of his bliss!
What comfort, girl, can jewels bring, or gems in priceless store, To her
who sleeps and weeps alone, of young love wooed no more?
Too late, alas! for love's return, or fleeting youth's recall, When on thy
head relentless age has cast the silvery pall.
Then beauty will be anxious art,--to tinge the changing hair, And hide
the record of the years with colors falsely fair.
To pluck the silver forth, and with strange surgery and pain, Half-flay
the fading cheek and brow, and bid them bloom again.
O listen, Pholoe! with thee are youth and