The Elegies of Tibullus | Page 4

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 we carnage foul, And wreckful seas, and countless ways to die. Nay! spare me, Father Jove, for on my soul Nor perjury, nor words blaspheming lie.
If longer life I ask of Fate in vain, O'er my frail dust this superscription be:-- _"Here Death's dark hand_ TIBULLUS _doth detain, Messala's follower over land and sea!"_
Then, since my soul to love did always yield, Let Venus guide it the immortal way, Where dance and song fill all th' Elysian field, And music that will never die away.
There many a song-bird with his fellow sails, And cheerly carols on the cloudless air; Each grove breathes incense; all the happy vales O'er-run with roses, numberless and fair.
Bright bands of youth with