The Elegies of Tibullus | Page 9

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 jocund May: Enjoy to-day! The golden hours are gliding fast away!
Why plague our comely Marathus? Thy chaste severity Let wrinkled wooers feel,--but not, not such a youth as he!
Spare the poor lad! 'tis not some crime his soul is brooding on; 'Tis love of thee that makes his eyes so wild and woe-begone!
He suffers! hark! he moans thy loss in many a doleful sigh, And from his eyes the glittering tears flow down and will not dry.
"Why say me nay?" he cries, "Why talk of chaperones severe? I am in love and know the art to trick a listening ear."
"At stolen tryst and _rendez-vous_ my breath is light and low, And I can give a kiss so soft not even the winds may know.
"I creep unheard at dead of night along a marble floor, "Nor foot-fall make, nor tell-tale creak, when I unbar the door.
"What use are all my arts, if still my lady answers nay! "If even to her couch I came, she'd frown and fly away!
"Or when she says she will, 'tis then she doth most treacherous prove, "And keeps me tortured all night long with unrewarded love.
"And while I say 'She comes, she comes!' whatever breathes or stirs, "I think I hear a footstep light of tripping feet like hers!
"Away vain arts of love! false aids to win the fair! "Henceforth a cloak of filthy shag shall be my