BOOK II

ELEGY THE FIRST

A RUSTIC HOLIDAY

Give us good omen, friends! To-day we bless With hallowed rites this dear, ancestral seat. Let Bacchus his twin horns with clusters dress, And Ceres clasp her brows with bursting wheat!

To-day no furrows! Both for field and man Be sacred rest from delving toil and care! With necks yoke-free, at mangers full of bran, The tranquil steers shall nought but garlands bear.

Our tasks to-day are heaven's. No maid shall dare Upon a distaff her deft hands employ. Let none, too rash, our simple worship share, Who wrought last eve at Venus' fleeting joy!

The gods claim chastity. Come clad in white, And lave your palms at some clear fountain's brim! Then watch the mild lamb at the altar bright, Yon olive-cinctured choir close-following him!

"Ye Guardian Powers, who bless our native soil, Far from these acres keep ill luck away! No withered ears the reaper's task to spoil! Nor swift wolf on our laggard lambs to prey!"

So shall the master of this happy house Pile the huge logs upon his blazing floor; While with kind mirth and neighborly carouse, His bondsmen build their huts beside his door.

The bliss I pray for has been granted me! With reverent art observing things divine, I have explored the omens,--and I see The Guardian Powers are good to me and mine.

Bring old Falernian from the shadows gray, And burst my Chian seal! He is disgraced, Who gets home sober from this festive day, Or finds his door without a step retraced.

Health to Messala now from all our band! Drink to each letter of his noble name! Messala! laurelled from the Gallic land, Of his grim-bearded sires the last, best fame!

Be with me, thou! inspire a song for me To sing those gods of woodland, hill and glade, Without whose arts man's hunger still would be Only on mast and gathered acorns stayed.

They taught us rough-hewn rafters to prepare, And clothe low cabins with a roof of green; They bade fierce bulls the servile yoke to bear; And wheels to move a wain were theirs, I ween.

Our wild fruit was forgot, when apple-boughs Bore grafts, and thirsty orchards (art divine!) Were freshed by ditching; while with sweet carouse The wine-press flowed, and water wed with wine.

Our fields bore harvests, when the dog-star flame Bade Summer of her tawny tress be shorn; From fields of Spring the bees, with busy game, Stored well their frugal combs the live-long morn.

'Twas some field-tiller from his plough at rest, First hummed his homely words to numbers true, Or trilled his pipe of straw in songs addressed To his blithe woodland gods, with worship due.

Some rustic ruddied with vermilion clay First led, O Bacchus, thy swift choric throng, And won for record of thy festal day Some fold's chief goat, fit meed of frolic song!

It was our rustic boys whose virgin band New coronals of Spring's sweet flowrets made For offering to the gods who bless our land, Which on the Lares' hallowed heads were laid.

Our country-lasses find a pleasing care In soft, warm wool their snowy flocks have bred; The distaff, skein and spindle they prepare, And reel, with firm-set thumb, the faultless thread.

Then following Minerva's heavenly art, They weave with patient toil some fabric proud; While at her loom the lass with cheerful heart Sings songs the sounding shuttle answers loud.

Cupid himself with flocks and herds did pass His boyhood, and on sheep and horses drew His erring infant bow; but now, alas! He is an archer far too swift and true.

Not now dull beasts, but luckless maids engage His enmity; brave men are brave no more; Youth's strength he wastes, and drives fond, foolish age To blush and sigh at scornful beauty's door.

Love-lured, the virgin, guarded and discreet, Slips by the night-watch at her lover's call, Feels the dark path-way with her trembling feet, And gropes with out-spread hands along the wall.

Oh! wretched are the wights this god would harm! But blest as gods whom Love with smiles will sway! Come, boy divine! and these dear revels charm-- But fling thy burning brands, far, far away!

Sing to this god, sweet shepherds! Ask aloud Your flocks' good health; then each, discreetly mute, His love's!--Nay, scream her name! Yon madcap crowd Screams louder, to its wry-necked Phrygian flute.

On with the sport! Night's chariot appears: The stars, her children, follow through the sky: Dark Sleep comes soon, on wings no mortal hears, With strange, dim dreams that know not where they fly.

ELEGY THE SECOND

A BIRTHDAY WISH

Burn incense now! and round our altars fair With cheerful vows or sacred silence stand! To-day Cerinthus' birth our rites declare, With perfumes from the blest Arabian land.

Let his own Genius to our festal haste, While fresh-blown flowers his heavenly tresses twine And balm-anointed brows; so let him taste Our offered loaf and sweet, unstinted wine!

To thee Cerinthus may his favoring care Grant every wish! O claim some priceless meed! Ask a fond wife thy life-long bliss to share-- Nay! This the great gods have long since decreed!

Less than this gift were lordship of wide fields, Where slow-paced yoke and swain compel the corn; Less, all rich gems the womb of India yields, Where the flushed Ocean rims the shores of Morn.

Thy vow is granted! Lo! on pinions bright, The Love-god comes, a yellow cincture bearing, To bind thee ever to thy dear delight, In nuptial knot, all other knots outwearing.

When wrinkles delve, and o'er the reverend brow Fall silver locks and few, the bond shall be But more endeared; and thou shall bless this vow O'er children's children smiling at thy knee.

ELEGY THE THIRD

MY LADY RUSTICATES

To pleasures of the country-side My lady-love is lightly flown; And now in cities to abide Betrays a heart of stone.

Venus herself henceforth will choose Only in field and farm to walk, And Cupid but the language use Which plough-boy lovers talk.

O what a ploughman I could be! How deep the furrows I would trace, If while I toiled, I might but see My mistress' smiling face!

A farmer true, I'd guide my team Of barren steers o'er fruitful lands, Nor murmur at the noon-day beam, Or my soft, blistered hands.

Once fair Apollo fed the flocks Of King Admetus, like a swain; Little availed his flowing locks, His lyre was little gain.

No virtuous herb to reach that ill His heavenly arts of healing knew; For love made vain his famous skill, And all his art o'er-threw.

Himself his herds afield he drove, Or where the cooling waters stray; Himself the willow baskets wove, And strained out curds and whey.

Oft would his heavenly shoulders bear A calf adown some pathless place; And oft Diana met him there, And blushed at his disgrace.

O often, if his voice divine Echoed the mountain glens along, Out-burst the loud, audacious kine, And bellowing drowned his song.

His tripods prince and people found All silent to their troubled cry, His locks dishevelled and unbound Woke fond Latona's sigh.

To see his pale, neglected brow, And unkempt tresses, once so fair,-- They cried, "O where is Phoebus now? "His glorious tresses, where?"

"In place of Delos' golden fane, "Love gives thee but a lowly shed! "O, where are Delphi and its train? "The Sibyl, whither fled?"

Happy the days, forever flown, When even immortal gods could dare Proudly to serve at Venus' throne, Nor blushed her chain to wear!

"Irreverent fables!" I am told. But lovers true these tales receive: Rather a thousand such they hold, Than loveless gods believe.

O Ceres, who didst charm away My Nemesis from life in Rome, May barren glebe thy pains repay And scanty harvest come!

A curse upon thy merry trade! Young Bacchus, giver of the vine! Thy vine-yards have ensnared a maid Far sweeter than thy wine.

Let herbs and acorns be our meat! Drink good old water! Better so Than that my fickle beauty's feet To those far hills should go!

Did not our sires on acorns feed, And love-sick rove o'er hill and dale? Our furrowed fields they did not need, Nor did love's harvest fail.

When passion did their hearts employ, And o'er them breathed the blissful hour, Mild Venus freely found them joy In every leafy bower.

No chaperone was there, no door Against a lover's sighs to stand. Delicious age! May Heaven restore Its customs to our land!

Nay, take me! In my lady's train Some stubborn field I fain would plough Lay on the lash and clamp the chain! I bear them meekly now.

ELEGY THE FOURTH

ON HIS LADY'S AVARICE

A woman's slave am I, and know it well. Farewell, my birthright! farewell, liberty! In wretched slavery and chains I dwell, For love's sad captives never are set free.

Whether I smile or curse, love just the same Brands me and burns. O, cruel woman, spare! O would I were a rock, to 'scape this flame Far off upon the frosty mountains there!

Would I were flint, to front the tempest's power, Wave-buffeted on some wild, wreckful shore! My sad days bring worse nights, and every hour Fills me some cup of gall and brims it o'er.

What use are songs? Her greedy hands disdain Apollo's gift. She says some gold is due. Farewell, ye Muses, I have sung in vain! Only in quest of _her_ I followed _you_.

I sing no wars; nor how the moon and sun In heavenly paths their circling chariots steer. To win my lady's smiles my numbers run; Farewell, ye Muses, if ye fail me here!

Let deeds of bloody crime now make me bold! No longer at her bolted door I whine; But I will find that necessary gold, Though I steal treasure from some holy shrine.

Venus I first will violate; for she Compelled my crime, and did my heart enthrall To beauty that requires a golden fee. Yes, Venus' shrine shall suffer worst of all.

Curse on that man who finds the emerald green, And Tyrian purples for our flattered girls! He makes them greedy. Now they must be seen In Coan robe and gleaming Red Sea pearls.

It spoils them all. Now bolts and barriers hold Their doors, and watch-dogs threaten through the dark; But let the lover overflow with gold,-- All bolts fly back and not a dog will bark.

What God did beauty unto gold degrade, And mix one bliss with many a woe and shame? Tears, quarrels, curses were the gifts he made; And Love bears now a very evil name.

False girl, who dost for riches thrust aside Love's honest vow, may winds and flames conspire To wreck thy wealth, while all thy beaux deride The loss, nor throw one bowl-full on the fire!

O when dark Death shall be thy final guest, No lover true will shed the faithful tear, Nor bring an offering where thy ashes rest, Nor lay one garland on thy lonely bier I

But some warm-hearted lass who loved not gain Shall live a hundred years, yet be much mourned; Her tomb shall be some lover's holiest fane, With annual gift of all sad flowers adorned.

"Farewell, true heart!" his trembling lips will say, "Let peace untroubled bless thy relics dear!" Oft will he visit, and departing pray, "Light lie this earth on her whose rest is here!"

Nay, it is vain such serious songs to breathe: I must be modern, if I would prevail. How much? Just all my ancestors bequeath? Come, Lares! You are advertised for sale.

Let Circe and Medea bring the lees Of some foul cup! Let Thessaly prepare Its direst poison! Bring hippomanes, Fierce philtre from the frantic, brooding mare! For if my mistress mix it with a smile, I drain a draught a thousand times as vile.

ELEGY THE FIFTH

THE PRIESTHOOD OF APOLLO

Smile, Phoebus, on the youthful priest Who seeks thy shrine to-day! With lyre and song attend our feast, And with imperious finger play Thy loudly thrilling chords to anthems high! Come, with temples laurel-bound, O'er thine own thrice-hallowed ground, Where incense from our altars meets the sky! Come radiant and fair, In golden garb and glorious, clustering hair, The famous guise in which thou sang'st so well Of victor Jove, when Saturn's kingdom fell! The far-off future all is thine! Thy hallowed augurs can divine Whate'er dark song the birds of omen sing; Of augury thou art the king, And thy wise haruspex finds meaning fit For what the gods have in the victims writ. The hoary Sibyl taught of thee Never sings of Rome untrue, Chanting forth in measures due Her mysterious prophecy.

Once she bade Aeneas look In her all-revealing book, What time from Trojan shore His father and his fallen gods he bore. Doubtful and dark to him was Rome's bright name, While yet his mournful eyes Saw Ilium dying and her gods in flame. Not yet beneath the skies Had Romulus upreared the weight Of our Eternal City's wall, Denied to Remus by unequal fate. Then lowly cabins small Possessed the seat of Capitolian Jove; And, over Palatine, the rustics drove Their herds afield, where Pan's similitude Dripped down with milk beneath an ilex tall, And Pales' image rude Hewn out by pruning-hook, for worship stood. The shepherd hung upon the bough His babbling pipes in payment of a vow,-- The pipe of reeds in lessening order placed, Knit well with wax from longest unto last. Where proud Velabrum lies, A little skiff across the shallows plies; And oft, to meet her shepherd lover, The village lass is ferried over For a woodland holiday: At night returning o'er the watery way, She brings a tribute from the fruitful farms-- A cheese, or white lamb, carried in her arms.

_The Sibyl_

"High-souled Aeneas, brother of light-winged Love, "Thy pilgrim ships Troy's fallen worship bear. "To thee the Latin lands are given of Jove, "And thy far-wandering gods are welcome there. "Thou thyself shalt have a shrine "By Numicus' holy wave; "Be thou its genius strong to bless and save, "By power divine!

"O'er thy ship's storm-beaten prow "Victory her wings will spread, "And, glorious, rest at last above a Trojan head. "I see Rutulia flaming round me now. "O barbarous Turnus, I behold thee dead! "Laurentum rushes on my sight, "And proud Lavinium's castled height, "And Alba Longa for thy royal heir. "Now I see a priestess fair "Close in Mars' divine embrace. "Daughter of Ilium, she fled away "From Vesta's fires, and from her virgin face "The fillet dropped, and quite unheeded lay; "Nor shield nor corslet then her hero wore, "Keeping their stolen tryst by Tiber's sacred shore! "Browse, ye bulls, along the seven green hills! "For yet a little while ye may, "E'er the vast city shall confront the day! "O Rome! thy destined glory fills "A wide world subject to thy sway,-- "Wide as all the regions given "To fruitful Ceres, as she looks from heaven "O'er her fields of golden corn, "From the opening gates of morn "To where the Sun in Ocean's billowy stream "Cools at eve his spent and panting team. "Troy herself at last shall praise "Thee and thy far-wandering ways. "My song is truth. Thus only I endure "The bitter laurel-leaf divine, "And keep me at Apollo's shrine "A virgin ever pure."

So, Phoebus, in thy name the Sibyl sung, As o'er her frenzied brow her loosened locks she flung.

In equal song Herophile Chanted forth the times to be, From her cold Marpesian glade. Amalthea, dauntless maid, In the blessed days gone by, Bore thy book through Anio's river And did thy prophecies deliver, From her mantle, safe and dry.

All prophesied of omens dire, The comet's monitory fire, Stones raining down, and tumult in the sky Of trumpets, swords, and routed chivalry; The very forests whispered fear, And through the stormful year Tears, burning tears, from marble altars ran; Dumb beast took voice to tell the fate of man; The Sun himself in light did fail As if he yoked his car to horses mortal-pale.

Such was the olden time. O Phoebus, now Of mild, benignant brow, Let those portents buried be In the wild, unfathomed sea! Now let thy laurel loudly flame On altars to thy gracious name, And give good omen of a fruitful year Crackling laurel if the rustic hear, He knows his granary shall bursting be, And sweet new wine flow free, And purple grapes by jolly feet be trod, Vat and cellar will be too small, While at the vintage-festival, With choral song, The tipsy swains carouse the shepherd's god: "Away, ye wolves, and do our folds no wrong!"

Then shall the master touch the straw-built fire, And as it blazes high and higher, Lightly leap its lucky crest. A welcome heir with frolic face Shall his jovial sire embrace, And kiss him hard and pull him by the ears; While o'er the cradle the good grand-sire bent Will babble with the babe in equal merriment, And feel no more his weight of years.

There in soft shadow of some ancient tree, Maidens, boys, and wine-cups be, Scattered on the pleasant grass; From lip to lip the cups they pass; Their own mantles garland-bound Hang o'er-head for canopy, And every cup with rose is crowned; Each at banquet buildeth high Of turf the table, and of turf the bed,-- Such was ancient revelry! Here too some lover at his darling's head Flings words of scorn, which by and by He wildly prays be left unsaid, And swears that wine-cups lie.

O under Phoebus' ever-peaceful sway, Away, ye bows, ye arrows fierce, away! Let Love without a shaft among earth's peoples stray! A noble weapon! but when Cupid takes His arrow,--ah! what mortal wound he makes! Mine is the chief. This whole year have I lain Wounded to death, yet cherishing the pain, And counting my delicious anguish gain. Of Nemesis my song must tell! Without her name I make no verses well, My metres limp and all fine words are vain!

Therefore, my darling, since the powers on high Protect the poets,--O! a little while On Apollo's servant smile! So let me sing in words divine An ode of triumph for young Messaline. Before his chariot he shall bear Towns and towers for trophies proud, And on his brow the laurel-garland wear; While, with woodland laurel crowned. His legions follow him acclaiming loud, "Io triumphe," with far-echoing sound.

Let my Messala of the festive crowd Receive applause, and joyfully behold His son's victorious chariot passing by!

Smile, Phoebus there! Thy flowing locks all gold! Thy virgin sister, too, stoop with thee from the sky!

ELEGY THE SIXTH

LET LOVERS ALL ENLIST

Now for a soldier Macer goes. Will Cupid take the field? Will Love himself enlist, and bear on his soft breast a shield?

Through weary marches over land, through wandering waves at sea, Armed _cap-a-pie_, will that small god the hero's comrade be?

O burn him, boy, I pray, that could thy blessed favors slight! Back to the ranks the straggler bring beneath thy standard bright!

Yet, if to soldiers thou art kind, I too will volunteer, I too will from a helmet drink, nor thirst in desert's fear.

Venus, good-bye! Now, off I go! Good-bye, sweet ladies all! I am all valor, and delight to hear the trumpets call.

Large is my brag! But while with pride my project I recite, I see her bolted door,--and then my boasting fails me quite.

Never to visit her again, with many an oath I swore; But while I vowed, my feet had run unguided to her door.

Come now, ye lovers all! who serve in Cupid's hard campaign, Let us together to the wars, and thus our peace regain!

This age of iron frowns on love and smiles on golden gain,-- On spoils of war which must be won by agony and pain.

For spoils alone our swords are keen, and deadly spears are hurled While carnage, wrath, and swifter death fly broadcast through the world.

For spoils, with double risk of death the threatening seas we sail, And climb the steel-beaked ship-of-war, so mighty and so frail!

The spoilers proud to boundless lands their bloody titles read, And see innumerable flocks o'er endless acres feed

Fine foreign marbles they will bring; and all the city stare, While one tall column for a house a thousand oxen bear.

They bind with bars the tameless sea; behind a rampart proud Their little fishes swim in calm, when wintry storms are loud.

Ah! Love! Will not a Samian bowl hold all our mirth and wine? And pottery of poor Cuman clay, with love, seem fair and fine?

Nay! Woe is me! Naught now but gold can please our ladies gay; And so, since Venus asks for wealth, the spoils of war must pay.

My Nemesis shall roll in wealth; and promenade the town, All glittering, with my golden gifts upon her gorgeous gown.

Her filmy web of Coan weave with golden broidery gleams; Her swarthy slaves the Indian sun touched with its burning beams.

In rival hues to make her fair all conquered regions vie, Afric its azure must bestow, and Tyre its purple dye.

O look--I tell what all men know--on that most favored lover! Once in the market-place he sat, with both his soles chalked over.