by Tibullus
27 Now from the old bin bring me out the smoked Falernians and loose the bands of the Chian jar. Let drinking be the order of the day. Now we keep holiday, and to be tipsy is no shame, nor to carry ill our unsteady feet. But let each one, as he drinks, cry, “Health to Messalla!” and in every utterance be the name of the absent heard.
33 Messalla, now the talk of all for thy triumph over the race of Aquitaine, whose victories cover thy unshorn ancestors with glory, hither come and breathe upon me while with my song I pay thanksgiving to the powers that tend the fields.
37 I sing the country and the country’s gods. They were the guides when man first ceased to chase his hunger with the acorns from the oak. They taught him first to put the planks together and cover his humble dwelling with green leaves. They too, ’tis told, trained bulls to be his slaves, and placed the wheel beneath the wain. Then savage habits passed away; then was the fruit-tree planted, and the thriving garden drank the water from the rills. Then the golden grapes gave up their juices to the trampling feet, and sober water was mixed with cheering wine. From the country comes our harvest, when in heaven’s glowing beat the earth is yearly shorn of her shock of yellow hair. Through the country flits the bee in spring-time, heaping the hive with flowers in her zeal to fill the combs with the honey sweet.
51 Then first the countryman, sated with ploughing without cease, sang rustic words in time and tune; and, full of meat, first composed a song on the dry oat-pipes to chaunt before the gods that his hands had dressed. And, Bacchus, it was a countryman that first dyed his skin with red vermilion and wound through the dance with unpractised art. It was he too that, offering from all his fold a gift to tell about, the lie-goat, leader of the flock, gained increase for his scanty wealth.
59 In the country the lad first made a circlet from the flowers of spring and placed it on the ancient Lares’ head. Of the country too is the sheep that will ere long make trouble for gentle girls with the soft fleece it wears upon its glistening back. Thence comes the toil of women’s hands, the weighed wool and the distaff, and the spindle that twists its work ‘twixt thumb and finger; and weaving women in unremitting service to Minerva sing while the loom clatters as the clay weights swing.
67 Desire too himself, they say, was born amid the fields, amid the cattle and the unbridled mares. There first he practised with prentice bow. Ah, me! what expert hands has he now! Nor are beasts his mark as heretofore. His joy is to pierce maids’ hearts and make the bold man bite the dust. He strips the young of their wealth; the old he forces to shameful speech at the threshold of an angry fair. He guides the girl who stealthily steps by prostrate watchers and comes alone to her lover in the night, high strung with fear, her feet feeling her path before her while her hand is advanced to find passage through the dark.
79 Ah, wretched they upon whom our god bears hardly; and happy is he on whom Love in his graciousness breathes gently. Come to our festal cheer, holy lord. But, prithee, lay aside thy arrows, and far from us put away thy burning torch.
83 Do ye chaunt the god whom all adore, and loudly call him for your herd. Let each one call him for the herd aloud, but in a whisper for himself. Or aloud too for himself: for the merriment of the throng and the bent pipe’s Phrygian note will drown the prayer. So take your sport. Now Night is yoking her team; and on their mother’s car follow the golden Stars, a capering troupe, while behind comes Sleep the silent, enwrapped in dusky wings, and black Visions of the night with wavering steps.
II
To Cornutus on his Birthday
1 Let naught but good words pass our lips: the Birth-sprite cometh to the altar. Whoso art with us, man or woman, peace! Let its fire burn the holy incense, burn the spices which the soft Arabian sends us from his wealthy land. Let the Genius come to view the offering to himself. Soft garlands must deck his hallowed locks; his temples must drop with spikenard pure; he must be filled with honey-cake and tipsy with neat wine. And to whatsoever thou askest, Cornutus, must he bow assent. See, quick! Why laggest thou? He bows, and thou must ask. I divine that thou wilt pray for thy wife’s true love: by now methinks the gods have learnt this well. Thou wouldst not have rather for thine own all the fields in the whole world that stout yeomen plough with sturdy steers, nor for thine own all pearls soever that grow for India the blest by the red waters of the Eastern sea.
17 ’Tis done as thou dost pray. See, on rustling wings Love flies to thy side with yellow bands to bind thy spouse — bands never to be loosed till dragging age bring wrinkles to her brow and bleach her hair. May the sign come true, Birth-spirit, and bring them offspring, and may a troop of younglings play before thy feet.
III
Nemesis is taken to the Country
1 IN country and farmhouse bides my girl, Cornutus. Ah, me! he is iron who can stay in town. Venus herself has moved into the spreading fields and Love is learning the rustic speech of ploughmen. Oh, when I looked upon my mistress, how stoutly there with my sturdy hoe would I turn the fertile soil and follow the curved plough as a tiller of the fields, while the barren oxen forced the clods up for the sowing! Nor would I murmur that the sun burned my slender limbs or that broken blisters hurt my delicate hands.
11 Apollo, too, the beautiful, fed the bulls of Admetus; nor did his lute and hair unshorn avail him aught, nor could he cure his trouble by healthgiving herbs. Love had triumphed o’er all resources of the healer’s art. The god became accustomed to drive the kine from the byre, [’tis said]... and taught the way of mixing rennet with new milk, and the milky stream curdled at its touch. Then was the cheese-basket woven from the bulrushes’ light stems, and here and there through their interlacings a passage left for the whey. Oh, how often as he went through the fields, a calf in his arms, do they say, his sister met him and blushed! Oh, how often, while he was singing deep in the valley, did the kine with their lowings rudely break in on the artistic verse! Often did chiefs seek oracles from him in times of trouble and the company go home in disappointment from his temple. Often did Latona grieve for the unkemptness of the sacred hair which before had been a marvel to his stepmother herself. Whoever had seen his head undecked and hair all loose would have asked indeed where were the locks of Phoebus. Where, Phoebus, is thy Delos now, and where thy Delphian Pytho? Why, Love bids thee house in a humble cot.
29 Happy the men of olden days, when they tell that gods eternal were not ashamed to be the open slaves of passion. Now is he the talk of all. But one that loves his girl would liefer be the talk of all than a god without a love.
32 And thou, whosoever thou art, whom frowning Love now bids make warfare in my house...
35 It is not love but booty that this iron age applauds. Yet booty is concerned in a multitude of ills. Booty buckles the armour of strife on the raging hosts; hence bloodshed comes, hence slaughter, and death approaches nigher than before. Booty bade men double the perils on the surging deep when it fitted the beaks of war to the rocking ships. ’Tis the freebooter who longs to seize upon the measureless plains, that on many an acre he may graze his countless sheep. His fancy turns to foreign marbles, and through the quaking city his column is carried by a thousand sturdy teams. For him the mole confines the tameless sea, that unconcerned inside the fish may reck naught of the storm that blusters near. But in my feast’s happy course let there be only the pottery of Samos or the slippery clay that Cumae’s wheels have shaped.
49 Alas! I see that maidens’ hearts are set upon the rich. Then come booty, if Love desires wealth, that my Nemesis may float in finery and step it through the city, in bravery a gift from me! Let her wear the gossamer robe which some woman of Cos has woven and laid it out in golden tracks. Let hers be the dusky pages that India scorches and the Sun’s fire tans as he drives so near. Let the lands vie to give her their choicest dyes, Afric the crimson and Tyre the purple.
59 What I say all know. That very man has now a kingdom who on the barbarians’ platform has oft been forced to move his gypsumed feet.
61 For thee, cruel fie
ld, that drawest Nemesis away from town, may Earth fail utterly to pay the grain she owes thee. And thou, soft Bacchus, planter of the pleasant grape-vine, do thou too, Bacchus, leave the vats that we have cursed. No one may bury fair maids ‘mid dreary fields without a punishment. Thy new wine, Sire, is not worth this price. Oh, let the corn go, so there are no lasses in the country; let acorns be our fare and water our drink in the olden way. Acorns were the food of the ancients, and they had love always wherever they were. What hurt to them if they had no furrows sown with seed?
71 Then to those on whom Love’s god breathed kindly did gentle Venus bring open pleasures in the shady vales. No watchers were there, nor door to close against the anguished. If it be not wrong, old custom, I pray thee to return. [Then... and let] rough limbs be clad in shaggy raiment. Now, if my love is under bolt and bar, it but seldom I can see her, poor wretch, what comfort is there in a flowing toga? Take me away; I will plough the fields at a mistress’s command. From chains and stripes my body shall not shrink.
IV
Female Covetousness. To Nemesis
1 HERE see I slavery and mistress waiting for me. Now, ancient freedom of my fathers, fare thee well. Yea, harsh slavery is my lot — chains to hold me and Love that never slackens the wretched prisoner’s bonds, and burns me whether I have deserved to suffer or have done no wrong. Ah, how I burn! Take the torch away, thou cruel girl.
7 Oh, not to feel such pangs as these, would I were rather a stone on the bleak hills or cliff exposed to the frenzy of the winds on which beats the shipwrecking wave of the desolate sea. Now bitter is the day and bitterer still the shades of night, for every moment is steeped in acrid gall.
13 Nor doth elegy help or Apollo, inspirer of my song. Her hollowed palm is ever stretched out for gold. Away, ye Muses, if ye have no aid for the lover; I court you not that I may sing of wars. Nor tell I of the goings of the Sun, nor how when she has accomplished her circuit the Moon wheels her horses and returns. Easy access to my lady is all I seek by song. Off with ye, Muses, if the song is of no avail.
21 Yet by crime and slaughter must I get gifts, that I may not lie lamenting before closed doors. Or I must seize the ornaments that hang in holy temples. But Venus must I pillage first. ’Tis she that prompts the evil deed, ’tis she that gives me a grasping mistress; so let her feel my sacrilegious hands.
27 Ah, ruin to all who gather the emeralds green or with Tyrian purple dye the snowy sheepskin. The stuffs of Cos and the bright pearl from out of the red seas sow greed in lasses. ’Tis these have made them evil. From these hath the door learned to feel the key, and the dog been set to guard the threshold. But if thou comest with a great fee, keys are no hindrance, and the very dog is mute. Ah, that god who gave beauty to the covetous girl, what a pearl did he bring to a herd of mischiefs! From this comes the noise of weeping and of bickering. This, in brief, is the cause that Love now roams the earth dishonoured.
39 But thou, that dost shut out lovers whom gold has vanquished, may wind and fire sweep off the wealth that thou hast gained. Nay, may the young then see thy house ablaze, and none bestir himself to put water on the fire. Or, if ’tis death that comes to thee, let there be none to mourn thee or come with offering to thy woful burial. But she that has been kind and free from greed, though she live a hundred years, shall be wept by the burning pyre. And some aged man in homage to his ancient love will yearly place a garland on her mounded tomb, and, as he goes, will say: “Sleep well and peacefully, and above thy untroubled ashes let the earth be light.”
51 ’Tis a true warning; but of what help is the truth to me? I must ply my love as she ordains. Yea, if she bid me sell the home of my forefathers, then, gods of the household, ye must stoop to be labelled at her word. All Circe’s, all Medea’s potions, all the herbs that the land of Thessaly bears, even the hippomanes which drips from the yearning mare when Venus breathes passion into unbridled herds, yea, a thousand herbs beside may my Nemesis mingle in the draught, and, so she look kindly on me, I will drink.
V
The Installation of Messalinus
1 BE gracious, Phoebus; a new priest sets foot within thy temple. Hither I bid thee come with lyre and song. Now, I prithee, let thy fingers sweep the singing strings; now tune thy song to a loyal paean. And while they heap the altar, come to thy rites thyself, thy brows encircled with triumphal bay. Come bright and beautiful; now don thy treasured raiment; now duly comb thy flowing locks. Be as men tell thou wast when, Saturn driven from his throne, thou sangest a paean for victorious Jove.
11 Thou seest from afar the things to come. The augur whose soul is given up to thee knows well what means the note of the bird that foresees what is to be. ’Tis thou dost guide the lots; through thee divines the reader of the inward parts, whensoever a god has set his marks on the glistening entrails.
15 With thee her guide, the Sibyl who sings Fate’s hidden will in six-foot measure hath never played the Romans false. Phoebus, grant leave to Messalinus to touch the seeress’ holy scroll, and teach him thyself the meaning of her strains.
19’Twas she that gave responses to Aeneas after the hour when, as story tells, he bore away in his arms his sire and household gods, never dreaming that a Rome would be, when from the deep he turned his eyes in sorrow on Ilion and its gods ablaze.
23 (Not yet had Romulus traced the walls of the Eternal City wherein was no abiding for his brother Remus. But still on a grassy Palatine browsed the kine, and lowly cabins stood upon the heights of Jove. There drenched with milk, was Pan beneath the holm-oak’s shade, and Pales shaped from wood by rustic knife; and on the tree, in quittance of the roving shepherd’s vow, the prattling pipe hung sacred to the woodland god — the pipe with its ever-dwindling rows of reeds, “whose wax joins stalks each lesser than the last. But where now spreads the quarter of Velabrum, a small skiff stirred the waters as it plied across the shallows. There oft a lass who would please some rich keeper of a herd was ferried on holidays to her swain, and with her came back the gifts of a thriving farm, cheese and the white lamb of a snowy ewe.)
39 “Aeneas never-resting, brother of Cupid ever on the wing, whose exiled barks carry the holy things of Troy, now doth Jove allot to thee the fields of Laurentum, now doth a hospitable land invite thy wandering gods. There shall divinity be thine when Numicius’ ever-worshipped waters pass thee to heaven, a god of the native-born. See, o’er the weary ships is Victory hovering. At last the haughty goddess comes to the men of Troy. Lo, I see the fire blaze from the Rutule camp. Now, savage Turnus, I foretell thy fall. Before my eyes is Laurentum’s fortress and Lavinium’s wall, and Long Alba, which Ascanius leads his host to found. Now thee too, Ilia, priestess whom Mars is to find fair, I see departed from the Vestal hearth. I see thy secret bridal, thy snood cast upon the ground, and, left upon the banks, the arms of the eager god. Now, while ye may, bulls, crop the grass of the Seven Hills. Ere long this will be a great city’s site. Thy nation, Rome, is fated to rule the earth wherever Ceres looks from heaven upon the fields she tends, both where the gates of dawn are opened and where in tossing waters the Ocean river bathes the Sun-god’s panting team. Then shall old Troy be a marvel to herself, and own that in this far journey ye did well for her. ’Tis truth I sing; so may I ever eat the holy bay unharmed and everlasting maidenhood be mine.”
65 So sang the seeress, and called thee to her, Phoebus, and tossed before her face her streaming hair.
67 All that Amalthea, all that Herophile of Marpessos foretold, all the warnings of Grecian Phyto and hers of Tibur who carried her holy scrolls of destiny through the stream of Anio and in dry bosom bore them home.... These told that a comet should appear, the evil sign of war, and how that thick on earth should fall the stony shower. And they say that trumpets and the clash of arms were heard in heaven, and sacred groves rang with the coming rout. From the images of the gods poured the warm tears; and kine found tongue and spake of the coming doom. Yea, from the very Sun ebbed the light, and the clouded year saw him yoke dim horses t
o his car.
79 So was it once; but thou, Apollo, kind at last, whelm monstrous things beneath the savage deep. Let the bay crackle loud as it kindles in the holy flames, an omen telling that the season shall be blest and holy. When the bay has given propitious sign, rejoice, ye farmers: Ceres will fill with ears your straining barns. And smeared with must the countryman will stamp above the grapes till the great tanks and butts can hold no more. And drenched in wine the shepherd will chaunt the feast of Pales, the shepherd’s holiday. Ye wolves, be ye then far from the fold. Full of drink, he will fire the light straw heaps in the appointed way, and leap across the sacred flames. Then shall his dame bear offspring, and the child take hold of his father’s ears to snatch the kiss; nor shall the grandsire find it irksome to watch by his little grandson’s side, nor, for all his years, to lisp in prattle with the child.
95 Then in the god’s service the folk shall recline upon the grass where fall the flickering shadows of some ancient tree, or of their garments spread out canopies and tie them up with garlands, wreaths also round the goblets where they stand. Then each for himself will pile high the feast and festal board, cut sods the table and cut sods the couch. Here the tipsy lad will heap curses on his lass, such as erelong he will hope and pray may turn to naught. Aye, he who is now so savage with his dear will weep when he is sober, and swear that his wits had gone astray.
105 Phoebus, by thy good leave, let bows and arrows perish, so Love may rove unarmed upon the earth. ’Tis an honest craft; but since Cupid took to carrying arrows, how many, ah me, has that honest craft made smart! And me beyond the rest. For a year have I been afflicted from his stroke, and, siding with my malady (for the pain itself is pleasure), I sing unceasingly of Nemesis, apart from whom no verse of mine can find its words or proper feet.