If bright Aurora mourned for Memnon's fate,
Or the fair Thetis wept Achilles slain,
And the sad sorrows that on mortals wait
Can ever move celestial hearts with pain—
Come, doleful Elegy! too just a name!
Unbind thy tresses fair, in loose attire,
For he, thy bard, the herald of thy fame,
T IBULLUS , burns on the funereal pyre.
Ah, lifeless corse! Lo! Venus' boy draws near
With upturned quiver and with shattered bow,
His torch extinguisht, see him toward the bier
With drooping wings disconsolately go.
He smites hiSheaving breast with cruel blow,
Those straggling locks, his neck all streaming round,
Receive the tears that fastly trickling flow,
While sobs convulsive from his lips resound.
In guise like this, Iulus, when of yore
His dear Æneas died, he sorrowing went;
Now Venus wails as when the raging boar
The tender thigh of her Adonis rent.
We bards are named the gods' peculiar care;
Nay, some declare that poets are divine;
Yet forward death no holy thing can spare,
Round all his dismal armShe dares entwine.
Did Orpheus' mother aid, or Linus' sire?
That one subdued fierce lions by his song
Availed not; and, they say, with plaintive lyre
The god mourned Linus, woods and glades among.
Mæonides, from whose perennial lay
Flow the rich fonts of the Pierian wave
To wet the lips of bards, one dismal day
Sent down to Orcus and the gloomy grave—
Him, too, Avernus holds in drear employ;
Only his songs escape the greedy pile;
His work remains—the mighty wars of Troy,
And the slow web, unwove by nightly guile.
Live a pure life;—yet death remains thy doom:
Be pious;—ere from sacred shrines you rise,
Death drags you heedless to the hollow tomb!
Confide in song—lo! there Tibullus lies.
Scarce of so great a soul, thus lowly laid,
Enough remains to fill this little urn;
O holy bard! were not the flames afraid
That hallowed corse thus ruthlessly to burn?
These might devour the heavenly halls that shine
With gold—they dare a villany so deep:
She turned who holds the Erycinian shrine,
And there are some who say she turned to weep.
Yet did the base soil of a stranger land
Not hold him nameless; as the spirit fled
His mother closed his eyes with gentle hand,
And paid the last sad tribute to the dead.
Here, with thy wretched mother's woe to wait,
Thy sister came with loose dishevelled hair;
Nemesis kisses thee, and thy earlier mate—
They watcht the pyre when all had left it bare.
Departing, Delia faltered, “Thou wert true,
The Fates were cheerful then, when I was thine:”
The other, “Say, what hast thou here to do?”
Dying, he claspt his failing hand in mine.
Ah, yet, if any part of us remains
But name and shadow, Albius is not dead;
And thou, Catullus, in Elysian plains,
With Calvus see the ivy crown hiShead.
Thou, Gallus, prodigal of life and blood,
If false the charge of amity betrayed,
And aught remains across the Stygian flood,
Shalt meet him yonder with thy happy shade.
Refined Tibullus! thou art joined to those
Living in calm communion with the blest;
In peaceful urn thy quiet bones repose—
May earth lie lightly where thy ashes rest!
Or the fair Thetis wept Achilles slain,
And the sad sorrows that on mortals wait
Can ever move celestial hearts with pain—
Come, doleful Elegy! too just a name!
Unbind thy tresses fair, in loose attire,
For he, thy bard, the herald of thy fame,
T IBULLUS , burns on the funereal pyre.
Ah, lifeless corse! Lo! Venus' boy draws near
With upturned quiver and with shattered bow,
His torch extinguisht, see him toward the bier
With drooping wings disconsolately go.
He smites hiSheaving breast with cruel blow,
Those straggling locks, his neck all streaming round,
Receive the tears that fastly trickling flow,
While sobs convulsive from his lips resound.
In guise like this, Iulus, when of yore
His dear Æneas died, he sorrowing went;
Now Venus wails as when the raging boar
The tender thigh of her Adonis rent.
We bards are named the gods' peculiar care;
Nay, some declare that poets are divine;
Yet forward death no holy thing can spare,
Round all his dismal armShe dares entwine.
Did Orpheus' mother aid, or Linus' sire?
That one subdued fierce lions by his song
Availed not; and, they say, with plaintive lyre
The god mourned Linus, woods and glades among.
Mæonides, from whose perennial lay
Flow the rich fonts of the Pierian wave
To wet the lips of bards, one dismal day
Sent down to Orcus and the gloomy grave—
Him, too, Avernus holds in drear employ;
Only his songs escape the greedy pile;
His work remains—the mighty wars of Troy,
And the slow web, unwove by nightly guile.
Live a pure life;—yet death remains thy doom:
Be pious;—ere from sacred shrines you rise,
Death drags you heedless to the hollow tomb!
Confide in song—lo! there Tibullus lies.
Scarce of so great a soul, thus lowly laid,
Enough remains to fill this little urn;
O holy bard! were not the flames afraid
That hallowed corse thus ruthlessly to burn?
These might devour the heavenly halls that shine
With gold—they dare a villany so deep:
She turned who holds the Erycinian shrine,
And there are some who say she turned to weep.
Yet did the base soil of a stranger land
Not hold him nameless; as the spirit fled
His mother closed his eyes with gentle hand,
And paid the last sad tribute to the dead.
Here, with thy wretched mother's woe to wait,
Thy sister came with loose dishevelled hair;
Nemesis kisses thee, and thy earlier mate—
They watcht the pyre when all had left it bare.
Departing, Delia faltered, “Thou wert true,
The Fates were cheerful then, when I was thine:”
The other, “Say, what hast thou here to do?”
Dying, he claspt his failing hand in mine.
Ah, yet, if any part of us remains
But name and shadow, Albius is not dead;
And thou, Catullus, in Elysian plains,
With Calvus see the ivy crown hiShead.
Thou, Gallus, prodigal of life and blood,
If false the charge of amity betrayed,
And aught remains across the Stygian flood,
Shalt meet him yonder with thy happy shade.
Refined Tibullus! thou art joined to those
Living in calm communion with the blest;
In peaceful urn thy quiet bones repose—
May earth lie lightly where thy ashes rest!