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.