ELEGY THE FOURTH
A DREAM FROM PHOEBUS
Be kinder, gods! Let not the dreams come true
Which last night's cruel slumber bade believe!
Begone! your vain, delusive spells undo,
Nor ask me to receive!
The gods tell truth. With truth the Tuscan seer
In entrails dark a book of fate may find;
But dreams are folly and with fruitless fear
Address the trembling mind.
Although mankind, against night's dark surprise
With sprinkled meal or salt ward off the ill,
And often turn deaf ear to prophets wise,
While dreams deceive them still;—
May bright Lucina my foreboding mind
From such vain terrors of the night redeem,
For in my soul no deed of guilt I find,
Nor do my lips blaspheme.
Now had the Night upon her ebon wain
Passed o'er the upper sky, and dipped a wheel
In the blue sea: but Sleep, the friend of pain,
Refused my sense to seal.
Sleep stands defeated at the house of care:
And only when from purpled orient skies
Peered Phoebus forth, did tardy slumber bear
Down on my weary eyes.
Then seemed a youth with holy laurel crowned
To fill my door: a wight so wondrous rare
Was not in all the vanished ages found.
No marble half so fair!
Adown his neck, with myrtle-buds inwove
And Syrian dews, his unshorn tresses flow:
White is he as the moon in heaven above,
But rose is blent with snow.
Like that soft blush on face of virgin fair
Led to her husband; or as maidens twine
Lilies in amaranth; or Autumn's air
Tinges the apples fine.
A long, loose mantle to his ankles played,—
Such vesture did his lucent shape enfold:
His left hand bore the vocal lyre, all made
Of gleaming shell and gold.
He smote its strings with ivory instrument,
And words auspicious tuned his heavenly tongue;
Then, while his hands and voice concording blent,
These sad, sweet words he sung:
"Hail, blest of Heaven! For a poet divine
Phoebus and Bacchus and the Muses bless.
But Bacchus and the skilful Sisters nine
No prophecies possess.
"But of what Fate ordains for times to be
Jove gave me vision. Therefore, minstrel dear!
Receive what my unerring lips decree!
The Cynthian wisdom hear!
"She whom thy love holds dearer than sweet child
Is to a mother's breast, or virgin soft
To longing lover, she for whom thy wild
Prayers vex high Heaven so oft,
"Who worries thee each day, and vainly fills
Dark-mantled sleep with visions that beguile,
Lovely Neaera, theme of all thy quills,
Now elsewhere gives her smile.
"For sighs not thine her fickle passions flame:
For thy chaste house Neaera has no care.
O cruel tribe! O woman, faithless name!
Curse on the false and fair!
"But woo her still! For mutability
Is woman's soul. Fond vows may yet prevail,
Fierce love bears well a woman's cruelty,
Nor at the lash will quail.
"That I did feed Admetus' heifers white
Is no light tale. Upon the lyric string
Nor more could I my joyful notes indite,
Nor with sweet concord sing.
"On oaten pipe I sued the woodland Muse—
I, of Latona and the Thunderer son!
Thou knowst not what love is, if thou refuse
T'endure a cruel one.
"Go, then, and ply her with persuasive woe!
Soft supplications the hard heart subdue.
Then, if my oracles the future know,
Give her this message true:
"'The God whose seat is Delos' marble isle,
Declares this marriage happy and secure.
It has Apollo's own auspicious smile.
Cast off that rival wooer!'"
He spoke: dull slumber from my body fell.
Can I believe such perils round me fold?
That such discordant vows thy tongue can tell?
Thy heart in guilt so bold?
Thou wert not gendered by the Pontic Sea,
Nor where Chimaera's lips fierce flame out-pour,
Nor of that dog with tongues and foreheads three,
His back all snakes and gore;
Nor out of Scylla's whelp-engirdled womb;
Nor wert thou of fell lioness the child;
Nor was thy cradle Scythia's forest-gloom,
Nor Syrtis' sandy wild.
No, but thy home was human! round its fire
Sate creatures lovable: of all her kind
Thy mother was the mildest, and thy sire
Showed a most friendly mind.
May Heaven in these bad dreams good omen show,
And bid warm south-winds to oblivion blow!
ELEGY THE FIFTH
TO FRIENDS AT THE BATHS
You take your pleasure by Etrurian streams,
Save when the dog-star burns:
Or bathe you where mysterious Baiae steams,
When purple Spring returns.
But dread Persephone assigns to me
The hour of gloom and fears.
O Queen of death! be innocence my plea!
Pity my youthful tears!
I never have profaned that sacred shrine
Where none but women go,
Nor in my cup cast hemlock, or poured wine
Death-drugged for friend or foe.
I have not burned a temple: nor to crime
My fevered passions given:
Nor with wild blasphemy at worship-time
Insulted frowning Heaven.
Not yet is my dark hair defaced with gray,
Nor stoop nor staff have I;
For I was born upon that fatal day
That saw two consuls die.
What profits it from tender vine to tear
The growing grape? Or who
Would pluck with naughty hand an apple fair,
Before its season due?
Have mercy! gods who keep the murky stream
Of that third kingdom dark!
On my far future let Elysium beam!
Postpone me Charon's bark!—
Till wrinkled age shall make my features pale,
And to the listening boys
The old man babbles his repeated tale
Of vanished days and joys!
I trust I fear too much this fever-heat
Which two long weeks I have,
While with Etrurian nymphs ye sweetly meet,
And cleave the yielding wave.
Live lucky, friends! live loyal unto me,
Though life, though death be mine!
Let herds all black dread Pluto's offering be
With white milk and red wine!