To Plautus and Cæcilius: or shall I Be envied, if my little fund supply

Its frugal wealth of words, since bards, who sung
In ancient days, enrich'd their native tongue
With large increase? An undisputed power
Of coining money from the rugged ore,
Nor less of coining words, is still confess'd,
If with a legal, public stamp impress'd.

As when the forest, with the bending year,
First sheds the leaves which earliest appear,
So an old age of words maturely dies,
Others new-born in youth and vigour rise.

We and our noblest works to fate must yield; Even Cæsar's mole, which royal pride might build,

Where Neptune far into the land extends,
And from the raging north our fleet defends;
That barren marsh, whose cultivated plain
Now gives the neighbouring towns its various
grain;

Tiber, who taught a better current, yields
To Cæsar's power, nor deluges our fields:
All these must perish, and shall words presume
To hold their honours, and immortal bloom?
Many shall rise, that now forgotten lie;
Others, in present credit, soon shall die,
If custom will, whose arbitrary sway,
Words, and the forms of language, must obey.

Your style should an important difference make
When heroes, gods, or awful sages speak;
When florid youth, whom gay desires inflame;
A busy servant, or a wealthy dame;
A merchant, wandering with incessant toil,
Or he, who cultivates the verdant soil;
But if in foreign realms you fix your scene,
Their genius, customs, dialects maintain.

Or follow fame, or in th' invented tale
Let seeming, well-united truth prevail:
If Homer's great Achilles tread the stage,
Intrepid, fierce, of unforgiving rage,
Like Homer's hero, let him spurn all laws,
And by the sword alone assert his cause.
With untamed fury let Medea glow,
And Ino's tears in ceaseless anguish flow.
From realm to realm her griefs let lo bear,
And sad Orestes rave in deep despair.
But if you venture on an untried theme,
And form a person yet unknown to fame,
From his first entrance to the closing scene,
Let him one equal character maintain.

"Tis hard a new-form'd fable to express, And make it seem your own. With more success You may from Homer take the tale of Troy, Than on an untried plot your strength employ. Yet would you make a common theme your own,

Dwell not on incidents already known;
Nor word for word translate with painful care,
Nor be confined in such a narrow sphere,
From whence (while you should only imitate)
Shame and the rules forbid you to retreat.

Begin your work with modest grace and plain,
Nor like the bard of everlasting strain,
"I sing the glorious war and Priam's fate"-
How will the boaster hold this yawning rate?

The mountains labour'd with prodigious throes,
And, lo! a mouse ridiculous arose.

Far better he, who ne'er attempts in vain,
Opening his poem in this humble strain;
Muse, sing the man who, after Troy subdued,
Manners and towns of various nations view'd;
He does not lavish at a blaze his fire,
Sudden to glare, and in a smoke expire;
But rouses from a cloud of smoke to light,
And pours his specious miracles to sight;
Antiphates his hideous feast devours,
Charybdis barks, and Polyphemus roars.

He would not, like our modern poet, date
His hero's wanderings from his uncle's fate;
Nor sing ill-fated Ilium's various woes,
From Helen's birth, from whom the war arose;
But to the grand event he speeds his course,
And bears his readers with resistless force
Into the midst of things, while every line
Opens, by just degrees, his whole design.
Artful he knows each circumstance to leave
Which will not grace and ornament receive:
Then truth and fiction with such skill he blends,
That equal he begins, proceeds, and ends.

Mine and the public judgment are the same; Then hear what I, and what your audience claim. If you would keep us till the curtain fall, And the last chorus for a plaudit call, The manners must your strictest care engage, The levitics of youth and strength of age. The child, who now with firmer footing walks, And with unfaltering, well-form'd accents talks, Loves childish sports; with causeless anger burns, And idly pleased with every moment turns.

The youth, whose will no froward tutor bounds, Joys in the sunny field, his horse and hounds; Yielding, like wax, th' impressive folly bears; Rough to reproof, and slow to future cares; Profuse and vain; with every passion warm'd, And swift to leave what late his fancy charm'd. With strength improved, the manly spirit bends

To different aims, in search of wealth and friends;
Bold and ambitious in pursuit of fame,
And wisely cautious in the doubtful scheme.

A thousand ills the aged world surround,
Anxious in search of wealth, and when 'tis found,
Fearful to use what they with fear possess,
While doubt and dread their faculties depress.
Fond of delay, they trust in hope no more,
Listless, and fearful of th' approaching hour;
Morose, complaining, and with tedious praise
Talking the manners of their youthful days;
Severe to censure; earnest to advise,
And with old saws the present age chastise.

The blessings flowing in with life's full tide
Down with our ebb of life decreasing glide;
Then let not youth or infancy engage
To play the parts of manhood or of age;
For where the proper characters prevail,
We dwell with pleasure on the well-wrought
tale.

The business of the drama must appear
In action or description. What we hear,
With weaker passion will affect the heart,
Than when the faithful eye beholds the part.

Thespis, inventor of the tragic art,
Carried his vagrant players in a cart:
High o'er the crowd the mimic tribe appear'd,
And play'd and sung, with lees of wine be-
smear'd.

Then Eschylus a decent vizard used;
Built a low stage; the flowing robe diffused.
In language more sublime his actors rage,
And in the graceful buskin tread the stage.
And now the ancient comedy appear'd,
Nor without pleasure and applause was heard;
But soon its freedom rising to excess,
The laws were forced its boldness to suppress,
And, when no longer licensed to defame,
It sunk to silence with contempt and shame.
Good sense, the fountain of the muse's art,
Let the strong page of Socrates impart,
And if the mind with clear conceptions glow,
The willing words in just expression flow.

How various nature warms the human breast,
To love the parent, brother, friend or guest;
What the great offices of judges are,
Of senators, of generals sent to war;
He surely knows, with nice, well-judging art,
The strokes peculiar to each different part.
Keep Nature's great original in view,
And thence the living images pursue;
For when the sentiments and diction please,
And all the characters are wrought with ease,
Your play, though void of beauty, force and art,
More strongly shall delight and warm the heart,
Than where a lifeless pomp of verse appears,
And with sonorous trifles charms our ears.

'Tis long disputed, whether poets claim From art or nature their best right to fame; But art, if not enrich'd by nature's vein, And a rude genius, of uncultured strain, Are useless both; but when in friendship join'd, A mutual succour in each other find.

A youth who hopes th' Olympic prize to gain, All arts must try, and every toil sustain; Th' extremes of heat and cold must often prove, And shun the weakening joys of wine and love.

Who sings the Pythic song, first learn'd to raise Each note distinct, and a stern master please; But now "Since I can write the true sublime, Curse catch the hindmost!" cries the man of rhyme.

"What! in a science own myself a fool,

Because, forsooth, I learn'd it not by rule?"

ALBIUS TIBULLUS was a Roman knight, and a friend and associate of Horace, Propertius, and Ovid. He served, when young, under Brutus and Cassius; was present with them at Philippi, and, afterwards, on the overthrow of their righteous cause, retired to his country seat at Pedum, between which and Rome, except when called into the field by his illustrious friend and patron Messala Corvinus, he continued to divide his days.

The following portrait of him has been left to us by Horace in one of his Epistles:

Albius! in whom my satires find

A critic, most sincere and kind,
What dost thou now on Pedan plains?
Write verse, outvying Cassius' strains?

Steal, silent, through the healthful wood,
With thoughts that fit the wise and good?
Thou art not body without mind;
The gods to thee a form assign'd,
But form, with sense and worth combin'd;
Have given thee wealth, with art to know
How best to use what they bestow.
Then what could fondest nurse-what more-
For her dear foster-child-implore,

Of wit and eloquence possest,

In health, grace, fame, and station blest,
A hospitable board, with friends,
And means sufficient for his ends?

Book I. Epistle IV.

Tibullus is believed to have died at the age of forty-four or forty-five, the year after Virgil's death, | and about eighteen years before the Christian era.

FROM THE ELEGIES.

Book I.

FROM ELEGY I.-TO DELIA.

LET others heap of wealth a shining store,
And, much possessing, labour still for more;
Let them disquieted with dire alarms
Aspire to win a dang'rous fame in arms;
Me tranquil poverty shall lull to rest,
Humbly secure and indolently blest;
Warm'd by the blaze of my own cheerful hearth
I'll waste the wintry hours in social mirth;
In summer pleas'd, attend the harvest toils,
In autumn, press the vineyard's purple spoils,
And oft to Delia in my bosom bear
Some kid or lamb which wants its mother's care:
With her I'll celebrate each gladsome day
When swains their sportive rites to Bacchus pay;
With her new milk on Pales' altar pour,
And deck, with ripen'd fruits, Pomona's bower.
At night how soothing would it be to hear,
Safe in her arms, the tempest howling near;
Or, while the wintry clouds their deluge pour,
Slumber, assisted by the beating shower!
Ah! how much happier than the fool who braves,
In search of wealth, the black tempestuous
waves!

While I, contented with my little store,
In tedious voyage seek no distant shore;
But idly lolling on some shady seat,
Near cooling fountains, shun the Dog-star's heat:
For what reward so rich could Fortune give
That I by absence should my Delia grieve?
Let great Messala shine in martial toils,
And grace his palace with triumphal spoils,
Me beauty holds in strong though gentle chains,
Far from tumultuous war and dusty plains.
With thee, my love! to pass my tranquil days
How would I slight ambition's painful praise!
How would I joy with thee, my love! to yoke
The ox, and feed my solitary flock!

On thy soft breast might I but lean my head,
How downy would I think the woodland bed!
Hard were his heart who thee, my fair! could
leave

For all the honours prosp'rous war can give, Though through the vanquish'd east he spread

his fame,

And Parthian tyrants tremble at his name, Though bright in arms, while hosts around him bleed,

With martial pride he prest the foaming steed.
No pomps like these my humble vows require;
With thee I'll live, and in thy arms expire.
Thee, may my closing eyes in death behold!
Thee may my falt ring hand yet strive to hold!
Then, Delia! then thy heart will melt in woe,
Then, o'er my breathless clay thy tears will flow;
Thy tears will flow, for gentle is thy mind,
Nor dost thou think it weakness to be kind.
But ah! fair mourner! I conjure thee, spare
Thy heaving breasts and loose dishevell'd hair;
Wound not thy form, lest on th' Elysian coast
Thy anguish should disturb my peaceful ghost.
But now, nor death nor parting should employ
Our sprightly thoughts, or damp our bridal joy:

We'll live, my Delia! and from life remove
All care, all business, but delightful love.
Old age in vain those pleasures would retrieve
Which youth alone can taste, alone can give:
Then let us snatch the moment to be blest;
This hour is Love's-be Fortune's all the rest.

FROM ELEGY III-THE GOLDEN AGE.

How blest the man in Saturn's golden days,
Ere distant climes were join'd by lengthen'd ways.
Secure the pines upon the mountains grew,
Nor bounding barks o'er ocean's billows flew;
Then every clime a wild abundance bore,
And man liv'd happy on his native shore;
Then had no steer submitted to the yoke;
Then had no steed to feel the bit been broke;
No house had gates, (blest times!) and, in the
grounds

No scanty landmarks parcell'd out the bounds;
From every oak redundant honey ran,
And ewes spontaneous bore their milk to man;
No deathful arms were forg'd, no war was wag'd,
No rapine plunder'd, no ambition rag'd.
How chang'd alas! Now cruel Jove commands;
Gold fires the soul, and falchions arm our hands;
Each day the main unnumber'd lives destroys,
And slaughter, daily, o'er her myriads joys.
Yet spare me, Jove; I ne'er disown'd thy sway;
I ne'er was perjur'd,-spare me, Jove, I pray.
But, if the Sisters have pronounc'd my doom,
Be this inscrib'd upon my humble tomb:
"Following Messala over earth and wave,
Here rests Tibullus, in his early grave."

FROM ELEGY X.-WAR AND PEACE.

WHO was the first that forg'd the deadly blade? Of rugged steel his savage soul was made; Then slaughter rag'd, then war his banners rear'd,

And shorter ways to dreadful death appear'd. Yet wherefore blame him? We're ourselves to blame;

Who turn'd on man, arms meant for savage game.
Death-dealing battles were unknown of old,
Death-dealing battles took their rise from gold.
When beachen bowls on oaken tables stood,
When temperate acorns were our father's food,
The swain slept peaceful, with his flocks around;
No trench was open'd, and no fortress frown'd.
O had I lived in gentle days like these,
To love devoted and to home-felt ease!
But now I'in dragg'd to war; perhaps my foe
E'en now prepares the inevitable blow.

Come then, paternal gods, whose help I've

Or dulcet cakes himself the farmer paid,
When crown'd his wishes by your powerful aid;
While his fair daughter brought with her from
home,

The luscious offering of a honey-comb;
If now you'll aid me in the hour of need,
Your care I'll recompense-a boar shall bleed.

In a thatch'd cottage happier by far,
Who never hears of arms, of gold or war;
His chaste embrace a numerous offspring crown
He courts not Fortune's smile nor dreads her
frown;

While lenient baths at home his wife prepares,
He, and his sons, attend their fleecy cares;
As old, as poor, as peaceful may I be,

So guard my flocks, and such an offspring see; Meantime may Peace descend and bless our plains;

Soft Peace to plough, with oxen, taught the swains;

Peace nurs'd the orchard, and matur'd the vine, And, first, gay laughing press'd the ruddy wine; The father quaff'd, deep quaff'd his joyous friends;

Yet to the son a well-stored vault descends.

Book III.

FROM ELEGY II.

AND when, a slender shade, I shall aspire
From smouldering embers and the funeral fire,
May sad Neæra to my pile repair,
With tears (how precious!) and unbraided hair,
Mix'd with a mother's sighs her sorrows pour,
And one a husband, one a child deplore;
With words of fond regret and broken sigh
Please the poor shade that hovering lingers nigh,
With pious rites my cherish'd bones adorn,
(The last sad remnant of the man they mourn,)
Nor spare my thirsting ashes to enshrine,
With purest milk bedew'd and purple wine;
And dry the shower by soft affection shed,
Or ere they place them in their marble bed.
In that sad house may every fragrance stored,
That warm Assyria's perfumed meads afford,
And grief, from memory's tearful fount that flows,
Soothe my charm'd spirit, and my bones compose.

Book IV.

SULPICIA.

MARS! on thy calends, fair Sulpicia see,
Deck'd in her gay habiliments for thee.
Come-Venus will forgive: descend, if wise:
To view her beauties leave thyself the skies.
But oh, beware! lest, gazing on her charms,
Fierce as thou art, thou meanly drop thine arms.
For, from her eyes, when gods are Cupid's aim,
He lights two lamps that burn with keenest
flame.

Whate'er she does, where'er her steps she moves,
There Grace attends, and every act improves.
Graceful her locks, in loose disorder spread;
Graceful the smoother braid that binds her head.

Whether rich Tyrian robes her charms invest,
Or all in snowy white the nymph is drest,
All, all she graces, still supremely fair,
Still charms spectators with a fond despair.
A thousand dresses thus Vertumnus wears,
And beauteous equally in each appears.

SULPICIA ON CERINTHUS GOING TO THE CHASE.
WHETHER, fierce boars, in flowery meads ye stray,
Or haunt the shady mountain's devious way,
Whet not your teeth against my dear one's
charms,

But oh, let faithful Love restore him to my arms. What madness 'tis the trackless wilds to beat, And wound with pointed thorns thy tender feet: Oh! why to savage beast thy charms oppose? With toils and bloodhounds why their haunts

enclose?

Yet, yet with thee, Cerinthus, might I rove, Thy nets I'd trail through every mountain grove, Would track the bounding stags through tainted grounds,

Beat up their covers and unchain thy hounds.
But most to spread our artful toils I'd joy,
For, while we watch'd them, I could clasp my
boy!

O, without me, ne'er taste the joys of love,
But a chaste hunter in my absence prove;
And O, may boars the wanton fair destroy,
Who would Cerinthus to her arms decoy!
Yet, yet I dread!-Be sports thy father's care;
But thou, all love! to these fond arms repair!

TO SULPICIA.

"NEVER shall woman's smile have power To win me from those gentle charms !"Thus swore I in that happy hour

When Love first gave them to my arms.
And still alone thou charm'st my sight-
Still, though our city proudly shine
With forms and faces fair and bright,
I see none fair or bright but thine.
Would thou wert fair for only me

And could'st no heart but mine allure!

To all men else unpleasing be,

So shall I feel my prize secure.

Oh love like mine ne'er wants the zest
Of others' envy, others' praise;

But, in its silence safely blest,

Broods o'er a bliss it ne'er betrays. Charm of my life! by whose sweet power All cares are hush'd, all ills subdued— My light, in even the darkest hour, My crowd in deepest solitude! No; not though Heaven itself sent down Some maid of more than heavenly charms, With bliss undreamt thy bard to crown, Would I for her forsake those charms.

This and the two preceding poems have been considered by some as the compositions of another writer. Dissenius, however, contends for Tibullus, and supposes them to have been written by him, under the assumed characters of Cerinthus and Sulpicia.

FROM THE ELEGIES. Book II.

FROM ELEGY I.

YET would the tyrant Love but let me raise
My feeble voice, to sound the victor's praise,
To paint the hero's toil, the ranks of war,
The laurell'd triumph, and the sculptur'd car;
No giant race, no tumult of the skies,
No mountain-structures in my verse should rise,
Nor tale of Thebes, nor Ilium should there be,
Nor how the Persian trod the indignant sea;
Not Marius' Cimbrian wreaths would I relate,
Nor lofty Carthage struggling with her fate.
Here should Augustus great in arms appear,
And thou, Mecanas, be my second care;
Here Mutina from flames and famine free,
And there the ensanguin'd war of Sicily,
And scepter'd Alexandria's captive shore,
And sad Philippi, red with Roman gore:
Then, while the vaulted skies loud ïos rend,

In golden chains should loaded monarchs bend,
And hoary Nile with pensive aspect seem
To mourn the glories of his seven-fold stream,
While prows, that late in fierce encounter met,
Move through the sacred way, and vainly threat.
Thee, too, the Muse should consecrate to fame,
And with her garlands weave thy ever-faithful

name.

But nor Callimachus' enervate strain May tell of Jove, and Phlegra's blasted plain; Nor I with unaccustom'd vigour trace Back to its source divine the Julian raceSailors, to tell of winds and seas delight, The shepherd of the flock, the soldier of the fight, A milder warfare I in verse display; Each in his proper art should waste the day: Nor thou my gentle calling disapprove, To die is glorious in the bed of love.

Happy the youth, and not unknown to fame, Whose heart has never felt a second flame. Oh might that envied happiness be mine! To Cynthia all my wishes I'd confine; Or if, alas! it be my fate to try Another love, the quicker let me die: But she the mistress of my faithful breast, Has oft the charms of constancy confest, Condemns her fickle sex's fond mistake, And hates the tale of Troy for Helen's sake.

Me from myself the soft enchantress stole;
Ah! let her ever my desires control,
Or if I fall the victim of her scorn,
From her loved door may my pale corse be borne.
The power of herbs can other harms remove,
And find a cure for every ill but love.
The Lemnian's hurt Machaon could repair,
Heal the slow chief, and send again to war;
To Chiron Phoenix owed his long-lost sight,
And Phœbus' son recalled Androgeon to the light.
Here arts are vain, e'en magic here must fail,
The powerful mixture, and the midnight spell;
The hand that can my captive heart release,
And to this bosom give its wonted peace,
May the long thirst of Tantalus allay,
Or drive the infernal vulture from his prey.
For ills unseen, what remedy is found?
Or who can probe the undiscover'd wound?
The bed avails not, nor the leech's care,
Nor changing skies can hurt, nor sultry air.
'Tis hard th' elusive symptoms to explore;
To-day the lover walks, to-morrow is no more;
A train of mourning friends attend his pall,
And wonder at the sudden funeral.

When then, the Fates that breath they gave,