And by thy head! and dire shall be his doom,
Who may to slight that awful oath presume!
But what can stand against the might of steel?
'Twas that which made the proudest mountain reel,
Of all by Thia's radiant son survey'd,
What time the Mede a new Egean made,
And hosts barbaric steer'd their galleys tall
Through rifted Athos' adamantine wall.
When things like these the power of steel confess,
What help or refuge for a woman's tress?
Oh, Jove! be all the Chalyb race accurst,
All, and whoe'er through earth's recesses first
Track'd out the veinèd ore, and in the fire
First shaped and temper'd it to uses dire!
Whilst yet my sister tresses, parted late
From me they lov'd, were mourning o'er my fate,
On winged steed, by beating pinions driven,
Swept Ethiop Memnon's brother down from heaven,
And bore me from Arsinöe's shrine away,
Up through the regions of eternal day.
There did he lay me on chaste Venus' breast;
For she it was had sped him on the quest,
That Ariadne's crown should not alone
Gleam in the forehead of the starry zone,
But we, the golden spoils that deck'd her shrine,
Should there as well with equal radiance shine.
Still with the tears of my loved mistress wet,
Was I amidst the stars primeval set:
Hard by the Virgin's light, and Lion's wild,
And to Callisto near, Lycaon's child,
I wheel into the west, and lead the way
Where slow Böotes, with a coy delay,
Beneath the mighty ocean dips his light.
But though the footsteps of the gods by night
Trample me down, yet am I with the dawn
Back to the breast of fair-hair'd Tethys drawn.
Yet be not wroth, Rhamnusian maid, to hear
The truth I scorn to hide in vulgar fear;
Though on the avowal all the stars cry shame,
The yearning which I feel I must proclaim.
My state so glads me not, but I deplore
I ne'er may grace my mistress' forehead more,
With whom consorting in her virgin bloom,
I bathed in sweets, and quaff'd the rich perfume.
And now, ye maidens, on whose happy bed
The hymeneal torch its light has shed,
Resign not, as ye hope for bliss, your charms
Unzoned, unshielded, to your husbands' arms,
Till from your onyx box you pay the fee
Of perfumes sweet, and daintiest balms to me.
But such as are to wedlock's vows untrue,
I ask no tributary gifts from you;
Let them be scatter'd on the shrinking dust,
My votaries only' be the pure and just,
And love and harmony for ever dwell
Within the homes their virtues guard so well!
But oh, my queen! when lifting up thy gaze Here to the stars, with torches' festal blaze Thou dost propitiate Venus, let not me Be all forgotten or unseen by thee. Nay, rather upon me, who once was all
Thine own, with bounteous offerings duly call.
Once all thine own? Ay, still thine, only thine!
Why am I doom'd among the stars to shine?
Oh, on the forehead of my queen to play
Once more! Grant this, and then Aquarius may
Next to Orion blaze, and all the world
Of starry orbs be into chaos whirl'd!
HAT now, when sinking 'neath a weight of fears,
By saddest suffering and bereavement bred,
You send this letter written with your tears,
Which bids me save you from death's portal dread,
And give you back to life, like shipwreck'd wight
Flung by the billows on the foaming shore,
You, whom on widow'd couch in slumbers light
Chaste Venus suffers to repose no more;
So rack'd by grief, that lays, the sweetest penn'd
By poets old, no more can charm your heart,
All this, though sad, is welcome; friend from friend
Should crave the balm which Love and Song impart.
But, oh, my Manlius, meet it is, you learn,
That I by kindred troubles am oppress'd,
Lest you misdeem that I the office spurn,
Or stint the dues of a long cherish'd guest.
Hear then from me, in what a sea of grief
I have been plunged by Fate, since last we met, Nor ask from one so wretched the relief
Which minstrel measures tuned to joy beget.
E'er since, when life to gladsome spring had grown, And first I don'd the robe of spotless white, Gaily I've lived, not unto Her unknown,
Who blends with pain our bitter-sweet delight.
But, brother, what with mirth was once so rife
Is turn'd to sadness by thy timeless doom;
Dead with thy death is all that cheer'd my life,
And all our house is buried in thy tomb!
Gone are the joys that, whilst thou yet wert here,
Were by thy sweet affection fann'd and fed,
All studies, all delights, that once were dear,
I've banish'd from my soul, since thou art dead!
Then 'tis no shame, although you call it such,
That in Verona stays Catullus, there
Freezing unblest in solitary couch;
No, rather, Manlius, pity my despair!
Nor chide me, if, myself by grief bereft
Of all the mirthful cheer that once I knew,
I cannot greet thy challenge with the gift
Of sportive verse, which else had been your due.
Scant is the store of writers, too, which I
Have with me here. What wonder? Since at Rome Alone I live, alone my studies ply,
And there my treasures are, my haunts, my home!
|