To make my Cynthia scream what time my vessel seeks the

sea,

To see her tear her tender cheeks in frenzied agony,

And say that she will kiss the wind that balks her lover's plan, And that no monster walks the earth so fell as faithless man?

Go, strive to earn a nobler wreath than e'er thine uncle wore,
And to our old allies their long-forgotten rights restore :
And may the unpitying Boy ne'er bring on thee my sorrows
fell,

And all the tokens of a woe my tears too plainly tell;

For thou hast frittered not thy years on Beauty's fatal charms, But aye been ready to assert thy country's cause in arms.

Here let me lie, as fortune aye hath willed it in the past,
And let me still devote my soul to folly to the last.
Many in tardy love have gladly spent their latest day---
Then let me die with these, with these let earth conceal my

clay:

For fame I was not nurtured, nor in arms would glorious

prove;

The Fates decree my fields shall be the battle-plains of love.

Then, whether thou shalt roam athwart Ionia's pleasant lands, Or where Pactolus streaks the Lydian vales with golden sands; Whether on foot thou'lt scour the plain or tempt with oars the

sea,

And all the duties well discharge thine office claims from thee: If thou shouldst chance to think of me in foreign climes afar, Be well assured I'm living still beneath a baleful star.

* Ibis, et acceptis par eris imperii (Munro).

VII.

TO PONTICUS.

Dum tibi Cadmeae dicuntur, Pontice, Thebae.

WHILE, Ponticus, Cadmean Thebes you sing,
And the sad woes that feuds of brothers bring,
And, sooth, are threatening Homer's fame the while
If on your strains the Fates auspicious smile,
I pine and weave my wonted tale of love,
And try my mistress' cruel heart to move.
Far less to genius than to sorrow thrall
Against my bitter lot I'm forced to call.

Thus pass my days: hence would I gather fame,
And win the glory of a poet's name;

The praise be mine that I alone could please

My clever maid and bear her railleries.

Lorn lovers, o'er and o'er my pages turn,

And from my woes a wholesome lesson learn.

Should Cupid wound you with unerring bow,
(Oh may our guardian powers avert the blow!)
Your camp and seven armed legions wrapt in night,
You'll mourn, and vainly trill, O sorry sight!

In life's December-day the songs of June:

Love out of time is ever out of tune.

In me no humble bard you'll then admire—

King crowned o'er all who've swept the Roman lyre ;
While o'er my grave shall lovers breathe this strain,7
"Here liest thou, great poet of our pain."

Treat not my love-lays, then, with scornful jest:
Love's bills long due bear fearful interest.

VIII.

TO CYNTHIA.

Tunc igitur demens, nec te mea cura moratur?

A.

CYNTHIA, art mad? and can no care of mine delay thee more? Oh, have I grown more vile to thee than cold Illyria's shore? And is that creature thou hast found to thee so very dear,

That thou with any wind wilt go, and leave me pining here? And canst thou hear the sea's mad moan, in rocking ship repose?

Tread with soft feet the frozen ground, and bear unwonted snows?

Oh may the weary winter-time two winters'-length remain,
And the late-lingering Pleiades the mariner detain,
Thy cable keep the shore, nor breeze unfriendly balk my prayer,
Nor tempests lull what time the tide thy ship shall outward bear;
And may it then be mine upon the lonely shore to stand,
To call thee cruel o'er and o'er, and wave my angry hand!

Do what thou wilt, O perjured one !—yet ah, to me how dear! May Galatea speed thee past the Thunder-hills of fear,

And Oricos receive thee safe upon its peaceful shore:

My plaint I'll at thy threshold make, nor burn for maiden

more.

Each flying mariner I'll ask, “What harbour holds my fair? To Atrax or to Elis borne-she'll yet be mine, I swear.

B.

She'll stay; she's sworn she will not go ye envious, burst with spleen!

My pleadings and unwearied prayers have won me back my

queen.

Though green-eyed envy did her best false splendours to por

My Cynthia now has ceased to dream of regions far away.

To her I'm dear, and Rome she calls earth's dearest spot, for

me,

And, from my side, she'd scorn the pride and pomp of royalty ; She'd rather share my humble cot, be mine, and mine alone, Than call that ancient realm-Hippodamia's dower-her own, And all the wealth that Elis gained from mares in years ago : And whatsoe'er her friend might give, or promise to bestow, With me she's ne'er been covetous, nor fled my circling arms, Won by nor gold nor Indian shells, but music's gentle charms.

I nursed my pain, nor leaned in vain on Phoebus and the Nine;

Now I can tread heaven's starry floor-by day, by night she's

mine :

My rival cannot lure my love to break her plighted vow;

This glory, 'mid the snows of age, will mantle round my brow.

IX.

TO PONTICUS.

Dicebam tibi venturos, inrisor, amores.

I TOLD you, mocker, love would break your peace, And that your boastful words would have an end. Lo! now you're prostrate, and, a suppliant, bend, The puppet of a paltry slave's caprice.

Sure as Chaonian doves I can discern

What maid will hold in thrall each lover's heart; Yes; grief and tears have schooled me in the art : Would I were free from love, and yet to learn!

What boots your grave, heroic strain to-day,
Or wailing o'er Amphion's lyre-built walls?
In love great Homer 'neath Mimnermus falls ;
For gentle love demands a gentle lay.

Pray, throw aside at once that dreary theme;
Sing something every girl would like to know.
You can't? materials all around you flow-
You're crazy seeking water in the stream.

You're not even pale-you've hardly felt the fire,
Just the first spark that heralds coming bale;
You'll soon with greater willingness assail
The wild Armenian tigress in her ire;

B