Haec Arethusa suo mittit mandata Lycotae.
To my Lycotas now I send this line,
If one so oft away can still be mine.
If, as thou read'st, some blot or blur appears,
Thou'lt know it is occasioned by my tears;
Or if, past reading, some wry letters stand,
'Tis but the token of my dying hand.
Thou'st gone again—from Bactra hardly freed,
And Neuric foeman with his mail-clad steed,
And wintry Getes, and Celt with painted car,
And dusk-hued sons of Eastern shores afar.*
Is this the bridal joy thou vow'dst to me,
When first I gave this young warm heart to thee?
Surely my nuptial torch its baleful fire
Drew from the embers of some smouldering pyre!
My lustral wave was from the Stygian mere,
My wreath awry, no god of blessing near!
On all the gates the gods my vows have spurned;
Four cloaks I've woven, and thou'st not returned.
Curse him who rove from blameless trees the pale, And joined hoarse bones to pour the horn's wild wail!
* Ustus et Eoae decolor Indus aquae.—(Munro.)
Worthier than Ocnus he to twist the grass,
And feed for evermore the famished ass.
Does corselet e'er thy tender shoulders mar,
Or spear-shaft chafe thy hands unused to war?
'Twere better so than maiden's tooth should leave
On thy dear neck a scar to make me grieve.
They say thou'rt thin and pale: O may thy hue
To tender thoughts of me alone be due !
When eve leads on the dreary night for me,
I kiss the arms thou'st left, and think of thee;
Fret if the coverlet uneven go,
Or wakeful bird of morn forget to crow.
On winter nights for thee the task I ply,
Cut for their shuttles threads of Tyrian dye;
Now try to learn the untamed Araxes' course,
How far unwatered runs the Parthian horse;
Pore o'er the painted map each spot to find,
And learn the plan of God's omniscient mind;
Each frost-numbed region and each sun-brayed land,
And gale that blows to dear Italia's strand.
One sister cheers me: nurse, with care grown pale,
Swears the bad weather keeps thee-idle tale!
Hippolyte bore arms-ah, fate how blest!
Breast-bare, her tender head by helmet prest.
O that to Roman maids the camp were free,
Leal at thy side I'd share its toil with thee!
Nor would cold Scythia's steppes my feet detain,
With rivers bound by winter's icy chain.
All love, though great, the loves of wedlock shame;
Great Venus fans this torch to nurse its flame.
What serve thy purple quilts from Punic lands?
Those liquid crystal gems that deck my hands?
All here is still; scarce once a-month, I trow,
The Lares' closed door is opened now.
My only joy my lap-dog Glaucis' whine:
She claims to share the bed that once was thine.
Flowers wreathe the shrines and vervains strew the ways;
The savine crackles in the hearth's bright blaze.
If e'er on neighbouring perch the screech-owl scream,
Or wine-drops bless the sputtering candle's beam,
That day dooms yearling lambs to sacrifice,
And robe-girt priests gloat o'er the unlooked-for prize.
O deem not Bactra's spoils so vast a gain,
Or linen flags from perfumed chieftain ta’en,
When pours the leaden hail from twisted sling
And treacherous bows on flying chargers ring.
But-so o'er Parthia's conquered foemen rear
Behind the victor's car the bloodless spear-
O keep thy bridal troth without a stain!
Thus, only thus, I wish thee home again;
Then to Capena's gate thine arms I'll bring,
And write below, "A wife's glad offering."
Tarpeium nemus et Tarpeiae turpe sepulcrum.
I'LL sing Tarpeia's grove and tomb of shame,
And how the capture of Jove's fortress came.
'Mid ivied rocks lay hid a woodland nook,
Whose boughs made music to the babbling brook—
Silvanus' leafy home, where Pan-pipe sweet
Called sheep to water from the noon-day heat.
Tatius this fount with maple fence enwound,
And made his camp secure with ramparts round.
What then was Rome when Sabine foeman there
Shook Jove's proud rocks with trumpet's echoing blare,
And Sabine shafts in Rome's own Forum lay,
Whose laws the conquered nations rule to-day?
The hills her ramparts were, and now that spring
Whence drank the war-horse Curia's walls enring.
For Vesta's service did Tarpeia bear
Her fictile urn on head and fill it there;
And could one death atone for guilt so dire
As hers, who, Vesta, could betray thy fire?
Lo! Tatius on the sandy plain she spies,
Whose painted arms o'er flashing helmets rise.
Stunned by his regal mien and armour's glare,
She drops the urn her heedless fingers bare.
Oft then she blamed the harmless moon's pale beam,
And feigned to lave her tresses in the stream;
With silver lilies wooed the Nymphs' sweet grace,
Lest Roman spear should wound her Tatius' face;
Clomb cloud-capt Capitol at early morn;
Returned, her arms with prickly brambles torn ;
Sat on Tarpeia's frowning height and wove
This love-sick tale of woe-abhorred of Jove :
"Ye camp-fires, tents where Tatius' army lies,
And Sabine armour lovely in mine eyes,
O that with you a captive I might be,
Might but thy captive, Tatius, gaze on thee!
"Ye Roman hills and hill-walled Rome, farewell!
And, Vesta, thou with whom my shame shall dwell!
That steed alone shall bear me to his home,
Whose flowing mane my Tatius' fingers comb.
What wonder Scylla, whose fair limbs of yore
Turned to fell hounds, her father's tresses shore?
Or one the hornèd Minotaur betrayed,
And with a thread the winding path displayed?
"Rome's maids will loathe me! O the fearful stain !
Mischosen priestess of a virgin fane !
Is't strange the fire is dead?—in mercy turn;
My tear-drops drowned it, and it would not burn.
"To-morrow war will fill the town, they say—
Beware the thorn-clad mountain's dewy way,*
A slippery path where hidden streamlets glide
In treacherous silence down the steep hillside.
* Tu cave spinosi rorida terga jugi.—(Barth.)
|