As thus Acanthis strove to wile away
My darling's heart, I shrank to skin and bone. A ring-dove on thine altar now I lay;
O Venus! take the gift for favours shown.
I saw her cough convulse the wrinkled hag,
Through her old stumps the blood-streak'd mucus flow;
Her rotten soul breathed on a wretched rag,
In a dank, fireless, frozen den of woe.
A stolen band to tie her straggling hairs,
A dirty faded turban, and a hound
I ne'er could cheat or take at unawares-
Such pomp her miserable ending crowned.
Place an old crumbling jar above her bones;
Press it, wild figs, with all the force ye can;
Ye lovers, pelt her tomb with jagged stones,
And as ye pelt it, curse the harridan.
Sacra facit vates: sint ora faventia sacris.
THE bard makes sacrifice: be silent all ;
Before my shrine let the struck heifer fall;
Let Roman wreaths with Cöan ivy vie,
And Roman urns Cyrene's streams supply.
Sweet nard, sweet incense-honours now be mine,
Thrice round the hearth the woollen fillet twine,
Shower lustral dews the new-built altar o'er,
My ivory lute Mygdonian strains would pour.
Hence, fraud! 'neath other skies let guilt be known;
With laurel chaste the bard's fresh path is strown.
Now Palatine Apollo's fane shall be
My theme: Calliope, 'tis worthy thee.
Great Caesar's name and fame I sing to-day:
Jove, prithee list my tributary lay.
In a quiet bay on Athamania's shore,
Where wild Ionian billows chafe no more,
A harbour consecrate to Phoebus lies,
In from the land where Actium's headlands riseA dear memorial of the Julian fleet,
To pious mariners a safe retreat.
Here met the world in arms; athwart the bay
Two mighty fleets with varying fortunes lay:
The one to Troy-born Caesar's prowess due,
With all the shafts a woman basely threw;
While Jove our canvas filled with breezes bland,
And banners taught to conquer for their land.
Scarce yet had Nereus curved each crescent line,
'Mid waves bright trembling 'neath the armour's shine,
When Phoebus, leaving Delos fixed the while-
For angry waves once bore that wandering isle-
O'er Caesar's vessel stood 'mid wondrous gleam
Of flame like slanting torch's wavy beam.
Adown his neck no flowing tresses fell
To the mild music of the tuneful shell: *
The look that quailed Atrides' soul he wore,
When Dorian hosts to greedy pyres he bore;
Or when, dread Python's writhing coils o'ercome,
He slew him when the peaceful lyre was dumb.t
"O Alban saviour of the world!" he cried,
"Augustus, than thy Trojan sires more tried!
Prevail by sea: now earth is thine; for thee
Fight my good bow and shoulder's armoury.
Release the land from fear; thy country now
On thee relies, and wreathes with prayers thy prow.
Halt, and Rome's founder better far, I ween,
On Palatine had ne'er the vultures seen.
Too bold they ply the oars; O shame that e'er
Those waves, great prince, a regal sail should bear!
Fear not their hundred oars that smite the tide:
O'er adverse billows mark their galleys ride.
Yon Centaurs hurling rocks their prows display,
Are hollow boards, mere painted terrors they.
* Ad testudineae carmen inerme lyrae.-(Mueller.)
+ Serpentem inbelles quom tacuere lyrae.—(Mueller.)
The cause unnerves or neryes the soldier's might,
And shame disarms who strikes not for the right.
Now is the hour-join battle; I to-day
Will lead and crown the Julian prows with bay."
He spoke, and spends his quiver's freight, when lo!
Our Caesar's lance nigh rivals Phoebus' bow.
By Phoebus Rome prevails: the strumpet wheels,
And o'er the Ionian float her shattered keels.
Proud Caesar shouts from his Idalian star,
"The god is proved by god-like deeds in war."
Old Triton cheers, and all the Nereids raise
Around the flag of freedom songs of praise.
Borne in swift bark, the harlot seeks the Nile:
Her all that's left—to linger on awhile.
'Tis well: poor triumph that one woman tread
The streets through which Jugurtha once was led.
Hence rose this shrine to Actian Phoebus' name,
Whose every shaft ten hostile ships o'ercame.
Enough victorious Phoebus claims his lyre,
And doffs his arms to join the peaceful choir.
To the soft grove, ye white-robed priests, now go;
Adown my neck let dainty rose-wreaths flow.
Unstinted pour Falernian rich and rare,
Thrice with Cilician saffron drench my hair.
Let wine inspire each genial poet's dream:
To Phoebus Bacchus lends his gladdest beam.
Let one the damp Sicambrian's conquest trace,
One Cephean Meröe's with its swarthy race,
Another sing of Parthia late o'erthrown :
"Restore our standards: soon thou'lt yield thine own.
If Caesar aught to quivered Orient spare;
'Tis but a trophy for his sons to share.
Joy, Crassus, if thou canst, 'mid sandy gloom :
Now o'er Euphrates we may seek thy tomb."
Thus wine and song will cheer the night, till day Upon my revel sheds it rosy ray.
Sunt aliquid Manes: letum non omnia finit.
YES; there are ghosts: death ends not all, I ween.
The lurid shade escapes the pile's rent thrall;
For o'er my couch I saw my Cynthia lean,
Late laid where Anio's wayside murmurs fall.
Dreams of the dead disturbed my sleep; my lone Cold couch I mourned when I beheld her glide— Same hair, same eyes as in the days agone,
Her half-scorched vesture clinging to her side.
Her finger bore her ring and beryl still,
Half-burnt; her lips were wet from Lethe's lake: She breathed as when in life, but rattled shrill Her frail and bony fingers as she spake.
"Faithless," she said, "and faithless still to be, Canst thou already sink in slumber sweet?
Hast thou forgot thy stolen trysts with me,
Held nightly in Suburra's wakeful street?
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