THE ELEGIES OF SEXTUS PROPERTIUS. I. TO TULLUS. Cynthia prima suis miserum me cepit ocellis. 'TWAS Cynthia with her eyes first caused me pain, The modest fair he taught me to detest, And waste in deeds of shame my aimless life; O Tullus! every toil Milanion faced, Till Atalanta's heart was fain to yield; And looked on shaggy monsters of the field. Felled by Hylaeus' club, he, sorely maimed, So much in love kind deeds and prayers avail. In me no arts can laggard Love devise; Each beaten path some dark obstruction bars : Come ye, who wean the moon from yonder skies,* And woo, on magic hearth, the watchful stars! Oh change her heart where icy coldness dwells, And make her cheek than mine even paler grow! Then will I own your dread Cytaean spells Can lead the stars and rule the river's flow. My friends, I'm lost! too late ye call me back; Bear me to earth's lone verge, or far convey Stay ye, while Love will hearken to your call: I warn you, shun this woe; nor ever veer From her whose love hath aye been leal and true: If to my voice ye lend a slothful ear, My slighted words how bitterly ye'll rue! * At vos, deductae quibus est fiducia lunae Et labor in magicis astra piare focis.—(Mueller.) TO CYNTHIA. Quid juvat ornato procedere, vita, capillo? WHY wear, my Life, when thou abroad dost stir, Why deck thyself with gems and costly dress? To thee such aids can add no charms-ah, no! True love will aye disdain the artist's care. See the fair fields a thousand colours wear, And ivy-sprays far best spontaneous grow. Fairer in lonely grots green arbutes rise, Fairer the streamlet wends its wandering way, Lovelier bright pebbles gem their native bay, Sweetlier song-birds trill artless melodies. Not so did Phoebe merit Castor's hand, Not so, when Idas erst with Phoebus strove, Appeared Marpessa by Evenus' strand. With no false glare Hippodamia drew Her Phrygian lord, to reign a foreign queen; Her face no gems adorned, though fair, I ween, As e'er Apelles on the canvas threw. No fear for lack of lovers tortured these- And richer thou; for Phoebus gives thee song, Yea, thy sweet speech my eager soul shall fire Thine Beauty's charms and Wisdom's priceless prize, III. TO CYNTHIA. Qualis Thesea jacuit cedente carina. As Ariadne on the lonely strand O'erwearied slept, while Theseus sailed away; And as Andromeda, by Perseus' hand Freed from rude rocks, in new-born slumber lay; As Bacchant, by the ceaseless dance outworn, My Cynthia seemed to breathe in sleep serene. Wine-flushed and reeling I had homeward sped, As I with gentlest movement sought her side. Then Love and Bacchus, gods of iron will, Urged me with double fire to slip my arm Beneath her as she lay so calm and still, Kiss her sweet lips, and rifle every charm. Yet dared I not disturb my darling's sleep, |