Here cherries sweet and autumn plums they lay,
And berries reddened by the summer ray.
With apple-crowns the grafter pays his vows,
When pears bear fruit upon unwilling boughs.
To tell such stories is a downright sin;
My name has quite another origin.
I ought to know about myself, and I
Can surely best relate my history.
By nature every form I fitly wear;
Change me as oft's you will, I'll still be fair.
In Cöan robe a winsome maid you scan;
In toga dressed, who'll say I'm not a man?
Give me a scythe and bind my brow with hay,
You'll swear I have been cutting grass to-day.
Once arms I bore and gained no small renown,
A reaper then with basket on my crown.
Not given to brawls: with chaplet wreathe my brow,
You'll shout I am intoxicated now.
Turban my head, as Bacchus I'll appear;
Give me a lyre, and you have Phoebus here;
Nets-I'm a hunter; fowling-rod, and lo!
As Faunus catching feathered game I go.
As charioteer I figure on the course,
Or vaulter leaping quick from horse to horse ;
Catch fishes with a rod; with tunic loose,
I post along the road a pedlar spruce;
As shepherd, lean upon a crook; or bear
Roses in baskets through the thoroughfare.
Why add my greatest glory, I may say-
The splendid garden-gifts my hands display?
The pale-green cucumber, round-bellied gourd,
And broccoli with pliant rush secured?
Yea, every meadow-flower, my brow bright-wreathing, Here languishes, its fragrant life out-breathing.
Thus I, though one, still ever-changing, came
To bear in Roman speech my present name;
And, Rome, thou show'dst my Tuscans honour meet-
A tale attested by the "Tuscan❞ street.
When Lycomedius came with aid and slew
The Sabine hordes fierce Tatius hither drew,
I saw their lines give way, their javelins fail,
The foeman wheel, and shameful flight prevail.
Grant, Sire of gods, Rome's peaceful crowds may go
Before my feet for ever to and fro !
Six lines remain: if speeding on to bail,
I'll stay thee not; this heat completes my tale:
I was a maple stump rough-hewn and plain,
A god revered, though poor, ere Numa's reign.
Here, cast in bronze, thy work, Mamurius, stands;
May Oscan earth press light thy cunning hands,
That made one shape so many forms express !
The work is one, its honours numberless.
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."
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