BOOK II.

I.

TO CAIUS CILNIUS MAECENAS.

Quaeritis unde mihi totiens scribantur amores.

You ask me why love-elegy so frequently I follow,
And why my little book of tender trifles only sings :
It is not from Calliope, nor is it from Apollo,

But from my own sweet lady-love my inspiration springs.

If in resplendent purple robe of Cos my darling dresses, I'll fill a portly volume with the Coan garment's praise; Or if her truant tresses wreathe her forehead with caresses, The tresses of her queenly brow demand her poet's lays.

Or if, perchance, she strike the speaking lyre with ivory fingers,
I marvel how those nimble fingers run the chords along ;
Or if above her slumber-drooping eyes a shadow lingers,
My tranced mind is sure to find a thousand themes of song.

Or if for love's delightful strife repose awhile be broken,
Oh, I could write an Iliad of our sallies and alarms;
If anything at all she's done-if any word she's spoken-
From out of nothing rise at once innumerable charms.

But if the Fates had given me the power, beloved Maecenas,
To marshal hero-bands, I'd neither sing of Titan wars,
Nor Ossa on Olympus piled, that Terra's brood most heinous,
By aid of Pelion, might scale the everlasting stars;

Nor hoary Thebes, nor Pergamus in Homer's song undying, Nor sea to sea, by stern decree of haughty Xerxes, brought; The warlike Cimbri, nor the soul of Carthage death-defying; Nor Remus' ancient realm, nor deeds of fame by Marius wrought;

But I would sing of Caesar's might and Caesar's martial glory, And next to mighty Caesar would my lyre for thee be strung: For while of Mutina, or of Philippi fell and gory,

Or of the naval war and rout by Sicily I sung;

Or of Etruria's ancient hearths in ruin laid for ever,
Or Ptolemaean Pharos with its subjugated shore,

Or Egypt and the Nile what time the broad seven-mantled river

In drear captivity to Rome our conquering armies bore ;

Or kings with golden fetters bound, in gorgeous-hued apparel, And trophied prows of Actium, whirled along the Sacred Way,

My Muse would ever twine around thy brow the wreath of laurel

In time of peace, in time of war, a faithful subject aye.

Lo! Theseus boasts Peirithoüs, among the shades infernal, An ever-during witness of the debt to friendship due; Achilles has Patroclus in the realms of light supernal:

Thy friendship, dear Maecenas, is as theirs-as leal and

true.

But how Enceladus with Jove erst fought in fields Phlegraean,
Callimachus has not the depth of lung to thunder forth;
No more can I in nervous verse outpour a noble paean,
Declare great Caesar's lofty line, or trace his Phrygian birth.

The sailor tells of stormy gales, of oxen talks the farmer,
The soldier counts his wounds, of sheep the shepherd prates

away;

I sing of hours in rosy bowers, of dalliance with my charmer : We all have here our proper sphere—his part let each one play.

'Tis one renown to die in love; another-when love-laden

To sink in rest on one true breast: oh may this lot be mine! And, if I'm right, my darling's wont to blame the fickle maiden, And, for the sin of Helen, hates the Iliad every line.

Whether I'm doomed to drain a draught like Phaedra's magic potion,

Mixed for the step-son she could ne'er from paths of honour

turn,

Or perish by Circean herbs, or, bathed in charmèd lotion,
Slow simmer o'er Iolcian hearth in Colchian witch's urn,

One woman stole my heart away—for her alone I languish ;
In her embraces I will live, in her embraces die :
Though medicine hath power to cure the sum of human
anguish,

The mightiest physician's skill the pains of love defy.

In time Machaon healed the loathsome limbs of Philoctetes, And Phillyreian Chiron gave to blinded Phoenix sight; The god of Epidaurus, at a father's fond entreaties,

By Cretan herbs Androgeos brought again to realms of light.

The same Haemonian spear by which the Mysian youth fell bleeding,

Alone could to the festering wound impart a healing balm;