BOOK I.

CYNTHIA

THE

ELEGIES OF SEXTUS PROPERTIUS.

I.

TO TULLUS.

Cynthia prima suis miserum me cepit ocellis.

'TWAS Cynthia with her eyes first caused me pain,
Unused, before, one burning pang to feel:

Then Love cast down my looks of proud disdain,
And pressed my neck with unrelenting heel.

The modest fair he taught me to detest,

And waste in deeds of shame my aimless life;
For one whole year this madness fills my breast,
And Heaven against me wages endless strife.

O Tullus! every toil Milanion faced,

Till Atalanta's heart was fain to yield;
A-craze with love Parthenian caves he paced,

And looked on shaggy monsters of the field.

Felled by Hylaeus' club, he, sorely maimed,
To rocks Arcadian poured his woeful wail-
Yea, strove till he the nimble maiden tamed,

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;
Yet help, and oh, this frenzy wild assuage;
I'll bravely face the flames, and bear the rack,
If I may freely speak my boundless rage.

Bear me to earth's lone verge, or far convey
Beyond the waste illimitable sea,
Where woman ne'er may track my weary way,
To wound my soul and mock my misery.

Stay ye, while Love will hearken to your

call:

May cloudless joys upon your passion shower!

My Venus mingles all my nights with gall,

And never lets me rest one single hour.

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.)

II.

TO CYNTHIA.

Quid juvat ornato procedere, vita, capillo?

WHY wear, my Life, when thou abroad dost stir,
A head trimmed up to fashion's latest laws?
A Coan vestment of transparent gauze,
And hair perfumed with Orontean myrrh?

Why deck thyself with gems and costly dress?
Why mar with trinkets Nature's form divine,
And not allow thy beauties forth to shine
In all their own, their matchless loveliness?

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,
Or Hilaïra win her Pollux' love;

Not so, when Idas erst with Phoebus strove, Appeared Marpessa by Evenus' strand.