BOOK III.

I.

TO THE MUSE.

Sed tempus lustrare aliis Helicona choreis.

*

'Tis time to traverse Helicon in themes of higher strain— 'Tis time to spur my Thracian steed across a wider plain; Now I would sing of mighty hosts and deeds of battle done, And chronicle the Roman fields my general has won ; And if my powers of song should fail-to dare were surely fame:

Enough that I have had the will; no higher praise I claim.

Let hot youth sing the laughing loves-be war the theme of

age;

Be war my theme-till now the dream of love has filled my

page.

With sober mien and graver brow I now must walk along,
Now on another lyre my Muse essays another song.

Rise, O my Muse! from lowly themes; put on your strength, ye Nine!

Who haunt the clear Pierian springs-outpour the lofty line!

Euphrates boasts no more the Parthian horseman's flying fight,
And grieves it kept the Crassi, slain in miserable plight;
Nay more, Augustus, India lays her neck beneath thy heel-
Arabia's homes, untouched before, in grievous terror reel;

* Et campum Emathio jam dare tempus equo.-(Mueller.)

Yea, wheresoe'er earth stretches out her lands to shores afar, The captive soil shall feel thy hands invincible in war.

I'll track thy camp, and, while the tramp of warriors fires my lay,

I'll earn the poet's wreath of fame: heaven grant I see the day!

As when we cannot reach the head of statues all too high,
We lay a chaplet at the feet, so now perforce do I,
Unfit to climb the giddy heights of Epic song divine,

In humble adoration lay poor incense on thy shrine;

For not as yet my Muse hath known the wells of Ascra's grove :

Permessus' gentle wave alone hath laved the limbs of Love.

II.

TO CYNTHIA.

Scribant de te alii vel sis ignota licebit.

BE sung by others, or unsung remain,

Who sings thy praises sows a sterile plain.
All, all thy gifts with thee on Fate's dark day
One bier shall bear; nor shall the traveller say,
All heedless passing where thy bones are laid,
"Here lie the ashes of a learnèd maid."

III.

CUPID'S EFFIGY.

Quicunque ille fuit, puerum qui pinxit Amorem,
Nonne putas miras hunc habuisse manus?

THINK'ST not that he had hands of cunning rare
Whoe'er first painted Love a little boy?
He saw what heedless beings lovers were,
Losing life's blessings for a trivial toy.

Nor yet in vain those airy wings he gave,
And bade him flutter in the human breast:

Truly we're tost upon a restless wave,

And on by ever-changing breezes prest.

Nor bears the Boy those barbèd shafts for show,
And Cretan quiver from his shoulders slung;
Dreamless of danger, ere we see the foe,

He strikes and leaves his victim torment-wrung.

In me his shafts, in me his image lies;
But, sure, his wings of gossamer are gone,
For ne'er, alas! he from my bosom flies,
But in my blood keeps ever warring on.

In my scorched marrow why delight to dwell?
Hence, Boy! on others with thy darts make raid;
On hearts unscathed outpour thy venom fell-
Not me thou woundest, but my wasted shade.

E