Part 9 (1/2)
Would I were flint, to front the tempest's power, Wave-buffeted on some wild, wreckful sh.o.r.e!
My sad days bring worse nights, and every hour Fills me some cup of gall and brims it o'er.
What use are songs? Her greedy hands disdain Apollo's gift. She says some gold is due.
Farewell, ye Muses, I have sung in vain!
Only in quest of _her_ I followed _you_.
I sing no wars; nor how the moon and sun In heavenly paths their circling chariots steer.
To win my lady's smiles my numbers run; Farewell, ye Muses, if ye fail me here!
Let deeds of b.l.o.o.d.y crime now make me bold!
No longer at her bolted door I whine; But I will find that necessary gold, Though I steal treasure from some holy shrine.
Venus I first will violate; for she Compelled my crime, and did my heart enthrall To beauty that requires a golden fee.
Yes, Venus' shrine shall suffer worst of all.
Curse on that man who finds the emerald green, And Tyrian purples for our flattered girls!
He makes them greedy. Now they must be seen In Coan robe and gleaming Red Sea pearls.
It spoils them all. Now bolts and barriers hold Their doors, and watch-dogs threaten through the dark; But let the lover overflow with gold,-- All bolts fly back and not a dog will bark.
What G.o.d did beauty unto gold degrade, And mix one bliss with many a woe and shame?
Tears, quarrels, curses were the gifts he made; And Love bears now a very evil name.
False girl, who dost for riches thrust aside Love's honest vow, may winds and flames conspire To wreck thy wealth, while all thy beaux deride The loss, nor throw one bowl-full on the fire!
O when dark Death shall be thy final guest, No lover true will shed the faithful tear, Nor bring an offering where thy ashes rest, Nor lay one garland on thy lonely bier I
But some warm-hearted la.s.s who loved not gain Shall live a hundred years, yet be much mourned; Her tomb shall be some lover's holiest fane, With annual gift of all sad flowers adorned.
”Farewell, true heart!” his trembling lips will say, ”Let peace untroubled bless thy relics dear!”
Oft will he visit, and departing pray, ”Light lie this earth on her whose rest is here!”
Nay, it is vain such serious songs to breathe: I must be modern, if I would prevail.
How much? Just all my ancestors bequeath?
Come, Lares! You are advertised for sale.
Let Circe and Medea bring the lees Of some foul cup! Let Thessaly prepare Its direst poison! Bring hippomanes, Fierce philtre from the frantic, brooding mare!
For if my mistress mix it with a smile, I drain a draught a thousand times as vile.
ELEGY THE FIFTH
THE PRIESTHOOD OF APOLLO
Smile, Phoebus, on the youthful priest Who seeks thy shrine to-day!
With lyre and song attend our feast, And with imperious finger play Thy loudly thrilling chords to anthems high!
Come, with temples laurel-bound, O'er thine own thrice-hallowed ground, Where incense from our altars meets the sky!
Come radiant and fair, In golden garb and glorious, cl.u.s.tering hair, The famous guise in which thou sang'st so well Of victor Jove, when Saturn's kingdom fell!
The far-off future all is thine!
Thy hallowed augurs can divine Whate'er dark song the birds of omen sing; Of augury thou art the king, And thy wise haruspex finds meaning fit For what the G.o.ds have in the victims writ.
The h.o.a.ry Sibyl taught of thee Never sings of Rome untrue, Chanting forth in measures due Her mysterious prophecy.