Part 3 (1/2)

But Love has double-crossed me. How can Beauty be so fair?

The grace of her, the face of her--and oh, her yellow hair!

And oh, the wondrous walk of her! So doth a G.o.ddess glide.

Jove's sister--ay, or Pallas--hath no statelier a stride.

Fair as Ischomache herself, the Lapithanian maid; Or Brimo when at Mercury's side her virgin form she laid.

Surrender now, ye G.o.ddesses whom erst the shepherd spied!

Upon the heights of Ida lay your vest.i.tures aside!

And though she reach the countless years of the c.u.maean Sibyl, May never, never Age at those delightful features nibble!

II

I thought that I was wholly free, That I had Love upon the shelf; ”Hereafter,” I declared in glee, ”I'll have my evenings to myself.”

How can such mortal beauty live?

(Ah, Jove, thine errings I forgive!)

Her tresses pale the sunlight's gold; Her hands are featly formed, and taper; Her--well, the rest ought not be told In any modest family paper.

Fair as Ischomache, and bright As Brimo. _Quaeque_ queen is right.

O G.o.ddesses of long ago, A shepherd called ye sweet and slender.

He saw ye, so he ought to know; But sooth, to her ye must surrender.

O may a million years not trace A single line upon that face!

Propertius's Bid for Immortality

Book III, Ode 3

_”Carminis interea nostri redaemus in orbem----”_

Let us return, then, for a time, To our accustomed round of rhyme; And let my songs' familiar art Not fail to move my lady's heart.

They say that Orpheus with his lute Had power to tame the wildest brute; That ”Variations on a Theme”

Of his would stay the swiftest stream.

They say that by the minstrel's song Cithaeron's rocks were moved along To Thebes, where, as you may recall, They formed themselves to frame a wall.

And Galatea, lovely maid, Beneath wild Etna's fastness stayed Her horses, dripping with the mere, Those Polypheman songs to hear.

What marvel, then, since Bacchus and Apollo grasp me by the hand, That all the maidens you have heard Should hang upon my slightest word?

Taenerian columns in my home Are not; nor any golden dome; No parks have I, nor Marcian spring, Nor orchards--nay, nor anything.

The Muses, though, are friends of mine; Some readers love my lyric line; And never is Calliope Awearied by my poetry.