Book 3 — ELEGY THE FOURTH

Be kinder, gods! Let not the dreams come true Which last night's cruel slumber bade believe! Begone! your vain, delusive spells undo, Nor ask me to receive! The gods tell truth. With truth the Tuscan seer In entrails dark a book of fate may find; But dreams are folly and with fruitless fear Address the trembling mind. Although mankind, against night's dark surprise With sprinkled meal or salt ward off the ill, And often turn deaf ear to prophets wise, While dreams deceive them still;— May bright Lucina my foreboding mind From such vain terrors of the night redeem, For in my soul no deed of guilt I find, Nor do my lips blaspheme. Now had the Night upon her ebon wain Passed o'er the upper sky, and dipped a wheel In the blue sea: but Sleep, the friend of pain, Refused my sense to seal. Sleep stands defeated at the house of care: And only when from purpled orient skies Peered Phoebus forth, did tardy slumber bear Down on my weary eyes. Then seemed a youth with holy laurel crowned To fill my door: a wight so wondrous rare Was not in all the vanished ages found. No marble half so fair! Adown his neck, with myrtle-buds inwove And Syrian dews, his unshorn tresses flow: White is he as the moon in heaven above, But rose is blent with snow. Like that soft blush on face of virgin fair Led to her husband; or as maidens twine Lilies in amaranth; or Autumn's air Tinges the apples fine. A long, loose mantle to his ankles played,— Such vesture did his lucent shape enfold: His left hand bore the vocal lyre, all made Of gleaming shell and gold. He smote its strings with ivory instrument, And words auspicious tuned his heavenly tongue; Then, while his hands and voice concording blent, These sad, sweet words he sung: "Hail, blest of Heaven! For a poet divine Phoebus and Bacchus and the Muses bless. But Bacchus and the skilful Sisters nine No prophecies possess. "But of what Fate ordains for times to be Jove gave me vision. Therefore, minstrel dear! Receive what my unerring lips decree! The Cynthian wisdom hear! "She whom thy love holds dearer than sweet child Is to a mother's breast, or virgin soft To longing lover, she for whom thy wild Prayers vex high Heaven so oft, "Who worries thee each day, and vainly fills Dark-mantled sleep with visions that beguile, Lovely Neaera, theme of all thy quills, Now elsewhere gives her smile. "For sighs not thine her fickle passions flame: For thy chaste house Neaera has no care. O cruel tribe! O woman, faithless name! Curse on the false and fair! "But woo her still! For mutability Is woman's soul. Fond vows may yet prevail, Fierce love bears well a woman's cruelty, Nor at the lash will quail. "That I did feed Admetus' heifers white Is no light tale. Upon the lyric string Nor more could I my joyful notes indite, Nor with sweet concord sing. "On oaten pipe I sued the woodland Muse— I, of Latona and the Thunderer son! Thou knowst not what love is, if thou refuse T'endure a cruel one. "Go, then, and ply her with persuasive woe! Soft supplications the hard heart subdue. Then, if my oracles the future know, Give her this message true: "'The God whose seat is Delos' marble isle, Declares this marriage happy and secure. It has Apollo's own auspicious smile. Cast off that rival wooer!'" He spoke: dull slumber from my body fell. Can I believe such perils round me fold? That such discordant vows thy tongue can tell? Thy heart in guilt so bold? Thou wert not gendered by the Pontic Sea, Nor where Chimaera's lips fierce flame out-pour, Nor of that dog with tongues and foreheads three, His back all snakes and gore; Nor out of Scylla's whelp-engirdled womb; Nor wert thou of fell lioness the child; Nor was thy cradle Scythia's forest-gloom, Nor Syrtis' sandy wild. No, but thy home was human! round its fire Sate creatures lovable: of all her kind Thy mother was the mildest, and thy sire Showed a most friendly mind. May Heaven in these bad dreams good omen show, And bid warm south-winds to oblivion blow!