The Elegies of Tibullus.

by Tibullus.

PREFACE

Albius Tibullus was a Roman gentleman, whose father fought on Pompey's side. The precise dates of his birth and death are in doubt, and what we know of his life is all in his own poems; except that Horace condoles with him about Glycera, and Apuleius says Delia's real name was Plautia.

Horace paid him this immortal compliment: (_Epist. 4 bk. I_).

"_Albi nostrorum sermonum candide judex, Non tu corpus eras sine pectore; Di tibi formam, Di tibi divitias dederant, artemque fruendi_."

After his death, Ovid wrote him a fine elegy (p. 115); and Domitius Marsus a neat epigram. The former promised him an immortality equal to Homer's; the latter sent him to Elysium at Virgil's side. These excessive eulogies are the more remarkable in that Tibullus stood, proudly or indolently, aloof from the court. He never flatters Augustus nor mentions his name. He scoffs at riches, glory and war, wanting nothing but to triumph as a lover. Ovid dares to group him with the laurelled shades of Catullus and Gallus, of whom the former had lampooned the divine Julius and the latter had been exiled by Augustus.

But in spite of this contemporary _succes d'estime_, Tibullus is clearly a minor poet. He expresses only one aspect of his time. His few themes are oft-repeated and in monotonous rhythms. He sings of nothing greater than his own lost loves. Yet of Delia, Nemesis and Neaera, we learn only that all were fair, faithless and venal. For a man whose ideal of love was life-long fidelity, he was tragically unsuccessful.

If this were all, his verse would have perished with that of Macer and Gallus. But it is not all. These love-poems of a private gentleman of the Augustan time, show a delicacy of sentiment almost modern. Of the ribald curses which Catullus hurls after his departing Lesbia, there is nothing. He throws the blame on others: and if, just to frighten, he describes the wretched old age of the girls who never were faithful, it is with a playful tone and hoping such bad luck will never befall any sweet-heart of his. This delicacy and tenderness, with the playful accent, are, perhaps, Tibullus' distinctive charm.

His popularity in 18th century France was very great. The current English version, Grainger's (1755) with its cheap verse and common-place gallantries, is a stupid echo of the French feeling for Tibullus as an erotic poet. Much better is the witty prose version by the elder Mirabeau, done during the Terror, in the prison at Vincennes, and published after his release, with a ravishing portrait of "Sophie,"

surrounded by Cupids and billing doves. One of the old Parisian editors dared to say:

"_Tons ceux qui aiment, ou qui ont jamais aime, savent par coeur ce delicieux Tibulle_."

But it was unjust to cla.s.sify Tibullus merely as an erotic poet. The gallants of the _ancien regime_ were quite capable of writing their own valentines. Tibullus was popular as a sort of Latin Rousseau. He satirized rank, riches and glory as corrupting man's primitive simplicity. He pled for a return to nature, to country-side, thatched cottages, ploughed fields, flocks, harvests, vintages and rustic holidays. He made this plea, not with an armoury of Greek learning, such as c.u.mber Virgil and Horace, but with an original pa.s.sion. He cannot speak of the jewelled Roman coquettes without a sigh for those happy times when Phoebus himself tended cattle and lived on curds and whey, all for the love of a king's daughter.

For our own generation Tibullus has another claim to notice. All Augustan writers express their dread and weariness of war. But Tibullus protests as a survivor of the lost cause. He has been, himself, a soldier-lover maddened by separation. As an heir of the old order, he saw how vulgar and mercenary was this _parvenu_ imperial glory, won at the expense of lost liberties and broken hearts. War, he says, is only the strife of robbers. Its motive is the spoils. It happens because beautiful women want emeralds, Indian slaves and glimmering silk from Cos. Therefore, of course, we fight. But if Neaera and her kind would eat acorns, as of old, we could burn the navies and build cities without walls.

He was indeed a minor poet. He does not carry forward, like Virgil, the whole heritage from the Greeks, or rise like him to idealizing the master-pa.s.sion of his own age, that vision of a cosmopolitan world-state, centred at Rome and based upon eternal decrees of Fate and Jove. But neither was he duped, as Virgil was, into mistaking the blood-bought empire of the Caesars for the return of Saturn's reign.

Sometimes a minor poet, just by reason of his aloofness from the social trend of his time, may also escape its limitations, and sound some notes which remain forever true to what is unchanging in the human heart. I believe Tibullus has done so.

This translation has been done in the play-time of many busy years. I have used what few helps I could find, especially the Mirabeau, above alluded to. The text is often doubtful. But in so rambling a writer it has not seemed to me that the laborious transpositions of later German editors were important. I have rejected as probably spurious all of the fourth book but two short pieces. While I agree with those who find the third book doubtful, I have included it.

But from scholars I must ask indulgence. I have translated with lat.i.tude, considering whole phrases rather than single words. But I have always been faithful to the thought and spirit of the original, except in the few pa.s.sages where euphemism was required. If the reader who has no Latin, gets a pleasing impression of Tibullus, that is what I have chiefly hoped to do. In my forth-coming translations of the _Aeneid_ I have kept stricter watch upon verbal accuracy, as is due to an author better-known and more to be revered.

THEODORE C. WILLIAMS.

New York, 1905.

BOOK I

ELEGY THE FIRST

THE SIMPLE LIFE

Give, if thou wilt, for gold a life of toil!

Let endless acres claim thy care!

While sounds of war thy fearful slumbers spoil, And far-off trumpets scare!

To me my poverty brings tranquil hours; My lowly hearth-stone cheerly shines; My modest garden bears me fruit and flowers, And plenteous native wines.

I set my tender vines with timely skill, Or pluck large apples from the bough; Or goad my lazy steers to work my will, Or guide my own rude plough.

Full tenderly upon my breast I bear A lamb or small kid gone astray; And yearly worship with my swains prepare, The shepherd's ancient way.

I love those rude shrines in a lonely field Where rustic faith the G.o.d reveres, Or flower-crowned cross-road mile-stones, half concealed By gifts of travellers.

Whatever fruit the kindly seasons show, Due tribute to our G.o.ds I pour; O'er Ceres' brows the ta.s.seled wheat I throw, Or wreathe her temple door.

My plenteous orchards fear no pelf or harm, By red Priapus sentinelled; By his huge sickle's formidable charm The bird thieves are dispelled.

With offerings at my hearth, and faithful fires, My Lares I revere: not now As when with greater gifts my wealthier sires Performed the hallowing vow.

No herds have I like theirs: I only bring One white lamb from my little fold, While my few bondmen at the altar sing Our harvest anthems old.

G.o.ds of my hearth! ye never learned to slight A poor man's gift. My bowls of clay To ye are hallowed by the cleansing rite, The best, most ancient way.

If from my sheep the thief, the wolf, be driven, If fatter flocks allure them more, To me the riches to my fathers given Kind Heaven need not restore.

My small, sure crop contents me; and the storm That pelts my thatch breaks not my rest, While to my heart I clasp the beauteous form Of her it loves the best.

My simple cot brings such secure repose, When so companioned I can lie, That winds of winter and the whirling snows Sing me soft lullaby.

This lot be mine! I envy not their gold Who rove the furious ocean foam: A frugal life will all my pleasures hold, If love be mine, and home.

Enough I travel, if I steal away To sleep at noon-tide by the flow Of some cool stream. Could India's jewels pay For longer absence? No!

Let great Messala vanquish land and sea, And deck with spoils his golden hall!

I am myself a conquest, and must be My Delia's captive thrall.

Be Delia mine, and Fame may flout and scorn, Or brand me with the sluggard's name!

With cheerful hands I'll plant my upland corn, And live to laugh at Fame.

If I might hold my Delia to my side, The bare ground were a happier bed Than theirs who, on a couch of silken pride, Must mourn for love long dead.

Gilt couch, soft down, slow fountains murmuring song-- These bring no peace. Befooled by words Was he who, when in love a victor strong, Left it for spoils and swords.

For such let sad Cilicia's captives bleed, Her citadels his legions hold!

And let him stride his swift, triumphal steed, In silvered robes or gold!

These eyes of mine would look on only thee In that last hour when light shall fail.

Embrace me, dear, in death! Let thy hand be In my cold fingers pale!

With thine own arms my lifeless body lay On that cold couch so soon on fire!

Give thy last kisses to my grateful clay, And weep beside my pyre!