_He laments the death of the Poet Tibullus._
|If his mother has lamented Memnon, his mother Achilles, and if sad
deaths influence the great Goddesses; plaintive Elegy, unbind thy
sorrowing tresses; alas! too nearly will thy name be derived from fact!
The Poet of thy own inspiration, [610] Tibullus, thy glory, is burning,
a lifeless body, on the erected pile. [611] Lo! the son of Venus bears
both his quiver inverted, and his bow broken, and his torch without a
flame; behold how wretched with drooping wings he goes: and how he beats
his naked breast with cruel hand. His locks dishevelled about his neck
receive his tears, and his mouth resounds with sobs that convulse his
body. 'Twas thus, beauteous Iulus, they say that thou didst go forth
from thy abode, at the funeral of his brother Æneas. Not less was Venus
afflicted when Tibullus died, than when the cruel boar [612] tore the
groin of the youth.
And yet we Poets are called 'hallowed,' and the care of the Deities;
there are some, too, who believe that we possess inspiration. [613]
Inexorable Death, forsooth, profanes all that is hallowed; upon all she
lays her [614] dusky hands. What availed his father, what, his mother,
for Ismarian Orpheus [615] What, with his songs to have lulled the
astounded wild beasts? The same father is said, in the lofty woods, to
have sung 'Linus! Alas! Linus! Alas! [616] to his reluctant lyre. Add
the son of Mæon, [617] too, by whom, as though an everlasting stream,
the mouths of the poets are refreshed by the waters of Piëria: him, too,
has his last day overwhelmed in black Avernus; his verse alone escapes
the all-consuming pile. The fame of the Trojan toils, the work of
the Poets is lasting, and the slow web woven [618] again through the
stratagem of the night. So shall Nemesis, so Delia, [619] have a lasting
name; the one, his recent choice, the other his first love.
What does sacrifice avail thee? [620] Of what use are now the 'sistra'
of Egypt? What, lying apart [621] in a forsaken bed? When the cruel
Destinies snatch away the good, (pardon the confession) I am tempted to
think that there are no Deities. Live piously; pious _though you be_,
you shall die; attend the sacred worship; _still_ ruthless Death shall
drag the worshipper from the temples to the yawning tomb. [622] Put your
trust in the excellence of your verse; see! Tibullus lies prostrate; of
so much, there hardly remains _enough_ for a little urn to receive.
And, hallowed Poet, have the flames of the pile consumed thee, and have
they not been afraid to feed upon that heart of thine? They could have
burned the golden temples of the holy Gods, that have dared a crime so
great. She turned away her face, who holds the towers of Eryx; [623]
there are some, too, who affirm that she did not withhold her tears. But
still, this is better than if the Phæacian land [624] had buried him a
stranger, in an ignoble spot. Here, [625] at least, a mother pressed his
tearful eyes [626] as he fled, and presented the last gifts [627] to his
ashes; here a sister came to share the grief with her wretched mother,
tearing her unadorned locks. And with thy relatives, both Nemesis and
thy first love [628] joined their kisses; and they left not the pile in
solitude. Delia, as she departed, said, "More fortunately was I beloved
by thee; so long as I was thy flame, thou didst live." To her said
Nemesis: "What dost thou say? Are my sufferings a pain to thee? When
dying, he grasped me with his failing hand." [629]
If, however, aught of us remains, but name and spirit, Tibullus will
exist in the Elysian vales. Go to meet him, learned Catullus, [630]
with thy Calvus, having thy youthful temples bound with ivy. Thou
too, Gallus, (if the accusation of the injury of thy friend is false)
prodigal of thy blood [631] and of thy life.
Of these, thy shade is the companion; if only there is any shade of the
body, polished Tibullus; thou hast swelled the blessed throng. Rest,
bones, I pray, in quiet, in the untouched urn; and may the earth prove
not heavy for thy ashes.