II.

Quid mirare meas.

E wonder why, oft changed, I'm yet the

YE

same

Then learn the signs whence I, Vertumnus, came:
A Tuscan god am I, of Tuscan birth,
Frighted by warfare from Volsiniï's earth;
A crowded street, no ivory fane for me,
Nought but Rome's forum do I care to see.
Here Tyber flow'd of old, and stories say
The splash of oarage struck the water-way,
Till he, to please his children, turn'd, and I
Was call'd Vertumnus, from the stream run dry,
Unless the changing year my title made,
When fruit and festival to me is paid.

Yes, the first clusters of the purpling vine,
The bursting ears of milky grain are mine;
Here cherries sweet, and autumn plums they pay,
And strawberries through all the summer day;
And gardeners crown me oft with fruitage fair,
For grafted apples won from stubborn pear.
But hence, false tales; another knows me well,
Myself the theme, believe the tale I tell :-

Apt is my nature form'd for all disguise,
Yet turn me as thou wilt, I charm the eyes.
Clothe me in silk, a maiden soft I'll be;
A cloak forthwith can make a man of me;
Give me a sickle, bind my brow with hay,
ye would swear a mower comes this way.

And

At soldiering I won some fame, 'tis said;
Then was a reaper, basket poised on head—
Peaceful enough, until I'm crown'd again,

Then would ye cry that wine had fired my brain.

With mitred hair, I'm Bacchus at thy will,

Or Phœbus, only give me Phoebus' quill.

With nets I take the field, anon the same
With rod, like Faunus, hunt for feather'd game;
A charioteer awhile, and next in course

The nimble voltigeur from horse to horse.
Give me the chance, I'll make of fish my prize,
Or walk in quiet merchant's decent guise,
Lean on a shepherd's crook, or through the drought
In rushen baskets hawk the rose about.

No need to tell ye of my chiefest pride,
The choicest gifts of all the country side,
How pale-green cucumber, tun-bellied gourd,
And rush-bound broccoli on me is pour'd,
And ne'er a flow'ret decks the mead, but she
Weaves a soft-drooping coronal for me.

So from the many shapes I'm wont to wear,
Rome in her speech has coin'd the name I bear,
And gave my countrymen a welcome meet,
A tale attested by the Tuscan street.
And I, when Lycomedius succour bore
To crush the savage might of Tatius' war,

Mark'd their slack spears, their weak and wavering

fight,

And turn'd the foeman's ranks in shameful flight.

Then grant, great Jove, I still may find my home
Amid the citizens of busy Rome!

But six more lines: art hurrying to bail?
I'll stay thee not to linger out my tale.-
Yet was I maple once, all rudely planed,
A god beloved, though poor till Numa reign'd;
Then by Mamurius' art in bronze I stand;
Press light, kind Oscan earth, the master-hand
That cast my changes in so fair a mould;
The work is one-its beauties manifold.

III.

Hæc Arethusa suo.

LYCOTAS, hear thy Arethusa pray,

If thou can yet be hers, so oft away.
Where indistinct with blots the page appears
Mark there the evidence of falling tears;
Or if the strokes be feeble and awry,

"Tis but the hand of one about to die.

Has Bactria drawn thee to the East once more,
The fierce Sarmatian steed all arm'd for war?
The Britain's painted chariot, Scythia's frost,
Or the swart denizens of India's coast ?

Is this thy plighted troth? are these the vows
I heard so oft when first I call'd thee spouse P
Methinks the torch that led me home was one
Lit from some luckless pyre whose task was done;
My lustral wave from Styx; my wreath awry;
No marriage god to bless me hovering by.
My vows are every where, but nought they yield.
Four cloaks I've spun since thou hast ta'en the field.

Ah! cursed be he who cut the harmless pale,
And taught the bone-bound trumpet's brass to wail!
A worthier Ocnus he to plait the grass,
And feed the ceaseless hunger of the ass.

Say, does the corslet rub thy shoulders sore?
The spear-shaft bruise thy hand unused to war?
'Twere better so, than that thy neck should be
Black with the bruises of love's armoury.
Men say that thou art thin, thy colour gone;
Would it were loss of me that made thee wan!
But I, when eve brings back those nights of pain,
The armour thou hast left kiss o'er again;
Then should the cock forget to hail the morn,
Or counterpane slip down, with fear I'm torn.
Each winter night thy care my task demands,
For thee the purple.wool unwinds her bands;
I trace thy path to war, Araxes' course,
The thirstless gallop of the Parthian's horse,
I spread the map, and track the world to find
Each farthest work of Nature's master-mind,
What land's adust with heat, what numb'd with snow,

And all the gales to Italy that blow.

Pale at my side, my nurse and sister say

"Tis but the winter causes thy delay.

Ah! happier was Hippolyte, with hair

Rough barr'd beneath the casque, and bosom bare,
Would that our Roman maids might warriors be,
Then had I proved a trusty squire to thee.
No steppe should stop me, though the frosty air
Bound the deep streams in icy bondage there.

No love like wedlock's love can e'er endure, "Tis Venus' self that fans a flame so pure.

What mean thy purple silks that round me shine ?
The diamond's gleam that decks these hands of mine?
All-all is still, save that, as months run o'er,
Some maiden haply opes the Lares' door,
And soothed I hear poor little Glaucis whine,
Curl'd on the lonely bed that once was thine.
With flowers the shrines, the streets with vervain-

spray,

With crackling juniper the hearths I pay,

If owl should hoot hard by from off the beam,
Or wine appease the sputtering candle's gleam,
That day demands that yearling lambs be slain,
And high-girt priests gloat o'er unlook'd-for gain.
Ah! think not then from Bactria's walls to tear
Her chieftain's linen flags that scent the air,
While blasts of leaden hail like whirlwinds go,
And flying horsemen ring the deadly bow,
O'er Parthia's sons a bloodless victory gain,
And headless be the spears that deck thy train.

But oh! be faithful to thy faithful wife!
Thus, thus return, or perish in the strife;

Then to Capena's gate thy arms I'll bear,

And write 'twas grateful love that hung them there.

IV.

Tarpeium nemus.

TARPEIA'S grove, Tarpeia's shame I'll tell,

And all the tale how Jove's old fortress fell.