AKE this, my Gallus, for I've loved thee long;
And heed, oh heed, the warning of my song!
Ye careless lovers, oft will fortune fail,
The cruel river-god could tell the tale—
Like Hylas is the boy that conquers thee,
Alike in name, but fairer yet than he.
Whether the waves of some dark woodland rill,
Or Anio's waters wash thy footsteps still;
Whether the giant land thou wanderest o'er,
Or pleasant rivers bid thee roam no more:
Oh, guard him from the nymphs that haunt the
Still, as of old, Ausonia's Dryads love.
"Twere hard indeed that thou shouldst roam the
Climb the cold hills, and pierce the pathless floods;
Like Hercules, who trod the lonely wild,
And pray'd the cruel stream give back the child.
For men still tell, how Argo left of
yore
Thessalia's docks and straight for Phasis bore :
Scarce had dark Helle's waters sunk from view,
When Mysia's rocks receive the eager crew;
Stretch'd on the yielding sand each sinks to rest,
Their sea-worn limbs on leafy couches prest.
But through the woods young Hylas roam'd away,
To seek the choicer stream that shuns the day.
Him the twin sons of Aquilo pursued,
Zetes and Calais in wanton mood;
On swooping pinions, see them both essay
To kiss his upturn'd face, and fly away;
While nestling in their wings, he's borne on high, Or waves a branch to foil them as they fly!
Scarce had they ceased, when, ah! too luckless fate! Away goes Hylas where the wood-nymphs wait.
There lies a spring beneath Arganthus' crest,
A liquid home, where Dryads love to rest;
High arch'd above the wild-wood monarchs stand,
And fruits bloom there unrear'd by human hand;
While scarlet poppies blush beneath the shade,
And silver lilies deck the watery glade.
Young Hylas, as he plucks the flowery spoil,
Forgets his task for this more pleasing toil ;
Next at the spring, all unsuspecting, stays,
And in the mellow'd reflex loves to gaze;
Then dips his hand a copious draft to drink,
One shoulder resting on the mossy brink-
"Twas then his beauty fired the Nymphs at play,
To leave the dance they love and haste away.
Gently they draw him down the yielding rill,
A little splash, and all around is still.
Afar Alcides calls, his love to save,
Yet nought but Echo answers from the wave.
Thus warn'd, my Gallus, long your love enjoy,
Nor make the Nymphs the guardians of the boy.
SOLDIER, that fliest from thy comrade's fall,
Though weak and wounded 'neath Perusia's
Heed not my dying groan, nor weep for me,
For I am but a soldier like to thee.
But to my sister the sad tale deplore,
So mayst thou glad thy parent's heart once more,
How Gallus 'scaped from Cæsar's armèd bands,
To fall unhonour'd here by felon hands
If o'er the Tuscan wold she haply see
Some scatter'd bones, 'tis all she'll find of me.
MY home, my fortune, and my birth to tell,
Thou ask'st me, Tullus, as thou lov'st me well
Where, 'neath Perusia's wall thy kinsman lie,
Slain in the heavy times of Italy,
When Roman strife steel'd brothers' hearts to war:
Thy dust, Etruria, do I most deplore.
'Twas o'er thy hills my mangled kinsman lay,
No earth, no shelter for his wretched clay.
And there it was that Umbria nurtured me,
Which beetles, rock-like, o'er the grassy sea.
ye should ask why love's my theme so oft,
And breathes upon my lips in accents soft, 'Tis not Apollo, nor the Muses' fire,
But Cynthia's beauty that attunes the lyre.
If in rich scarlet dress she flaunts along,
Then Coan silks shall be my only song;
If on her forehead fair the locks lie low,
I'll sing the praises of that haughty brow;
Let but her ivory finger press the quill,
And I will hang enraptured by her skill;
E'en her soft eyelids lapp'd in drowsy dreams,
Tune my fond numbers to a thousand themes,
Each trivial deed, each accent of her tongue, Swells the long story of the lover's song.
Yet if to me, Mæcenas, fate should yield To tell of camps and chieftains in the field; I would not sing the brood that scaled the sky, Olympus, Pelion, Ossa, piled on high;
Or ancient Thebes, or Troy, old Homer's town,
And seas that mingled at the tyrant's frown.
How Carthage fought, or Remus reign'd of yore,
The might of Marius, and the Cimbrian war.
But the great wars of Cæsar would I trace,
And next to him thy name should find a place;
For whether Pompey's rout engross'd my lay,
Or Mutina, or red Philippi's day;
The Tuscan hearths laid waste, Perusia's fall,
Or Pharo's kingdoms in a stranger's thrall;
Cyprus subdued, or from his watery home,
The seven-mouth'd Nile God dragg'd in chains to
Rome;
Or kings in golden fetters, and a fleet
Of Actian prows, that throng'd the Sacred Street,
Yet would each theme to thee fresh glory yield,
As faithful in the senate as the field.
No truer love than thine in weal or woe
Can Theseus or the great Achilles show,
Though earth attest it, and the shades below.
As soft Callimachus in vain had striven
To thunder forth the giant wars of heaven;
So Cæsar's story and his lineage high
Mocks the weak notes of my poor minstrelsy.
Let shepherd, soldier, sailor, swain, combine,
To tell of wars or tempests, sheep and kine,
Mine is a narrower field, a humbler fray,
Each to his trade: so runs the world away.
'Tis good to die for love, or love but one,
Ah, be my love still mine, and mine alone!
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