The Oxford Book of Latin Verse Part 75

H.W.G.

_161_

HE who sublime in epic numbers rolled, And he who struck the softer lyre of love, By Death's unequal hand alike controlled, Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!

BYRON.

_166_

HAD he not hands of rare device, whoe'er First painted Love in figure of a boy?

He saw what thoughtless beings lovers were, Who blessings lose, whilst lightest cares employ.

Nor added he those airy wings in vain, And bade through human hearts the G.o.dhead fly; For we are tost upon a wavering main; Our gale, inconstant, veers around the sky.

Nor, without cause, he grasps those barbed darts, The Cretan quiver o'er his shoulder cast; Ere we suspect a foe, he strikes our hearts; And those inflicted wounds for ever last.

In me are fix'd those arrows, in my breast; But sure his wings are shorn, the boy remains; For never takes he flight, nor knows he rest; Still, still I feel him warring through my veins.

In these scorch'd vitals dost thou joy to dwell?

Oh shame! to others let thy arrows flee; Let veins untouch'd with all thy venom swell; Not me thou torturest, but the shade of me.

Destroy me--who shall then describe the fair?

This my light Muse to thee high glory brings: When the nymph's tapering fingers, flowing hair, And eyes of jet, and gliding feet she sings.

ELTON.

_179_

NO longer, Paullus, vex with tears my tomb: There is no prayer can open the black gate.

When once the dead have pa.s.sed beneath the doom, Barred is the adamant and vows too late.

E'en though the lord of h.e.l.l should list thy prayer, Thy tears shall idly soak the sullen sh.o.r.es: Vows may move heaven; when Charon holds his fee, The gra.s.s-grown pile stands closed by lurid doors.

So the sad trumpets told their funeral tale While from the bier the torch dislodged my frame; What did my husband, what my sires avail, Or all these numerous pledges of my fame?

Did I, Cornelia, find the fates less harsh?

Five fingers now can lift my weight complete.

Accursed nights, and stagnant Stygian marsh, And every sluggish wave that clogs my feet,

Early yet guiltless came I to this bourne; So let the sire deal gently with my shade If Aeacus sit judge with ordered urn, By kin upon my bones be judgement made:

There let his brothers sit, the Furies fill By Minos' seat the Court, an audience grave.

Let Sisyphus rest, Ixion's wheel be still, And Tantalus once grasp the fleeting wave;

To-day let surly Cerberus hunt no shade, By the mute bar loose let his fetters lie.

I plead my cause: if guilty, be there laid On me that urn, the sisters' penalty.

If any may boast trophies of old days, Still Libya tells my sires the Scipios' name; My mother's line their Libo peers displays, And each great house stands propp'd by scrolls of fame.

When I doffed maiden garb 'neath torches' glow, And with the nuptial band my locks were tied, 'Twas to thy bed I came, doomed thus to go: Let my stone say I was but once a bride.

Those ashes by Rome reverenced I attest, Whose t.i.tles tell how Afric's pride was shorn, Perseus that feigned his sire Achilles' breast, And him that brought Achilles' house to scorn;

For me the censor's rule ne'er swerved from place, Your hearth need never blush for shame of mine: Cornelia brought such relics no disgrace, Herself a model to her mighty line.

I never changed, I lived without a stain Betwixt the marriage and the funeral fire: Nature gave laws drawn from my n.o.ble strain, Fear of no judge could higher life inspire.

Let any urn pa.s.s sentence stern on me: None will be shamed that I should sit beside; Not she, rare maid of tower-crowned Cybele, That hauled the lagging G.o.ddess up the tide;

Not she for whom, when Vesta claimed her fire, The linen white revealed the coals aglow.

What changed in me but fate would'st thou desire, Sweet mother mine? I never wrought thee woe.

Her tears, the city's grief, applaud my fame: And Caesar's sobs plead for these bones of mine; His daughter's worthy sister's loss they blame, And we saw tears upon that face divine.

And yet I won the matron's robe of state, 'Twas from no barren house that I was torn: Paullus and Lepidus, balm of my fate, Upon your breast my closing eyes were borne.

My brother twice I saw in curule place, Consul what time his sister ceased to be.

Child, of thy father's censorship the trace, Cleave to one husband only, copy me.

Prop the great race in line: my bark of choice Sets sail, my loss so many to restore.

Woman's last triumph is when common voice Applauds the pyre of her whose work is o'er.

These common pledges to thee I commend: Still burned into my ashes breathes this care.

Father, the mother's offices attend: This my whole troop thy shoulders now must bear.

When thou shalt kiss their tears, kiss too for me: Henceforth thy load must be the house complete.

If thou must weep with them not there to see, When present, with dry cheeks their kisses cheat.

Enough those nights thou weariest out for me, Those dreams that often shall my semblance feign; And with my shade in secret colloquy, Speak as to one to answer back again.

But should the gate confront another bed, And on my couch a jealous step-dame sit, Laud, boys, and praise the bride your sire has wed; She will be won charmed with your ready wit.

Nor praise your mother overmuch; she may Feel contrast and free words to insult turn.

But if contented with my shade he stay, And hold my ashes of such high concern;

His coming age learn to antic.i.p.ate, Leave to the widower's cares no path confessed.

Be added to your years what mine abate, And in my children Paullus' age be blessed.

'Tis well: for child I ne'er wore mourning weed; But my whole troop came to my obsequies.

My plea is done. While grateful earth life's meed Repays, in tears ye witnesses arise.

Heaven opes to such deserts; may mine me speed To join my honoured fathers in the skies.

L.J. LATHAM.