The elegies of Tibullus preserve the names of two Roman beauties—“Delia,” the early mistress of his heart, and “Nem’esis,” her successor. Delia, “with her queenly charms and golden locks,” first brought him to her feet, and he wooed her in his most finished strains. But, like Catullus, he soon found occasion to lament his fair one’s inconstancy. Delia jilted him for a richer lover, and Tibullus transferred his affections to the imperious Nemesis. The style of Tibullus is sweet and polished. A pensive, almost melancholy tone pervades his verses. In the following plaintive elegy, the injured but forgiving poet recalls to his false one how tenderly he nursed her through a critical sickness, picturing his dream of happiness with her installed as the mistress of his rural home, and his rude awakening:— ELEGY TO DELIA. “Oh! I was harsh to say that I could part From thee; but, Delia, I am bold no more! Driven like a top, which boys with ready art Keep spinning round upon a level floor. Burn, lash me, love, if ever after this By me one cruel, blustering word is said; Yet spare, I pray thee by our stolen bliss, By mighty Venus and thy comely head. When thou didst lie, by fell disease o’erpowered, I rescued thee, by prayers, from death’s domain; Pure sulphur’s cleansing fumes I round thee showered, While an enchantress sung a magic strain. Yes—and another now enjoys the prize, And reaps the fruit of all my vows for thee: Foolish, I dreamed of life ’neath golden skies, Wert thou but saved—not such great heaven’s decree. I said—I’ll till my fields, she’ll guard my store When crops are threshed in autumn’s burning heat; She’ll keep my grapes in baskets brimming o’er, And my rich must expressed by nimble feet. She’ll count my flock; some home-born slave of mine Will prattle in my darling’s lap and play: To rural god ripe clusters for the vine, Sheaves for my crops, cates for my fold, she’ll pay. Slaves—all shall own her undisputed rule; Myself a cipher—how the thought would please! Here will Messala come, for whom she’ll pull The sweetest apples from the choicest trees; And, honoring one so great, for him prepare And serve the banquet with her own white hands. Fond dream! which now the east and south winds bear Away to far Armenia’s spicy lands.” CRANSTOUN.