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.