No roving seaman, from a distant course, Filled full of far-fetched wares his frail ship's hold: At home, the strong bull stood unyoked; the horse Endured no bridle in the age of gold. Men's houses had no doors? No firm-set rock Marked field from field by niggard masters held. The very oaks ran honey; the mild flock Brought home its swelling udders, uncompelled. Nor wrath nor war did that blest kingdom know; No craft was taught in old Saturnian time, By which the frowning smith, with blow on blow, Could forge the furious sword and so much crime. Now Jove is king! Now have we carnage foul, And wreckful seas, and countless ways to die. Nay! spare me, Father Jove, for on my soul Nor perjury, nor words blaspheming lie. If longer life I ask of Fate in vain, O'er my frail dust this superscription be:-- _"Here Death's dark hand_ TIBULLUS _doth detain, Messala's follower over land and sea!"_ Then, since my soul to love did always yield, Let Venus guide it the immortal way, Where dance and song fill all th' Elysian field, And music that will never die away. There many a song-bird with his fellow sails, And cheerly carols on the cloudless air; Each grove breathes incense; all the happy vales O'er-run with roses, numberless and fair. Bright bands of youth with tender maidens stray, Led by the love-god all delights to share; And each fond lover death once snatched away Winds an immortal myrtle in his hair. Far, far from such, the dreadful realms of gloom By those black streams of Hades circled round, Where viper-tressed, fierce ministers of doom,-- The Furies drive lost souls from bound to bound. The doors of brass, and dragon-gate of Hell, Grim Cerberus guards, and frights the phantoms back: Ixion, who by Juno's beauty fell, Gives his frail body to the whirling rack. Stretched o'er nine roods, lies Tityos accursed, The vulture at his vitals feeding slow; There Tantalus, whose bitter, burning thirst The fleeting waters madden as they flow. There Danaus' daughters Venus' anger feel, Filling their urns at Lethe all in vain;-- _And there's the wretch who would my Delia steal, And wish me absent on a long campaign!_ O chaste and true! In thy still house shall sit The careful crone who guards thy virtuous bed; She tells thee tales, and when the lamps are lit, Reels from her distaff the unending thread. Some evening, after tasks too closely plied, My Delia, drowsing near the harmless dame, All sweet surprise, will find me at her side, Unheralded, as if from heaven I came. Then to my arms, in lovely disarray, With welcome kiss, thy darling feet will fly! O happy dream and prayer! O blissful day! What golden dawn, at last, shall bring thee nigh? ELEGY THE FOURTH THE ARTS OF CONQUEST