Book I Elegy the First
The Simple Life
Give, if thou wilt, for gold a life of toil!
Let endless acres claim thy care!
While sounds of war thy fearful slumbers spoil,
And far-off trumpets scare!
To me my poverty brings tranquil hours;
My lowly hearth-stone cheerly shines;
My modest garden bears me fruit and flowers,
And plenteous native wines.
I set my tender vines with timely skill,
Or pluck large apples from the bough;
Or goad my lazy steers to work my will,
Or guide my own rude plough.
Full tenderly upon my breast I bear
A lamb or small kid gone astray;
And yearly worship with my swains prepare,
The shepherd’s ancient way.
I love those rude shrines in a lonely field
Where rustic faith the god reveres,
Or flower-crowned cross-road mile-stones, half concealed
By gifts of travellers.
Whatever fruit the kindly seasons show,
Due tribute to our gods I pour;
O’er Ceres’ brows the tasseled wheat I throw,
Or wreathe her temple door.
My plenteous orchards fear no pelf or harm,
By red Priapus sentinelled;
By his huge sickle’s formidable charm
The bird thieves are dispelled.
With offerings at my hearth, and faithful fires,
My Lares I revere: not now
As when with greater gifts my wealthier sires
Performed the hallowing vow.
No herds have I like theirs: I only bring
One white lamb from my little fold,
While my few bondmen at the altar sing
Our harvest anthems old.
Gods of my hearth! ye never learned to slight
A poor man’s gift. My bowls of clay
To ye are hallowed by the cleansing rite,
The best, most ancient way.
If from my sheep the thief, the wolf, be driven,
If fatter flocks allure them more,
To me the riches to my fathers given
Kind Heaven need not restore.
My small, sure crop contents me; and the storm
That pelts my thatch breaks not my rest,
While to my heart I clasp the beauteous form
Of her it loves the best.
My simple cot brings such secure repose,
When so companioned I can lie,
That winds of winter and the whirling snows
Sing me soft lullaby.
This lot be mine! I envy not their gold
Who rove the furious ocean foam:
A frugal life will all my pleasures hold,
If love be mine, and home.
Enough I travel, if I steal away
To sleep at noon-tide by the flow
Of some cool stream. Could India’s jewels pay
For longer absence? No!
Let great Messala vanquish land and sea,
And deck with spoils his golden hall!
I am myself a conquest, and must be
My Delia’s captive thrall.
Be Delia mine, and Fame may flout and scorn,
Or brand me with the sluggard’s name!
With cheerful hands I’ll plant my upland corn,
And live to laugh at Fame.
If I might hold my Delia to my side,
The bare ground were a happier bed
Than theirs who, on a couch of silken pride,
Must mourn for love long dead.
Gilt couch, soft down, slow fountains murmuring song—
These bring no peace. Befooled by words
Was he who, when in love a victor strong,
Left it for spoils and swords.
For such let sad Cilicia’s captives bleed,
Her citadels his legions hold!
And let him stride his swift, triumphal steed,
In silvered robes or gold!
These eyes of mine would look on only thee
In that last hour when light shall fail.
Embrace me, dear, in death! Let thy hand be
In my cold fingers pale!
With thine own arms my lifeless body lay
On that cold couch so soon on fire!
Give thy last kisses to my grateful clay,
And weep beside my pyre!
And weep! Ah, me! Thy heart will wear no steel
Nor be stone-cold that rueful day:
Thy faithful grief may all true lovers feel
Nor tearless turn away!
Yet ask I not that thou shouldst vex my shade
With cheek all wan and blighted brow:
But, O, to-day be love’s full tribute paid,
While the swift Fates allow.
Soon Death, with shadow-mantled head, will come,
Soon palsied age will creep our way,
Bidding love’s flatteries at last be dumb,
Unfit for old and gray.
But light-winged Venus still is smiling fair:
By night or noon we heed her call;
To pound on midnight doors I still may dare,
Or brave for love a brawl.
I am a soldier and a captain good
In love’s campaign, and calmly yield
To all who hunger after wounds and blood,
War’s trumpet-echoing field.
Ye toils and triumphs unto glory dear!
Ye riches home from conquest borne!
If my small fields their wonted harvest bear,
Both wealth and want I scorn!