Destroy me--who shall then
describe
the fair?
Oxford Book of Latin Verse
From mean account
Lifted to mighty, where the resolute
Waters ot Aufidus reverberant ring
O'er fields where Daunus once held rustic state,
Of barren acres simple-minded king,--
There was I born, and first of men did mate
To lyre of Latium Aeolic lay.
Clothe thee in glory, Muse, and grandly wear
Thy hardly-gotten greatness, and my hair
Circle, Melpomene, with Delphian bay.
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 godhead 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 passed beneath the doom,
Barred is the adamant and vows too late.
E'en though the lord of hell should list thy prayer,
Thy tears shall idly soak the sullen shores:
Vows may move heaven; when Charon holds his fee,
The grass-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 titles 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 noble strain,
Fear of no judge could higher life inspire.
