Sad Elegy,[409] thy woful hairs unbind:
Ah, now a name too true thou hast I find.
Tibullus, thy work's poet, and thy fame,
Burns his dead body in the funeral flame.
Lo, Cupid brings his quiver spoiled quite,
His broken bow, his firebrand without light!
How piteously with drooping wings he stands,
And knocks his bare breast with self-angry hands. 10
The locks spread on his neck receive his tears,
And shaking sobs his mouth for speeches bears.
So[410] at AEneas' burial, men report,
Fair-faced Ilus, he went forth thy court.
And Venus grieves, Tibullus' life being spent,
As when the wild boar Adon's groin had rent.
The gods' care we are called, and men of piety,
And some there be that think we have a deity.
Outrageous death profanes all holy things,
And on all creatures obscure darkness brings. 20
To Thracian Orpheus what did parents good?
Or songs amazing wild beasts of the wood?
Where[411] Linus by his father Phoebus laid,
To sing with his unequalled harp is said.
See Homer from whose fountain ever filled
Pierian dew to poets is distilled:
Him the last day in black Avern hath drowned:
Verses alone are with continuance crowned.
The work of poets lasts: Troy's labour's fame,
And that slow web night's falsehood did unframe. 30
So Nemesis, so Delia famous are,
The one his first love, th' other his new care.
What profit to us hath our pure life bred?
What to have lain alone in empty bed?
When bad Fates take good men, I am forbod
By secret thoughts to think there is a God.
Live godly, thou shalt die; though honour heaven,
Yet shall thy life be forcibly bereaven.
Trust in good verse, Tibullus feels death's pains,
Scarce rests of all what a small urn contains. 40
Thee, sacred poet, could sad flames destroy?
Nor feared they thy body to annoy?
The holy gods' gilt temples they might fire,
That durst to so great wickedness aspire.
Eryx' bright empress turned her looks aside,
And some, that she refrained tears, have denied.
Yet better is't, than if Corcyra's Isle,
Had thee unknown interred in ground most vile.
Thy dying eyes here did thy mother close,
Nor did thy ashes her last offerings lose. 50
Part of her sorrow here thy sister bearing,