Translation from Propertius (II. i): To Maecenas

You ask, why thus my Loves I still rehearse,
Whence the soft Strain and ever-melting Verse?
From Cynthia all that in my numbers shines;
She is my Genius, she inspires the Lines;
No Phoebus else, no other Muse I know,
She tunes my easy Rhime, and gives the Lay to flow.
If the loose Curls around her Forehead play,
Or lawless, o'er their Ivory Margin stray:
If the thin Coan Web her Shape reveal,
And half disclose those Limbs it should conceal;
Of those loose Curls, that Ivory front I write;
Of the dear Web whole Volumes I indite:
Or if to Musick she the Lyre awake,
That the soft Subject of my Song I make,
And sing with what a careless Grace she flings
Her artful hand across the sounding Strings.
If sinking into Sleep she seem to close
Her languid Lids, I favour her repose
With lulling Notes, and thousand beauties see
That Slumber brings to aid my Poetry.
When, less averse, and yielding to Desires,
She half accepts, and half rejects, my Fires,
While to retain the envious Lawn she tries,
And struggles to elude my longing Eyes,
The fruitful Muse from that auspicious Night
Dates the long Iliad of the amorous Fight
In brief whate'er she do, or say, or look,
'Tis ample Matter for a Lover's Book;
And many a copious Narrative you'll see
Big with the important Nothing's History.
Yet would the Tyrant Love permit me raise
My feeble Voice, to sound the Victor's Praise,
To paint the Hero's Toil, the Ranks of War,
The laurel'd Triumph and the sculptured Carr;
No Giant Race, no Tumult of the Skies,
No Mountain-Structures in my Verse should rise,
Nor Tale of Thebes, nor Ilium there should be,
Nor how the Persian trod the indignant Sea;
Not Marius' Cimbrian Wreaths would I relate,
Nor lofty Carthage struggleing with her Fate.
Here should Augustus great in Arms appear,
And thou Maecenas, be my second Care;
Here Mutina from flames and famine free,
And there the ensanguined Wave of Sicily,
And scepter'd Alexandria's captive Shore,
And sad Philippi, red with Roman Gore:
Then, while the vaulted Skies loud Io's rend,
In golden Chains should loaded Monarchs bend,
And hoary Nile with pensive Aspect seem
To mourn the Glories of his sevenfold Stream,
While Prows, that late in fierce Encounter mett,
Move through the Sacred Way and vainly threat,
Thee too the Muse should consecrate to Fame,
And with her Garlands weave thy ever-faithful Name.
But nor Callimachus' enervate Strain
May tell of Jove, and Phlegra's blasted Plain;
Nor I with unaccustom'd Vigour trace
Back to it's Source divine the Julian Race.
Sailors to tell of Winds and Seas delight,
The Shepherd of his flocks, the Soldier of the Fight,
A milder Warfare I in Verse display;
Each in his proper Art should waste the Day:
Nor thou my gentle Calling disapprove,
To die is glorious in the Bed of Love.
Happy the Youth, and not unknown to Fame,
Whose heart has never felt a second flame.
Oh, might that envied Happiness be mine!
To Cynthia all my Wishes I confine;
Or if, alas! it be my Fate to try
Another Love, the quicker let me die:
But she, the Mistress of my faithful breast,
Has oft the Charms of Constancy confest,
Condemns her fickle Sexe's fond Mistake,
And hates the Tale of Troy for Helen's Sake.
Me from myself the soft Enchantress stole;
Ah! let her ever my Desires control,
Or if I fall the Victim of her Scorn,
From her loved Door may my pale Coarse be borne.
The Power of Herbs can other Harms remove,
And find a Cure for every ill, but Love.
The Melian's Hurt Machaon could repair,
Heal the slow Chief, and send again to War;
To Chiron Phoenix owed his long-lost Sight,
And Phoebus' Son recall'd Androgeon to the Light.
Here Arts are vain, e'en Magic here must fail,
The powerful Mixture and the midnight Spell;
The Hand that can my captive heart release,
And to this bosom give its wonted Peace,
May the long Thirst of Tantalus allay,
Or drive the infernal Vulture from his Prey.
For Ills unseen what Remedy is found?
Or who can probe the undiscover'd Wound?
The Bed avails not, nor the leeche's Care,
Nor changing Skies can hurt, nor sultry Air.
'Tis hard th' elusive Symptoms to explore:
To-day the Lover walks, to-morrow is no more;
A train of mourning Friends attend his Pall,
And wonder at the sudden Funeral.
When then my Fates that breath they gave shall claim,
And the short Marble but preserve a Name,
A little Verse my All that shall remain;
Thy passing Courser's slacken'd Speed restrain;
(Thou envied Honour of thy Poet's Days,
Of all our Youth the Ambition and the Praise!)
Then to my quiet Urn awhile draw near,
And say, while o'er the Place You drop the Tear,
Love and the Fair were of his Life the Pride;
He lived, while she was kind; and when she frown'd, he died.