Book III, Elegy 3

Methought I lay in the soft shades of Helicon, where flows the fountain of Bellerophon's steed, and deemed I had the power with sinews such as mine to sing of thy kings, O Alba, and the deeds of thy kings, a mighty task. Already I had set my puny lips to those mighty fountains, whence father Ennius once slaked his thirst and sang of the Curian brothers and the javelins of the Horatii and the royal trophies borne in Aemilius' bark, of the victorious delays of Fabius, the fatal fight of Cannae and the gods that turned to answer pious prayers, of the Lares frighting Hannibal from their Roman home, and of Jove saved by the cackling goose.

But of a sudden Phoebus espied me from his Castalian grove and spake thus, leaning on his golden lyre nigh to a cavern: "Madman, what hast thou to do with such a stream? Who bade thee essay the task of heroic song? Not hence, Propertius, mayest thou hope for fame! Soft are the meads o'er which thy little wheels must roll, that oft thy book may be read by some lonely girl, that waits her absent lover, and oft be cast upon the stool at her feet. Why has thy page swerved from the ring prescribed for it? The shallop of thy wit can bear no heavy cargo! Let one oar skim the water, the other the sand; so shalt thou be safe: mighty is the turmoil in mid-sea." He spake, and with his ivory quill showed me a dwelling, where a new path had been made along the mossy floor.

Here was a green cave, its walls lined with pebbles, and timbrels hung from its hollowed stones; there hung also the mystic instruments of the Muses and the clay image of father Silenus, and thy reeds, O Pan of Tegea; and doves, birds of my lady Venus, the birds I love, dipped their red bills in the Gorgon's fount, while here and there the Maidens nine, to each of whom the lot hath given her several realm, busied their soft hands about their diverse gifts. One gathered ivy for the thyrsus-wand, another tuned her song to the music of the lyre, a third with either hand wove wreaths of roses.

Then one of the number of these goddesses laid her hand upon me — 'twas Calliope, as I deem by her face: "Thou shalt alway be content to be drawn by snowy swans, nor shall the tramp of the war-horse lead thee to battle. Care not thou with hoarse trumpet-blast to blare forth martial advertisement nor to stain Aonia's grove with war. Care not thou in what fields the battle is arrayed beneath Marius' standard, and Rome beats back the Teuton's power, nor where the wild Rhine, steeped with the Swabian's blood, bears mangled bodies down its sorrowing waves.

"For thou shalt sing of garlanded lovers watching before another's threshold, and the tokens of drunken flight through the dark, that he who would cheat stern husbands by his cunning may through thee have power to charm forth his imprisoned love." So spake Calliope, and, drawing water from the fount, sprinkled my lips with the draught Philetas loved.