Book II, Elegy 6: To Macer (Postgate)

For the camp is Macer bound. What shall become of gentle Love ? Must he go with him and stoutly bear his arms about his neck ? And, weapons in hand, will he be at the gallant's side whether his path lie over the distant mainland or the tossing seas ? Young sir, I prithee, brand the rebel that has left thy haunts of peace : call back the truant to thy banners.

But if thou art merciful to soldiers, here is one will be a soldier too, and bring himself refreshing water in his helm. I am off to the camp. Farewell to Love, farewell to lasses. I too am stout of limb; in my ears too the trumpet's note is sweet.

Brave is my speech ; .but when I have uttered the brave bravado, the shutting of a door strikes the bold words from my lips. How often have I sworn that to its threshold I would return no more ! For all" my valiant swearing, my foot comes back itself. Fierce Love, oh, if this could be, I would see thine arms destroyed, the arrows broken and the torches quenched. Thou rackest me with anguish : thou forcest me to curse myself and in impious speech to vent the frenzy of my soul. Ere now I would have ended my miseries in death ; but fond Hope keeps the spark alive, whispering ever that to-morrow things will mend.

'Tis Hope sustains the farmer; to ploughed furrows Hope entrusts the seed for fields to render back with heavy usury. She takes the fowl in noose, the fish with rod, the slender hook first hidden by the bait. Hope comforts, too, the slave whom stout fetters bind. The iron clanks upon his legs, but still he sings at his task. Hope promises me that Nemesis shall be kind ; but she says Nay. Ah me ! worst not the goddess, cruel girl.

Mercy, I pray thee, by the bones of thy sister, dead before her time ; so may the child sleep well beneath the gentle earth. For me she is divine ; to her tomb I will bring offerings and garlands wetted with my tears. To her grave will I fly and, sitting suppliant there, bewail my fate to her silent dust. Not forever will she bear with thee for making her votary weep. In her name I bid thee, be not cold to me,, lest the slighted spirit send thee evil dreams and in thy slumbers thy mournful sister stand before thy bed, such as she was, when from the high casement she fell headlong down and passed blood-spattered to the lakes below. I cease, lest I stir again my lady's bitter woe. I am not worth one cry of grief from her.

Nor is it well that tears should mar those speaking eyes. 'Tis the bawd that is my bane ; the girl herself is good. Phryne, the bawd, is killing me; alas, as stealthily she passes to and fro with tablets hidden in her bosom. Many times, when from the hard threshold I recognise my mistress's sweet voice, Phryne denies she is at home. Often, when the night has been pledged to me, she brings message that the girl is sick or has been affrighted by some warning. Then I die with distress, and desperate fancy figures to itself in what and whose embraces my love is held. Then I call curses on thee, bawd. Thy life should be full enough of fears, if any part of what I pray is heard in heaven.