By which the frowning smith, with blow on blow,
Could forge the furious sword and so much crime.

Now Jove is king! Now have we carnage foul,
And wreckful seas, and countless ways to die.
Nay! spare me, Father Jove, for on my soul
Nor perjury, nor words blaspheming lie.

If longer life I ask of Fate in vain,
O'er my frail dust this superscription be:--
_"Here Death's dark hand_ TIBULLUS _doth detain,
Messala's follower over land and sea!"_

Then, since my soul to love did always yield,
Let Venus guide it the immortal way,
Where dance and song fill all th' Elysian field,
And music that will never die away.

There many a song-bird with his fellow sails,
And cheerly carols on the cloudless air;
Each grove breathes incense; all the happy vales
O'er-run with roses, numberless and fair.

Bright bands of youth with tender maidens stray,
Led by the love-god all delights to share;
And each fond lover death once snatched away
Winds an immortal myrtle in his hair.

Far, far from such, the dreadful realms of gloom
By those black streams of Hades circled round,