But in spite of this contemporary _succes d'estime_, Tibullus is
clearly a minor poet. He expresses only one aspect of his time. His few
themes are oft-repeated and in monotonous rhythms. He sings of nothing
greater than his own lost loves. Yet of Delia, Nemesis and Neaera, we
learn only that all were fair, faithless and venal. For a man whose
ideal of love was life-long fidelity, he was tragically unsuccessful.

If this were all, his verse would have perished with that of Macer and
Gallus. But it is not all. These love-poems of a private gentleman of
the Augustan time, show a delicacy of sentiment almost modern. Of the
ribald curses which Catullus hurls after his departing Lesbia, there is
nothing. He throws the blame on others: and if, just to frighten, he
describes the wretched old age of the girls who never were faithful, it
is with a playful tone and hoping such bad luck will never befall any
sweet-heart of his. This delicacy and tenderness, with the playful
accent, are, perhaps, Tibullus' distinctive charm.

His popularity in 18th century France was very great. The current
English version, Grainger's (1755) with its cheap verse and common-place
gallantries, is a stupid echo of the French feeling for Tibullus as an
erotic poet. Much better is the witty prose version by the elder
Mirabeau, done during the Terror, in the prison at Vincennes, and
published after his release, with a ravishing portrait of "Sophie,"
surrounded by Cupids and billing doves. One of the old Parisian editors
dared to say:

"_Tons ceux qui aiment, ou qui ont jamais aime, savent par coeur ce
delicieux Tibulle_."

But it was unjust to classify Tibullus merely as an erotic poet. The