All bards since then some tribute stream derive,--
Him, even him, th' Avernian shades camped;
Only his songs his scattered dust survive

Yet songs endure. Endures the Trojan fame,
And how Penelope's wise nights were passed.
So Nemesis and Delia have a name,--
A poet's earliest passion and his last.

Live piously! Build shrines! Revere the skies!
Death, from the temple, thrusts thee to the tomb
Or sing divinely! Lo, Tibullus dies!
One scanty urn gives all his ashes room.

Could not that laurelled head the flames restrain?
How dared they that inspired breast explore?
Rather they should have burned some golden fane
Of gods,--of gods who this last insult bore!

Yet 'tis my faith the Queen of Love the while,
Whose altars crown the bright, voluptuous steep
Of Eryx, at that sight did lose her smile;
Oh! I believe sweet Venus deigned to weep!

But he had feared worse deaths: for now he lies
Not on Phaeacia's strand in grave unknown;
His own dear mother closed his fading eyes,
And brought her prayers to bless his votive stone.

Thither drew near in mournful disarray