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| Tibullus, the poet in question on the funeral pyre |
- This is not a religious poem. He points out that the pious and poets die just as dead as the wicked.
- There are a lot of allusions, and I don't think I got them all. I should have done this earlier in the week so I could study it for the allusions and to discover what is really going on, but I have more to translate before class.
| Memnona si mater, mater ploravit Achillem, et tangunt magnas tristia fata deas, flebilis indignos, Elegia, solve capillos! a, nimis ex vero nunc tibi nomen erit! — ille tui vates operis, tua fama, Tibullus ardet in extructo, corpus inane, rogo. ecce, puer Veneris fert eversamque pharetram et fractos arcus et sine luce facem; adspice, demissis ut eat miserabilis alis pectoraque infesta tundat aperta manu! | If his mother lamented Memnon, if his mother lamented Achilles, and the saddened fates touch the great goddesses, tearful Elegy, loosen your unworthy locks of hair! Now, name enough will come to you from truth! This poet of your work, your fame, Tibullus, burns in an empty funeral pyre, an empty body. Behold, the Venus's little boy carries an upturned quiver and broken bows and a torch without light; Look close, you will see how he goes and pounds his bare chest with droopy wings and a troubled hand! |
| excipiunt lacrimas sparsi per colla capilli, oraque singultu concutiente sonant. fratris in Aeneae sic illum funere dicunt egressum tectis, pulcher Iule, tuis; nec minus est confusa Venus moriente Tibullo, quam iuveni rupit cum ferus inguen aper. at sacri vates et divum cura vocamur; sunt etiam qui nos numen habere putent. Scilicet omne sacrum mors inportuna profanat, omnibus obscuras inicit illa manus! quid pater Ismario, quid mater profuit Orpheo? carmine quid victas obstipuisse feras? et Linon in silvis idem pater 'aelinon!' altis dicitur invita concinuisse lyra. adice Maeoniden, a quo ceu fonte perenni vatum Pieriis ora rigantur aquis — | His loose curls scatter his tears around his neck, And his words echo with agitated groans. Thus they say that he at the funeral of his brother Aeneas was marched out from under his roofs, lovely Iulus; No less is Venus confounded by the dying Tibullus, than when a wild boar destroyed the groin of her young man. But we, the sacred poets, are called the special concern of the gods; They are those who consider us to have godliness. Of course, inoportune death profanes everything sacred, her hand strikes the obscure with everything! What did his father Ismarius, what did his mother profit Orpheus? What did it profit Orpheus that the conquered wildings were amazed? And similarly, his father Apollo was said to have celebrated Linon - alas! - in the highest forest with his unwilling lyre. Add to this Homer, from whom, just like an unfailing spring, the mouths of poets are drenched with Pierian water -- |
| hunc quoque summa dies nigro submersit Averno. defugiunt avidos carmina sola rogos; durant, vatis opus, Troiani fama laboris tardaque nocturno tela retexta dolo. sic Nemesis longum, sic Delia nomen habebunt, altera cura recens, altera primus amor. Quid vos sacra iuvant? quid nunc Aegyptia prosunt sistra? quid in vacuo secubuisse toro? cum rapiunt mala fata bonos — ignoscite fasso! — sollicitor nullos esse putare deos. | Indeed here the final day caused Homer to sink into the black Avernus, the river in Hades His songs alone escaped the greedy funeral fires; the work of a poet endures, the fame of Trojan labors and the tardy textile weaving is unravlled in a nightly trick. Thus Nemesis, thus Delia will have long names, the one a recent care, the other his first love. How do sacred things help you? Now how does the Egyptian rattle profit you? What profit is there to you to have slept apart from your lover in an empty bed? When malicious fates seize good men - pardon this confessor! - I am worried that I think that the gods are nothing. |
| vive pius — moriere; pius cole sacra — colentem mors gravis a templis in cava busta trahet; carminibus confide bonis — iacet, ecce, Tibullus: vix manet e toto, parva quod urna capit! | Live pious - and you die; While pious, cultivate sacred things - death drags the cultivator from his solemn temples into an empty tomb; Trust in the good songs - and behold, there Tibullus lies; from the whole, he scarcely remains, a poor part of him the urn captures! |
| tene, sacer vates, flammae rapuere rogales pectoribus pasci nec timuere tuis? aurea sanctorum potuissent templa deorum urere, quae tantum sustinuere nefas! avertit vultus, Erycis quae possidet arces; sunt quoque, qui lacrimas continuisse negant. Sed tamen hoc melius, quam si Phaeacia tellus ignotum vili supposuisset humo. hinc certe madidos fugientis pressit ocellos mater et in cineres ultima dona tulit; hinc soror in partem misera cum matre doloris venit inornatas dilaniata comas, cumque tuis sua iunxerunt Nemesisque priorque oscula nec solos destituere rogos. Delia discedens 'felicius' inquit 'amata sum tibi; vixisti, dum tuus ignis eram.' cui Nemesis 'quid' ait 'tibi sunt mea damna dolori? me tenuit moriens deficiente manu.' Si tamen e nobis aliquid nisi nomen et umbra restat, in Elysia valle Tibullus erit. obvius huic venias hedera iuvenalia cinctus tempora cum Calvo, docte Catulle, tuo; tu quoque, si falsum est temerati crimen amici, sanguinis atque animae prodige Galle tuae. his comes umbra tua est; siqua est modo corporis umbra, auxisti numeros, culte Tibulle, pios. ossa quieta, precor, tuta requiescite in urna, et sit humus cineri non onerosa tuo! | You, sacred poet,pyres of flames take away and do not fear to feed upon your breasts. The flames, which sustain all wickedness, would have been able to burn the golden temples of the sacred gods! She turned away her face, she who possesses the citadels of Eryx; and they are there who refuse to hold back the tears. But nevertheless this is better, than if Phaescian earth had buried you unknown in common dirt. Here, certainly, the mother pressed the little crying eyes of the fleeing and in ashes she gives her final gifts. Here the miserable sister, to share grief with the mother, comes with disordered hair hanging in pieces. And with your female kin Nemesis and Delia unite lips to abandon the lonely pyres. Delia, withdrawing, said " I was better loved by you; you lived while I was yours in the flame." To whom Nemesis said, "Why are my losses a sorrow to you? Dying he held me in his weakening hand." Nevertheless, if from us anything remains except a name and a shadow, Tibullus will be in the Elysian field. Learned Catullus, may you come to meet Tibullus, wreathed with ivy around his youthful brow, with your Calvus. And Gallus, generous with your blood and soul, may you meet him, if the charge of desecrated friendship against is false. Your shade is courteous is polite to these poets: if just any things are a shadow of the body, elegant Tibullus, you augmented pious numbers. Rest your quiet bones and your heart in the safe urn, and let not the earth be a burden to your ashes! |
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