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
His sister pale, her mother's grief to share:
Thither no less, their rival tears to pay,
His Nemesis and Delia, fond and fair.
There Delia murmured, "In such love as thine
I was too happy; thou, supremely blest,"
Rut Nemesis: "Nay, nay! The loss is mine;
By mine alone his dying hand was pressed.
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