Propertius (c. 5. BC–c. 1. 5 BC) - The Elegies: Book IVBook IVTranslated by A. S. Kline© Copyright 2. All Rights Reserved.

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This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non- commercial purpose. Contents. Book IV. Watch Mo` Money Online Movies24free. Rome and its history. Here, whatever you see, stranger, which is now mighty Rome, before Trojan. Aeneas was hills and grass: and Evander’s fugitive herd lay where the Palatine stands, sacred to Apollo of Ships. These golden temples sprang from earthly gods: there was no disgrace in houses made without art: Tarpeian.

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Jupiter thundered from a bare cliff, and Tiber was foreign to our cattle. Where Remus’ house raises itself from that stairway, a single hearth was a whole kingdom to the brothers. The Curia that shines up there, adorned with the purple hem of the Senate, held the Fathers, clothed in animal skins to its rustic heart. A shepherd’s horn called the citizens to speak in ancient times: often the Senate was a hundred of them in a field. No billowing awnings hung over the theatre’s space: no scent on stage of its customary saffron. No man cared to seek out alien gods: while the awed people trembled at their father’s rites. But, they celebrated the Parilia, annually, with bonfires of straw, and such purification as we repeat now with the docked horse’s blood.

Vesta, poor, delighted in garlanded donkeys, and skinny cattle dragged along cheap emblems. At the Compitalia the narrow crossroads were purified with the blood of fatted pigs, and the shepherd offered sheep’s guts to the sound of reed pipes. The ploughman, dressed in skins, flourished his hairy scourge, from which lawless Fabius Lupercus took the Lupercalia’s sacred rite. Their raw soldiers did not gleam with threatening armour: they joined in battle naked, with fire- hardened pikes. Lycmon, the countryman, pitched the first general’s tent, and the greater part of Tatius’s wealth was in sheep.

Such were the Titienses, heroic Ramnes, and the Luceres of Solonium, such Romulus who drove four white triumphal horses. Indeed, Bovillae was hardly a suburb of the tiny city, and Gabii greatly crowded, that now is nothing. And Alba stood, powerful, founded through the omen of a white sow, when it was far from there to Fidenae. The Roman child has nothing of his fathers save the name, nor reflects that a she- wolf was his race’s foster- mother.

Here, Troy, for the best, you sent your exiled household gods. Here, at such auguries, the Trojan vessel sailed! Even then the omens were good, since the open womb of the Wooden Horse did not fatally wound her, when the trembling father clung to his son’s back, and the flames were afraid to scorch those pious shoulders. Then came the spirited Decii, and the consulship of Brutus, and Venus herself carried Caesar’s arms here, bore the victorious arms of a resurgent. Troy. Iulus, a fortunate country received your gods, since the tripod of Avernus’s quivering Sybil told Remus on the Aventine to purify the fields. And Cassandra, the prophetess of Troy’s ravings proved truthful in time, concerning ancient Priam: ‘Wheel your horses, Greeks!

You win in vain! Troy’s earth will live, and Jupiter grant arms to her ashes!’Wolf of Mars, the best of nurses to our State, what towers have sprung from your milk! Now to try and portray those towers in patriotic verse, ah me, how puny the sound that rises from my mouth! But however thin the streams that flow from my chest, it is all in the service of my country. Let Ennius crown his verse with a shaggy garland: Bacchus, hold out to me leaves of your ivy, so that my books might make Umbria swell with pride, Umbria fatherland of the Roman. Callimachus! Whoever sees the towers of Assisi climbing from the valley, honour those walls according to my genius!

Rome favour me, the work soars up for you: citizens grant me good omens, and let a bird on the right sing at my inception! I will cry: ‘Fall Troy, and Trojan Rome arise!’ and I’ll sing lengthy perils on sea and land. I will sing rites and days, and the ancient names of places: my horses need to strain towards that goal. Book IV. 1. A: 7. Horos’ soliloquy: Propertius’ role.‘Where are you rushing to, Propertius, wandering rashly, babbling on about Fate?

The threads you spin are not from a true distaff. Singing, you summon tears: Apollo’s averted: you demand words you’ll regret from an unwilling lyre.

I’ll speak the truth from true sources, or prove myself a seer ignorant of how to move the stars on their bronze sphere. Orops of Babylon, child of Archytas, fathered me, Horos, and my house is descended from Conon. The gods are my witnesses; I’ve not disgraced my family. Now men make profit from the gods (Jupiter’s tricked by gold) and the return of stars on the slanting zodiac’s circle, Jupiter’s fortunate planet, rapacious Mars, and heavy Saturn a weight on every head: what Pisces determines, Leo’s fierce sign, and Capricorn washed in the western sea. When Arria was in labour with her twin sons (forbidden by a god, she gave her sons weapons), I foretold they’d fail to bring back their spears to their father’s household gods: and now in truth two graves confirm my word.

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Since Lupercus, protecting his horse’s wounded head, failed to defend himself, when the horse fell: while Gallus guarding the standards, entrusted to him in camp, died for the eagle’s beak, bathing it in his blood. Ill- fated boys, both killed by a mother’s greed! My prophecy touched on truth, though unwillingly. I, too, cried out, when Lucina prolonged Cinara’s labour pains, and her womb’s tardy burden delayed: “Make Juno a vow she must hear!” She gave birth: my books won the prize! These things are not expounded in the desert cave of Jupiter.

Ammon, or by entrails that speak what the gods commit to them, or by him who interprets the crow’s wing- beats, or by the dead shade produced from mystic waters. The track of the heavens must be examined, and the path of truth among the stars, and knowledge looked for from the five zones. Calchas was a profound example: since he freed at Aulis the ships clinging rightly to god- fearing cliffs: the same who bloodied a sword on the neck of Agamemnon’s girl, and granted the Atrides bloodstained sails. Yet the Greeks did not return: quench your tears, razed Troy, and consider Euboea’s bay! Nauplius raises his fires by night in vengeance, and Greece sails weighed down by her spoils. Victorious Ajax, son of Oileus, rape, then love, your prophetess, Cassandra, though Minerva forbids her to be stripped of her robe!

So much for history: now I turn to your stars: prepare yourself impartially to witness new grief. Ancient Umbria gave birth to you, at a noble hearth: am I lying? Or has my mouth revealed your country? Where misty Mevania wets the open plain, and the summer waters of the Umbrian lake steam, and the wall towers from the summit of climbing Assisi, that wall made more famous by your genius?

Not of an age to gather them, you gathered your father’s bones, and yourself were forced to find a meaner home. Since though many bullocks ploughed your fields, the merciless measuring- rod stole your wealth of land. Soon the bulla of gold was banished from your untried neck, and the toga of a free man assumed in front of your mother’s gods, then Apollo taught you a little of his singing, and told you not to thunder out your words in the frantic Forum.

But you create elegies, deceptive art: – this is your battlefield – that the rest of the crowd might write by your example. You will suffer the charming struggles of Venus’s arms, and will be an enemy fit for Venus’s boys. Since whatever victories your labour wins you, one girl will escape your grasp: and though you shake the deeply fixed hook from your mouth, it will do no good: the fishing- spear will spike your jaw. You’ll gaze at night or day at her whim: unless she commands it the tear won’t fall from your eye. A thousand sentries won’t help you, or a thousand seals on her threshold: a crack is enough once she’s decided to cheat you.

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