He laments the death of the Poet Tibullus.

If his mother has lamented Memnon, his mother Achilles, and if sad deaths influence the great Goddesses; plaintive Elegy, unbind thy sorrowing tresses; alas! too nearly will thy name be derived from fact! The Poet of thy own inspiration, 610 Tibullus, thy glory, is burning, a lifeless body, on the erected pile. 611 Lo! the son of Venus bears both his quiver inverted, and his bow broken, and his torch without a flame; behold how wretched with drooping wings he goes: and how he beats his naked breast with cruel hand. His locks dishevelled about his neck receive his tears, and his mouth resounds with sobs that convulse his body. 'Twas thus, beauteous Iulus, they say that thou didst go forth from thy abode, at the funeral of his brother Æneas. Not less was Venus afflicted when Tibullus died, than when the cruel boar 612 tore the groin of the youth.

And yet we Poets are called 'hallowed,' and the care of the Deities; there are some, too, who believe that we possess inspiration. 613 Inexorable Death, forsooth, profanes all that is hallowed; upon all she lays her 614 dusky hands. What availed his father, what, his mother, for Ismarian Orpheus 615 What, with his songs to have lulled the astounded wild beasts? The same father is said, in the lofty woods, to have sung 'Linus! Alas! Linus! Alas! 616 to his reluctant lyre. Add the son of MÆon, 617 too, by whom, as though an everlasting stream, the mouths of the poets are refreshed by the waters of PiËria: him, too, has his last day overwhelmed in black Avernus; his verse alone escapes the all-consuming pile. The fame of the Trojan toils, the work of the Poets is lasting, and the slow web woven 618 again through the stratagem of the night. So shall Nemesis, so Delia, 619 have a lasting name; the one, his recent choice, the other his first love.

What does sacrifice avail thee? 620 Of what use are now the 'sistra' of Egypt? What, lying apart 621 in a forsaken bed? When the cruel Destinies snatch away the good, (pardon the confession) I am tempted to think that there are no Deities. Live piously; pious though you be, you shall die; attend the sacred worship; still ruthless Death shall drag the worshipper from the temples to the yawning tomb. 622 Put your trust in the excellence of your verse; see! Tibullus lies prostrate; of so much, there hardly remains enough for a little urn to receive.

And, hallowed Poet, have the flames of the pile consumed thee, and have they not been afraid to feed upon that heart of thine? They could have burned the golden temples of the holy Gods, that have dared a crime so great. She turned away her face, who holds the towers of Eryx; 623 there are some, too, who affirm that she did not withhold her tears. But still, this is better than if the PhÆacian land 624 had buried him a stranger, in an ignoble spot. Here, 625 at least, a mother pressed his tearful eyes 626 as he fled, and presented the last gifts 627 to his ashes; here a sister came to share the grief with her wretched mother, tearing her unadorned locks. And with thy relatives, both Nemesis and thy first love 628 joined their kisses; and they left not the pile in solitude. Delia, as she departed, said, "More fortunately was I beloved by thee; so long as I was thy flame, thou didst live." To her said Nemesis: "What dost thou say? Are my sufferings a pain to thee? When dying, he grasped me with his failing hand." 629

If, however, aught of us remains, but name and spirit, Tibullus will exist in the Elysian vales. Go to meet him, learned Catullus, 630 with thy Calvus, having thy youthful temples bound with ivy. Thou too, Gallus, (if the accusation of the injury of thy friend is false) prodigal of thy blood 631 and of thy life.

Of these, thy shade is the companion; if only there is any shade of the body, polished Tibullus; thou hast swelled the blessed throng. Rest, bones, I pray, in quiet, in the untouched urn; and may the earth prove not heavy for thy ashes.