Tibullus. a. U. C. 691—734

To learn, pale Elegy, thy genuine strain, Let soft Tibullus move thee to complain: A pensive maid, whose bosom's deep distress Her sober steps and heartfelt sighs confess; With eyes of blue, that languishingly swim, Unconscious of the tears that swell their brim. Her stole of violet tinge, with flowing grace, Improves her mournful dignity of pace; Cyprus, sad emblem of disastrous love, (A weeping Cupid kiss'd it as he wove,) And flowers of dusky hue, entwin'd appear, To form the wreath, that binds her auburn hair: O'er her white breast her folded arms are laid, And solitude she seeks, and noiseless shade. If feign'd the passion, and the pang unfelt, What heart so hard his numbers could not melt? The sympathizing soul his notes involve; Like snows they fall, and as they fall, dissolve. No turns, no points, for admiration call, But all is simple, plain, and natural; For love's true language, void of dress and art, Neglects the fancy, and secures the heart.— When piping winds, and thick-descending rain, Assail the shelter of his roof in vain, His tender mind the inclement hour improves, Till rest turns rapture with the maid he loves.