Book I: Elegy the Eleventh: War Is a Crime

Whoe'er first forged the terror-striking sword,His own fierce heart had tempered like its blade.What slaughter followed! Ah! what conflict wild!What swifter journeys unto darksome death!But blame not him! Ourselves have madly turnedOn one another's breasts that cunning edgeWherewith he meant mere blood of beast to spill.

Gold makes our crime. No need for plundering war,When bowls of beech-wood held the frugal feast.No citadel was seen nor moated wall;The shepherd chief led home his motley flock,And slumbered free from care. Would I had livedIn that good, golden time; nor e'er had knownA mob in arms arrayed; nor felt my heartThrob to the trumpet's call! Now to the warsI must away, where haply some chance foeBears now the blade my naked side shall feel.Save me, dear Lares of my hearth and home!Ye oft my childish steps did guard and bless,As timidly beneath your seat they strayed.

Deem it no shame that hewn of ancient oakYour simple emblems in my dwelling stand!For so the pious generations goneRevered your powers, and with offerings rudeTo rough-hewn gods in narrow-built abodes,Lived beautiful and honorable lives.Did they not bring to crown your hallowed browsGarlands of ripest corn, or pour new wineIn pure libation on the thirsty ground?Oft on some votive day the father broughtThe consecrated loaf, and close behindHis little daughter in her virgin palmBore honey bright as gold. O powers benign!To ye once more a faithful servant praysFor safety! Let the deadly brazen spearPass harmless o'er my head! and I will slayFor sacrifice, with many a thankful song,A swine and all her brood, while I, the priest,Bearing the votive basket myrtle-bound,Walk clothed in white, with myrtle in my hair.

Grant me but this! and he who can may proveMighty in arms and by the grace of MarsLay chieftains low; and let him tell the taleTo me who drink his health, while on the boardHis wine-dipped finger draws, line after line,Just how his trenches ranged! What madness direBids men go foraging for death in war?Our death is always near, and hour by hour,With soundless step a little nearer draws.

What harvest down below, or vineyard green?There Cerberus howls, and o'er the Stygian floodThe dark ship goes; while on the clouded shoreWith hollow cheek and tresses lustreless,Wanders the ghostly throng. O happier farSome white-haired sire, among his children dear,Beneath a lowly thatch! His sturdy sonShepherds the young rams; he, his gentle ewes;And oft at eve, his willing labor done,His careful wife his weary limbs will batheFrom a full, steaming bowl. Such lot be mine!So let this head grow gray, while I shall tell,Repeating oft, the deeds of long ago!Then may long Peace my country's harvests bless!Till then, let Peace on all our fields abide!Bright-vestured Peace, who first beneath their yokeLed oxen in the plough, who first the vineDid nourish tenderly, and chose good grapes,That rare old wine may pass from sire to son!Peace! who doth keep the plow and harrow bright,While rust on some forgotten shelf devoursThe cruel soldier's useless sword and shield.From peaceful holiday with mirth and wineThe rustic, not half sober, driveth homeWith wife and weans upon the lumbering wain.

But wars by Venus kindled ne'er have done;The vanquished lass, with tresses rudely torn,Of doors broke down, and smitten cheek complains;And he, her victor-lover, weeps to seeHow strong were his wild hands. But mocking LoveTeaches more angry words, and while they rave,Sits with a smile between! O heart of stone!O iron heart! that could thy sweetheart strike!Ye gods avenge her! Is it not enoughTo tear her soft robe from her limbs away,And loose her knotted hair?--Enough, indeed,To move her tears! Thrice happy is the wightWhose frown some lovely mistress weeps to see!But he who gives her blows!--Go, let him bearA sword and spear! In exile let him beFrom Venus' mild domain! Come blessed Peace!Come, holding forth thy blade of ripened corn!Fill thy large lap with mellow fruits and fair!