I.
I was putting together a story full arms and the violent
din of war, a fashionable topic.
I'd kept it up through the second stanza when Cupid
(as he often does) with a laugh stole away one foot.
"Rude, savage boy, who made you the watch-dog of verse?
We poets belong to the Pierides, not to your derelict band.
What if Venus made offwith ashen-haired Minerva's weapons?
Minerva couldn't fan the flames of love!
Could anyone picture Ceres ruling the mountain forests
or Chaste Diana tending the crops?
Who would let Apollo near a sword, in all his golden-haired glory,
while Mars strummed along on the lyre?
Ambitious boy, you're far too influential in your own domain:
Why are you pestering me in mine?
Or does everything belong to you , even the valleys of Helicon?
You'd snatch Apollo's lyre from his hands!
My poem was going along just fine until your interference
sapped its strength. Anyway, I have no
subject suited to this light tone, no boys
or comely, long-haired maidens."
That was my complaint, then Cupid untied his quiver
and took out arrows designed for me.
Bending down, he crooked his sinuous bow and teased,
"Here Poet, try writing about this!"
Poor me! That boy had terrific aim: I've been struck
with a love that devours my heart.
So let these verses open with six beats and close with five:
So long, you stylish rhythms of war!
Weave garlands of myrtle around your yellow, shore-loving
temples, 0 Muse:
If
we have to, we'll sing in elevens!
Translated from the Latin
by
Catherine Salmons
