« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL,
To what unknown region borne,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.
AD LESBIAM. EQUAL to Jove that youth must be Greater than Jove he seems to meWho, free from Jealousy’s alarms, Securely views thy matchless charms; That cheek, which ever-dimpling glows, That mouth, from whence such music flows, To him alike, are always known, Reserved for him, and him alone. Ah! Lesbia! though 'tis death to me, I cannot choose but look on thee;
But, at the sight, my senses fly,
EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS.
BY DOMITIUS MARSUS.
And he who struck the softer lyre of love,
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move !
Whom dearer than her eyes she loved :
But lightly o'er her bosom moved : * The hand of Death is said to unjust, or unequal, as Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus at his decease,
And softly fluttering here and there,
Tuned to her ear his grateful strain;
Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.
For thou hast ta'en the bird away :
Receptacle of Life's decay.
IMITATED FROM CATULLUS.
TO ELLEN. OH! might I kiss those eyes of fire, A million scarce would quench desire; Still would I steep my lips in bliss, And dwell an age on every kiss, Nor then my soul should sated be; Still would I kiss and cling to thee: Nought should my kiss from thine dissever, Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever; E'en though the numbers did exceed The yellow harvest's countless seed; To part would be a vain endeavour, Could I desist ?-ah! never---never.
TO HIS LYRE.
I wish to tune my quivering lyre
chiefs ! renown'd in arms! Adieu, the clang of war's alarms ! To other deeds my
soul is strung, And sweeter notes shall now be sung; My harp shall all its powers reveal, To tell the tale my heart must feel; Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim, In songs of bliss, and sighs of fame.
ODE III. 'Twas now the hour, when night had driven Her car half round yon sable heaven; Bootes, only, seem'd to roll His arctic charge around the pole; While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep; At this lone hour, the Paphian boy, Descending from the realms of joy, Quick to my gate directs his course, And knocks with all his little force. My visions fled, alarm’d I rose, What stranger breaks my blest repose ?" • Alas !' replies the wily child, In faultering accents sweetly mild; • A hapless infant here I roam, Far from my dear maternal home. Oh! shield me from the wintry blast, The nightly storm is pouring fast; No prowling robber lingers here, A wandering baby who can fear?' I heard his seeming artless tale, I heard his sighs upon the gale; My breast was never pity's foe, But felt for all the baby's woe; I drew the bar, and by the light, Young Love, the infant, met my sight : His bow across his shoulders flung, And thence his fatal quiver hung (Ah! little did I think the dart Would rankle soon within my heart); With care I tend my weary guest, His little fingers chill my breast, His glossy curls, his azure wing, Which droop with nightly showers, I wring: