ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL,

WHEN DYING.
ANIMULA! vagula, blandula,
Hospes, comesque, corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in loca?
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos.

TRANSLATION.
AH! gentle, fleeting, wav’ring sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!

To what unknown region borne,
Wilt thou now wing thy distant fight ?
No more with wonted humour gay,

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.

FROM CATULLUS.

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,
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die;
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres,
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support;
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head;
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And life itself is on the wing;
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night;
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.

EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS.

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS.
HE, who sublime in epic numbers rolla,

And he who struck the softer lyre of love,
By Death's* unequal hand alike controll’d,

Fit comrades in Elysian regions move !

FROM CATULLUS.
‘LUCTUS DE MORTE PASSERIS.'
YE Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread,
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved :
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he few,
No fear, no wild alarm he knew,

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,
He never sought to cleave the air,
But chirup'd oft, and free from care,

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain;
Now having pass’d the gloomy bourn,
From whence he never can return,
His death, and Lesbia's grief I mourn,

Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.
Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave!
Whose jaws eternal victims crave,
From whom no earthly power can save,

For thou hast ta'en the bird away :
For thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow,
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow,
Thou art the cause of all her woe,

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.

FROM ANACREON.

TO HIS LYRE.

I wish to tune my quivering lyre
To deeds of fame, and notes of fire ;
To echo, from its rising swell,
How heroes fought and nations fell;
When Atreus' sons advanced to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar:
But still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to love alone.
Fired with the hope of future fame,
I seek some pobler hero's name;
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war, my harp is due :
With glowing strings, the epic strain
To Jove's great son I raise again :
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds ;
All, all in vain, my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft desire.

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.

Adieu, ye

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: