Mere phantoms of thine own creation;
For he who views that witching grace,
That perfect form, that lovely face,
With eyes admiring, oh, believe me,
He never wishes to deceive thee!
Once in thy polish'd mirror glance,
Thou 'lt there descry that elegance,
Which from our sex demands such praises,
But envy in the other raises:
Then he who tells thee of thy beauty,
Believe me, only does his duty:
Ah! fly not from the candid youth;
It is not flattery, - 't is truth.
July, 1804.
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?
AH! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, Friend and associate of this clay!
To what unknown region borne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? No more with wonted humour gay,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS
[Catullus's translation of the famous ode of Sappho.]
EQUAL to Jove that youth must be
Greater than Jove he seems to me -
Who, 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 't is 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.
TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS
BY DOMITIUS MARSUS
He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd, And he who struck the softer lyre of love, By Death's unequal hand alike controll❜d, Fit comrades in Elysian regions move.
Sulpicia ad Cerinthum. - Lib. 4.
CRUEL Cerinthus ! does the fell disease Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please?
Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain, That I might live for love and you again: But now I scarcely shall be wail my fate; By death alone I can avoid your hate.
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS
Lugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, etc.
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 flew,
No fear, no wild alarm he knew,
But lightly o'er her bosom moved.
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 bourne
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:
From 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.
[An imitation of 'Mellitos oculos tuos, Juventi.']
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!
November 16, 1806.
Θέλω λέγειν Ατρείδας, κ. τ. λ.
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 nobler 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.
Adieu, ye 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 flame.
TRANSLATION FROM HORACE
Justum et tenacem propositi virum, etc.
THE man of firm and noble soul
No factious clamours can control;
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow
Can swerve him from his just intent:
Gales the warring waves which plough,
By Auster on the billows spent,
To curb the Adriatic main,
Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain.
Ay, and the red right arm of Jove,
Hurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors there unfurl'd,
He would, unmoved, unawed behold.
The flames of an expiring world,
Again in crashing chaos roll'd,
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd,
Might light his glorious funeral pile:
Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile.
FROM ANACREON
Μεσονυκτίοις ποθ' ώραις, κ. τ. λ.
"T WAS 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 faltering 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;
His shivering limbs the embers warm;
And now reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow:
'I fain would know, my gentle host,'
He cried, if this its strength has lost;
I fear, relax'd with midnight dews,
The strings their former aid refuse.'
With poison tipt, his arrow flies,
Deep in my tortured heart it lies;
Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd: -
'My bow can still impel the shaft:
Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it;
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?'
FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ÆSCHYLUS
Μηδαμ' ὁ πάντα νέμων, κ. τ. λ.
GREAT Jove, to whose almighty throne
Both gods and mortals homage pay,
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown,
Thy dread behests ne'er disobey.
Oft shall the sacred victim fall
In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall;
My voice shall raise no impious strain
'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main.
How different now thy joyless fate,
Since first Hesione thy bride,
When placed aloft in godlike state,
The blushing beauty by thy side,
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled,
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled,
The Nymphs and Tritons danced around,
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove re-
lentless frown'd.
HARROW, December 1, 1804.
TO CAROLINE THINK'ST thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, Suffused in tears, implore to stay; And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs, Which said far more than words can say ? Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, When love and hope lay both o'erthrown; Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, The tears that from my eyelids flow'd
Were lost in those which fell from thine. Thou couldst not feel my burning cheek, Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame; And as thy tongue essay'd to speak,
In sighs alone it breathed my name.
And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,
In vain our fate in sighs deplore;
Remembrance only can remain,
But that will make us weep the more.
Again, thou best beloved, adieu !
Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret; Nor let thy mind past joys review, Our only hope is to forget!
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