"TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS"

[Lugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, &c.]


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 chirrup'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;
     Receptacle of life's decay.


"TO WOMAN"


Woman! experience might have told me
That all must love thee who behold thee:
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought;
But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee.
Oh memory! though choicest blessing
When join'd with hope, when still possessing;
But how much cursed by every lover
When hope is fled and passion's over.
How prompt are striplings to believe her!
How throbs the pulse when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,
'Woman, thy vows are traced in sand.'



"TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES"


When fierce conflicting passions urge
     The breast where love is wont to glow,
What mind can stem the stormy surge
     Which rolls the tide of human woe?
The hope of praise, the dread of shame,
     Can rouse the tortured breast no more,
The wild desire, the guilty flame,
     Absorbs each wish it felt before.

But if affection gently thrills
     The sound by purer dreams possest,
The pleasing balm of mortal ills
     In love can soothe the aching breast:
If thus thou comest in disguise,
     Fair Venus! from thy native heaven,
What heart unfeeling would despise
     The sweetest boon the gods have given?

But never from thy golden bow
     May I beneath the shaft expire!
Whose creeping venum, sure and slow,
     Awakes an all-consuming fire:
Ye racking doubts! ye jealous fears!
     With others wage internal war:
Repentance, source of future tears,
     From me be ever distant far!

May no distracting thoughts destroy
     The holy calm of sacred love!
May all the hours be wing'd with joy,
     Which hover faithful hearts above!
Fair Venus! on thy myrtle shrine
     May I with some fond lover sigh,
Whose heart may mingle pure with mine--
     With me to live, with me to die!

My native soil! beloved before,
     Now dearer as my peaceful home,
Ne'er may I quite thy rocky shore,
     A hapless banis'd wretch to roam!
This very day, this very hour,
     May I resign this fleeting breath!
Nor quit my silent humble bower;
     A doom to me far worse than death.

Have I not heard the exile's sigh,
     And seen the exile's silent tear,
Through distant climes condemn'd to fly,
     A pensive weary wanderer here?
Ah! hapless dame! no sire bewails,
     No friend thy wretched fate deplores,
No kindred voice with rapture hails
     Thy steps within a stranger's doors.

Perish the fiend whose iron heart,
     To fair affection's truth unknown,
Bids her he fondly loved depart,
     Unpitied, helpless, and alone;
Who ne'er unlocks with silver key
     The milder treasures of his soul,--
May such a friend be far from me,
     And ocean's storms between us roll!

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